by Anna Castle
He had no desire to flirt with women. His guardian had advised him to spend as much time as possible in the company of important men. He approved that goal, though he had another.
But why worry? Trumpet doubtless had a plan to cope with the problem of Tom’s old reputation. Trumpet wouldn’t be Trumpet if she didn’t have a plan. She’d started weaving her web months ago, preparing for this ultimate week. She wouldn’t drop a thread now.
Tom had never met any person — male or female, old or young, high or low — less willing to sit quietly and accept the cards Fortune dealt than Lady Alice Trumpington.
“Long live the saucy wenches,” Tom said absently and turned to examine the room. It was a good-sized space with a large desk and a modest hearth trimmed in plain stone. Bad copies of portraits of King Henry and Queen Elizabeth adorned the paneled walls, along with many framed documents decorated with ribbons and seals. Pedigrees of dogs, most likely, given the function of the office.
He turned back to the others and clapped his hands together. “When do we meet the famous privy buckhounds, whatever they are? I keep imagining dogs trained to guard the royal jakes.” He got a laugh from both men.
Stephen answered him with the air of a boy who has learned a lesson to impress his master. “A buckhound is any sort of hound used to track prey. With their noses.” He tapped his, in case Tom had forgotten what a nose was. “Ours are chiefly used to track deer. They’re privy because they’re special to the queen. They only hunt in royal parks.”
“Well said, my lord!” Grenville actually applauded, clapping his lace-ruffed hands together like the perfect little sycophant.
“I see,” Tom said. “Are we responsible for their training?”
“Oh no!” Stephen leaned back, aghast. “The kennel master does all that sort of thing. Our most important task is tomorrow during the midsummer festivities. I’m to present two bloodhounds to the queen, a gift from King Henry of France. The ambassador brought them.”
“Bloodhounds, eh?” Tom didn’t think he’d ever seen one. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s just a name. I think.” Stephen strolled to the window and peered out. “Mr. Lacey should be bringing them here any minute.” He turned to give Tom another inspection. “We need to discuss your costume. Do you still have those tall boots? You’ll be holding the leashes while I perform my speech.”
A baying bark, echoed by a second voice, sounded through the window. “Here they come!” Stephen hastened over to the hearth to lean an elbow against the mantelpiece with his other hand on his hip. He glanced at Grenville, who nodded his approval.
Tom recognized both the posing and the nod. Grenville had taken Tom’s old job of shoring up Stephen’s self-regard, made brittle by a domineering father and a distant mother. He regarded the new earl with a touch of sympathy. Trumpet would play him like a well-tuned clavichord.
Ah, well. It would probably be the making of him.
Since he was closest to the door, he opened it to be met by two enormous hounds. Their coats were light brown with dark brown saddles, but their faces were comically sad. Deep creases hung beside their long noses, and their long ears draped down on either side, giving them a mournful look that belied their thrashing tails. They bayed at Tom in unison, greeting him in their own language.
Tom grinned at the man holding their leashes. “Don’t they speak English?”
He received only a stony glare in reply. The leash-holder was a small man with dark Spanish coloring and a very haughty expression.
A tall man with yellow hair squeezed in behind him to bow toward Stephen. “Only French, I’m afraid, my lords. Mr. Rondeau here is teaching me their commands. It’s slow going. I was hoping one of your lordships might be able to help.”
Tom shook his head. “I have only law French, sorry. Unless they have a tricky case of novel disseisin, I won’t be much help. I’ll have to learn along with you.” He held out a hand. “I’m Thomas Clarady, your new Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds.”
“Jack Lacey.” The kennel master shook his hand. “This dark fellow here is Monsieur Pierre Rondeau. He’s the one who brought the hounds from France.”
“I only speak German,” Stephen said, edging away from the big dogs. To Tom, he added, “My father sent me on a tour of the Continent, but only to boring Protestant places like Wittenburg.”
“Those connections will prove very useful to you in time, my lord,” Grenville said, sweeping the lock from his brow. “I speak French, Mr. Lacey. Perhaps I may be of service.”
Tom knelt to ruffle one of the dogs’ long ears. They were two of the homeliest creatures he’d ever seen, and he loved them at first sight.
They loved him too. A long pink tongue lashed out to lay a wet trail up the side of his head while the other dog wagged against him so hard he was nearly toppled.
Stephen shook his head, his thin lips twisted in disgust. “Dogs and women; same old Tom.”
“Assieds!” the Frenchman commanded. Both dogs plopped their hindquarters onto the floor, cutting their eyes toward their master. The tails kept moving, sweeping the rushes back and forth. He rattled off a spate of French with an irritation that needed no interpretation.
Grenville listened politely, then translated for the others. “He requests that their training be respected and not undermined by treating them like ladies’ poppets. With all due respect to your lordships, he reminds us that these are genuine bloodhounds bred in the monastery of St. Hubert, not mongrels plucked from the street. They are the finest scent hounds in the world, whether your quarry is a stag or a man.”
Stephen and Tom traded mock frowns, duly impressed.
“The French have their ways, and we have ours,” Mr. Lacey said in a conversational tone that masked his disapproval. “I like to see folks make friends with the dogs. It gets them used to people so they won’t be upset when the time comes for a big hunt. You’re welcome to spend as much time with them as you can spare, Mr. Clarady. But I haven’t introduced you properly. This one’s Lancelot, and the other’s Guinevere. They’re a breeding pair.”
Tom nearly choked at the parallel. That would cast Stephen as King Arthur. He hoped this wasn’t an omen. He bent down to pick up a massy paw of each dog in turn, giving it a formal shake and saying, “So pleased to meet you.”
Monsieur Rondeau produced another stream of testy French. Grenville nodded gravely as he listened, but to others he only said, “I won’t offend you by translating that one.”
Tom spoke to Mr. Lacey, “Judging by these feet, Lance and Gwen have some growing yet to do.”
Lacey nodded. “Another fifteen or twenty pounds, I judge.”
“They’re going to get bigger?” Stephen asked, a touch of panic in his voice.
“Not by tomorrow night, my lord,” Tom said, knowing it wouldn’t occur to him to take offense. “They’ll have baths, I assume, and be fresh as daisies. And wearing some fancy ribbons, don’t you think?”
“Gold,” Stephen answered. “No — red, with a gold stripe. A deep red to match my costume. You can wear that brown, Tom, if you want, with your tall boots. It looks very huntsman-like.”
“But remove the feather from your hat,” Grenville said. “It draws the eye. My lord of Dorchester’s hat will be fully plumed.”
“It is a formal event,” Stephen explained. They began to discuss the minutiae of his presentation, tracing paths on the desktop with their fingertips.
Tom watched as Monsieur Rondeau put the hounds through a series of commands. They stood, sat, lay down, stood again, and turned in a circle, performing quite well for a pair of overgrown pups. He looked forward to working more with them — without their irritable French master. He pitched the next question to catch Stephen’s attention. “Will His Lordship be in charge of organizing the queen’s hunts?”
Stephen’s ears perked. “I’ve been wondering that too. I don’t have much experience in hunting, as it happens. My father didn’t approve of such idle pursuits.”<
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“That’s quite all right, my lord,” Lacey said. “The gamekeeper and I tend to the essentials. But you gentlemen are welcome to join us when we scout out the park.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Tom said. “Anytime I’m not needed elsewhere.” By Trumpet, for example, soaking up the smell, sound, sight, feel, and taste of her. In between those precious moments, he would like nothing better than stretching his legs in legendary Richmond Park along with Mr. Lacey and these fine dogs.
“But will I be responsible for choosing which quarry we pursue on a given day?” Stephen asked, his anxiety clear to everyone in the room. Even the dogs turned worried eyes toward him.
“If you wish. The Master of the Privy Buckhounds hosts the hunt breakfast. He also presents the queen with the heart of the stag after the kill, which Her Majesty usually has Sir Walter Ralegh perform. Your position is largely ceremonial, my lord.”
“Thank God!” Stephen’s shoulders released their tension as he smiled happily. “I’m terrifically good at ceremonies.”
Tom nodded, biting the inside of his lip. Ritual was Stephen’s strong suit, all right — the emptier, the better. Just like his wedding ceremony would be next week.
THREE
“HE’S TRYING TO MAKE you laugh, Mr. Bacon.” The young lady beside him could barely suppress her giggles.
“He won’t succeed.” Francis leveled an implacable gaze at the fool across the table, who resorted to sticking his thumbs in his ears and wiggling his fingers, jangling the bells on his cap. “I’m in no mood for his vulgar antics. Let him seek another victim.” He flicked his fingers at the man to shoo him off.
The jester clapped his hands to his motley breast as if stricken by an arrow, then twirled around, bent double, and wagged his beribboned backside. Then he skipped off across the lawn, rewarded by the trilling laughter of the young people at Francis’s table.
Francis picked up his cup and drank half of it. At least the wine was good. He estimated another hour of torment before he could safely slip away to the peace of his own bedchamber. The more he drank, the faster the time would pass.
His sullen humor had no effect on the ebullient spirits of the ladies on either side of him. Why should it? They were young and beautiful and spending Midsummer Eve with the royal court at Richmond Palace. In fact, they were part of the spectacle, and well they knew it, splendidly arrayed in white silk and silver satin like all of the queen’s ladies. Most of them were seated at this table, partnered by young gentlemen in brightly hued costumes.
The children’s table, as Francis thought of it. He supposed he’d been seated here as some sort of joke, a black crow amid the swans and parrots. He should have offered the Lord Chamberlain a gift to be seated with the older persons at the table opposite. He hadn’t thought of it in time and didn’t have the money anyway.
He took another drink of wine, sending his baleful gaze around the festive scene. Long tables had been placed in a wide U upon the grassy sward between the palace and the river. The queen sat in the center at the top with Captain Ralegh on one side and the French ambassador on the other. She liked to have Monsieur Chaste nearby because his advanced age made her seem young by comparison.
Since the new ambassador required his secretary to translate for everyone but the queen, whose French was perfect, Francis had been deprived of his new friend’s company. Courtiers of greater importance sat at the opposite table. His cousin Robert — Sir Robert — sat next to the queen’s closest confidante, Lady Stafford. They laughed, heads bent together as they shared some joke. Privy information only they could appreciate, no doubt, gleaned from privy conversations with Her Majesty, which only they could have.
Most of the Privy Council was at that table, though too many were missing. Sir Francis Walsingham had died a year ago; now both Lord Burghley and Sir Christopher Hatton were confined to their beds by illness. The Earl of Leicester was two years gone. Younger men sat in their seats, like Sir Charles Blount, knighted for courage or comeliness or some other quality Francis lacked. He was listening attentively to Lady Penelope Rich, sister of the Earl of Essex. The earl was campaigning in the Low Countries this month, or he’d doubtless be sitting in the ambassador’s chair — the old favorite on one side, and the new one on the other. The admiration of a handsome youth made Her Majesty look younger too.
Acrobats and jesters cavorted in the wide space between the tables. Players in boats along the riverbank filled the warm evening air with music. Liveried servants bustled back and forth, delivering plates of food and endless bottles of wine. Supper had gone on for more than two hours, with course after course of game from the park, fruits from the gardens, and every sort of fish that could be caught in the Thames.
Francis had eaten too much out of sheer boredom. Now he would drink too much while enduring the masque and the presentation of King Henri’s hounds. Tom had tracked him down that morning to cajole him into promising he’d watch his debut at court. Besides, it would still be light. If anyone noticed that he left early, he might be criticized for unsociability again.
He sighed into his cup. Here he sat, with all his gifts and his willingness to serve, stuck at the table opposite the seats of power — allowed to watch, but not participate. He would grow older every year, while the maidens beside him would always be young and fresh and full of bright prospects.
Drums pounded from behind the orchard wall. Flutes joined in as half a dozen ladies dressed like fairy princesses in gauzy gowns bedecked with spangles wove in dancing steps around the tables. They wore masks of colored silk bedecked with feathers, but Francis guessed the one in front was Lady Alice Trumpington. She was shorter than average with greater than average spring in her step; besides, as the daughter of an earl, soon to be the wife of another earl, she outranked the other gentlewomen of the Privy Chambers.
They gathered in the center of the U, joined by four men dressed as satyrs, who capered around the fairies puffing at their pan pipes. Real musicians stood a little distance apart. The group performed a masque based on stale conceits from Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene. The three-book poem had been published last year, though parts of it had been circulating at court long before that, thanks to Ralegh’s patronage.
The ladies were charming and the men were droll, but Francis couldn’t help thinking of what he would have written had he been asked. Devising masques to amuse the queen often fell to him, being a small thing he could do without obstructing Robert’s path toward greatness.
A crumb, and even that denied him this summer. He could have stayed home and endured the summer heat at Gray’s, where he could read in peace whenever he liked.
“Her wedding’s next week,” Lady Mary Buckleigh whispered loudly behind his back, leaning sideways to catch her friend’s attention.
“I know! My lord of Dorchester must be fantastically courageous!” Lady Anne Courtenay hissed back. At least they had the courtesy not to speak past his front, getting between him and his wine.
“Did you hear she murdered her last husband?” Lady Elizabeth whispered. “That Viscount What-d’ye-call-’im.”
“Surdeval,” Francis said, speaking at a normal level. “Viscount Surdeval. Lady Alice had nothing whatsoever to do with his death.”
The young ladies sat up straight and gave him their full attention. “Are you sure, Mr. Bacon?” Lady Anne asked.
“Quite sure. His murderer was caught and hanged.” Thanks to his efforts, with help from his assistants. Unfortunately, he was obliged to keep his role in solving that crime a secret, receiving no credit for his work. Perhaps one day that would change. Perhaps one day he’d be knighted for his secret services. Sir Anonymous, known for nothing.
“I heard she planned the whole thing.” Mary sounded unwilling to give up her false rumor.
“Nonsense,” Francis said. “She’s innocent in every sense of the word. The marriage was annulled. Do you think Her Majesty would allow Her Ladyship the liberty of the Privy Bedchamber if she suspected
otherwise?”
“I suppose not,” Mary said glumly.
They watched the masque for a few minutes in silence, then Anne leaned in front of Francis, forcing him to lean back. “I thought Mr. Grenville was going to be one of the satyrs.”
“Isn’t he the one capering in circles around Bess Throckmorton?” Mary asked.
“Too tall,” Anne said. “I think that’s Mr. Perivale.”
“Is it?” Mary sniffed. “Another admirer, do you think? She doesn’t have many.”
Anne sniffed as well. The unpleasant noise was apparently part of their system of communication. “Did you know she’s nearly twenty-seven years old and hasn’t had even one decent offer of marriage?”
“I knew that.” Mary set an elbow inches away from Francis’s hand. “But you know she hasn’t a penny to her name.”
Francis eyed the two maids usurping his space. Neither was yet quite out of her teens. Anne bore a faint resemblance to the queen, sharing the Tudor ginger hair and light brown eyes. Her cheeks still held the fat of childhood, and her squarish chin bespoke a stubborn streak. Mary was as fair as summer, but her features were too sharp, and when she wasn’t talking, she kept her mouth pursed, as if disliking most of what she saw.
Anne was heiress to a considerable fortune. Lord Buckleigh was nothing like as rich, but Mary would bring a few healthy estates to her husband one day. The ladies were invited to court to adorn the Presence Chamber with their youthful beauty, but their real goal was to secure a match that would bring advantages to their families.
Francis had the sudden horrible thought that he might’ve been placed between these two vapid damsels to encourage him to woo one of them. He shook his head, dismissing the absurd idea. Even were he so inclined, which he most assuredly was not, their fathers would never consider him. He possessed a good name, but nothing else; neither lands, titles, nor prospects. And it had also been made abundantly clear to him that he possessed no influence whatsoever.
