Short DW fic
This is the odd result of contemplating Tudor costume at the same time as reading too much Doctor Who.
Thomas Saunders, clark, sat at his desk reading off the items in Elizabeth Smallgood will while his nephew, Henry, pulled the items out of the dead woman’s trunks and boxes.
They had been at it since they broke their fast, and it was past noon.
Thomas paused to scratch at the back of his neck under both shirt and doublet. His collar was wearing thin, he’d have to replace the thing soon. “To my daughter Jane, my long pearls with garnets.” His nephew held up the strand and he nodded at the boy. A good lad, Henry, with wits near as quick as the King he was named for, although not the fiery temper or ginger hair.
“To my daughter Anne, my…” Thomas trailed off, trying to figure out the next word “Cartademallick pendant, may it bring her luck.”
“What?” asked Henry.
Although the word was unfamiliar, the mention of luck was all Thomas needed. “A big purple stone set in silver. Widow Smallgood used to wear it all the time.” Henry continued to look confused, and his uncle sighed. “Folk in the village said it was the source of her uncommon good luck?”
“Ooooooh,” said Henry, and dug through the jewelry box.
As the boy pulled out the necklace, the door crashed open. Ducking through it came a strangely tall man in a strangely cut coat of velvet, a hat like none they’d ever seen, and the most absurd scarf in Christendom. Stranger still, he was followed by an equally tall woman whose long dark hair was uncovered.
The man looked at the pendant dangling from Henry’s hand. “Aha! See, Romana, I told you we’d find it here!” He took it from the boy, tipped his hat to the two confused Englishmen, and dashed out of the room. The brazenly underdressed woman followed him, spewing forth complaints.
“Who were they?” gasped Henry, once he’d closed his codfish mouth.
Thomas shook his head. “Muscovites, I suppose.”
His nephew was not entirely convinced. “They spoke very good English.”
“I suppose they did,” Thomas said. He considered chasing down the strangers, but Widow Smallgood’s son was not a generous man, or terribly kind, nor were her daughters much better. Their mother had left them plenty, so what was one less jewel in their casket?
“It is a shame we cannot find the pendant,” Thomas said, giving his nephew a strong look. When the boy looked to protest, he added “We may have to drink a glass to its loss tonight.”
“Terrible shame,” agreed the boy.
Thomas continued with his litany. “To my daughter Jane, my best red petticote…”
Thomas Saunders, clark, sat at his desk reading off the items in Elizabeth Smallgood will while his nephew, Henry, pulled the items out of the dead woman’s trunks and boxes.
They had been at it since they broke their fast, and it was past noon.
Thomas paused to scratch at the back of his neck under both shirt and doublet. His collar was wearing thin, he’d have to replace the thing soon. “To my daughter Jane, my long pearls with garnets.” His nephew held up the strand and he nodded at the boy. A good lad, Henry, with wits near as quick as the King he was named for, although not the fiery temper or ginger hair.
“To my daughter Anne, my…” Thomas trailed off, trying to figure out the next word “Cartademallick pendant, may it bring her luck.”
“What?” asked Henry.
Although the word was unfamiliar, the mention of luck was all Thomas needed. “A big purple stone set in silver. Widow Smallgood used to wear it all the time.” Henry continued to look confused, and his uncle sighed. “Folk in the village said it was the source of her uncommon good luck?”
“Ooooooh,” said Henry, and dug through the jewelry box.
As the boy pulled out the necklace, the door crashed open. Ducking through it came a strangely tall man in a strangely cut coat of velvet, a hat like none they’d ever seen, and the most absurd scarf in Christendom. Stranger still, he was followed by an equally tall woman whose long dark hair was uncovered.
The man looked at the pendant dangling from Henry’s hand. “Aha! See, Romana, I told you we’d find it here!” He took it from the boy, tipped his hat to the two confused Englishmen, and dashed out of the room. The brazenly underdressed woman followed him, spewing forth complaints.
“Who were they?” gasped Henry, once he’d closed his codfish mouth.
Thomas shook his head. “Muscovites, I suppose.”
His nephew was not entirely convinced. “They spoke very good English.”
“I suppose they did,” Thomas said. He considered chasing down the strangers, but Widow Smallgood’s son was not a generous man, or terribly kind, nor were her daughters much better. Their mother had left them plenty, so what was one less jewel in their casket?
“It is a shame we cannot find the pendant,” Thomas said, giving his nephew a strong look. When the boy looked to protest, he added “We may have to drink a glass to its loss tonight.”
“Terrible shame,” agreed the boy.
Thomas continued with his litany. “To my daughter Jane, my best red petticote…”