Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  “She’s seeing someone,” Mary said, speaking across him as if he were a party to their gossip now.

  “She who? Bess or Alice?” Anne asked. “Either way, it couldn’t be that floppy puppy, Mr. Grenville.”

  A peal of shrill giggles met that witticism. Francis winced.

  “Not Alice,” Mary said. “She’s far too timid, even if she had the wit to play a double part.”

  “Bess comes in late at night,” Anne said. “Haven’t you seen her? With her clothes just a little bit too loosely laced?”

  Mary laughed. “I suppose you’ve bumped into her on your way back from a certain new earl’s chambers?”

  Anne gasped as both faces turned toward Francis, mouths agape. “Please don’t tell anyone I said that, Mr. Bacon.”

  “I didn’t understand a word of it,” he assured her. “I never hear anything of any interest to anyone.” He was getting a little tipsy. Good.

  “I’ll wager that’s not true.” Mary rested her chin on her hand, regarding him with an expression that was no longer altogether vapid.

  In truth, he did know the sorts of useless things that would amuse these maidens. Such as how the future Lady Dorchester had spent the months from Michaelmas 1586 to Whitsun 1587, for instance. Though doubtless this pair would be more appalled that Trumpet had squandered her liberty studying the law than that she’d lived as boy to do it, successfully deceiving all the gentlemen of Gray’s Inn.

  “You young ladies should find something better to talk about than idle gossip.” Now he sounded middle-aged even to himself.

  “Gossip isn’t idle,” Mary said. “It’s how we understand people. Who likes whom, who doesn’t. Who will stand with you and who won’t, and why. It’s important.”

  Francis grunted. There might be a grain of sense in there somewhere.

  Horns sounded behind him, coming closer, winding a hunting call. Deep-voiced hounds bayed a counterpoint. Soon young men dressed in red-and-white livery with white feathers in their pointed caps appeared along the riverside path behind a dozen thrusting beagles on long leads. They chased the masquers away, though each managed to bow or curtsy to the queen before fleeing to the last table on the adult’s row. The beagles and their handlers followed, pretending pursuit, making their exit toward the kennels.

  Stephen Delabere, the eighth Earl of Dorchester, marched in their wake, dressed in red velvet with short round hose, gleaming white stockings, and tall white plumes arching over his red hat. His hip-length cloak, draped artfully from one shoulder, was trimmed in ermine — the perquisite of an earl.

  Tom walked several feet behind, dressed in plain brown with tall brown boots, as if he’d just returned from a hunt. He held the leashes of two giant hounds with sagging jowls and flapping ears.

  Anne and Mary drew in simultaneous breaths of awed admiration. Which woman admired which man, Francis couldn’t guess.

  Stephen and Tom made their way past the long tables to stand before the queen. Tom said something and the hounds sat. Stephen pointed his right toe and bowed. Tom bowed even lower. The queen clapped her hands, smiling with pleasure, then laughed as Ralegh whispered something in her ear.

  Stephen embarked on a speech which he must have written himself. It rambled on, betraying no rhetorical skill, but the gist was clear enough. The King of France had sent these prized hounds to augment the queen’s kennels. Michel Joubert said something to the ambassador, who spoke to the queen, who spoke to Stephen, who turned to Tom, who spoke to the dogs in a language they evidently understood. They stood up again, turned full around, and then sat.

  Typical of Tom to be fluent in the language of hounds. No doubt he could also speak to dolphins should the need ever arise.

  Francis realized he had moved past tipsy and was becoming more than a little drunk. Too little. He poured himself another cup, dribbling a bit on the cloth.

  “Who is that?” Mary asked, gaze riveted on the men with the dogs.

  “Lord Dorchester,” Francis answered. “Haven’t you met him? He joined the court a few weeks ago.”

  Mary clucked her tongue. “Not him. The tall one, in the boots.”

  Tom was scarcely an inch taller than Stephen, but his posture was naturally more erect. Stephen looked as if he had to keep reminding himself to stand up straight.

  “That’s Thomas Clarady,” Francis said. “His Lordship’s new Gentleman of the Privy Hounds.” He allowed that to sink in for a moment, then added, “And my student.”

  “Student of what?” Anne asked.

  “Of the law, of course.”

  Mary wrinkled her long nose. “He’s a barrister?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Still, a Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds,” she purred.

  Tom did look well in his simple costume, and he managed the great hounds with ease. They kept their eyes on him, listening when he spoke, tails wagging.

  “He’s beautiful.” Anne sighed. Mary hummed her agreement.

  Maybe that was why he’d been seated here, Francis thought. His lady aunt might have arranged it to force him to learn something about these nitwits to help her assess their suitability as matches for Tom. Too high for him, one would think, but Lady Russell treated her comely ward as another asset to be developed. The Privy Hounds position was tailor-made for Tom: not important enough to be contested by greater men, but unequivocally the post of a gentleman.

  The ambassador rose, bowed to the queen, and strode around the table to take the leashes from Tom. Sir Walter went to join him. They began to put the hounds through their paces. The animals stood, barked, turned in circles, and sat down again. Tom said something to Stephen, who nodded without turning away from whatever Ralegh and the ambassador were saying to the queen. Tom bowed in their general direction, then walked down to the table near the river where the masquers sat merrily devouring a late supper.

  Francis frowned as Tom slid onto the bench beside the red fairy. Those two were impossible to separate! But what did it matter? Lady Alice was still wearing her mask, and she’d be married in a week, putting an end to their ill-starred friendship.

  Francis poured himself more wine. He saw Michel Joubert looking his way and raised his cup, receiving an answering toast with an inviting smile. Perhaps they could slip away soon, into the library perhaps — sure to be deserted on a night like this.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” Mary murmured.

  “What?” Francis startled. “Nonsense. Not at all. We met the other —”

  But she wasn’t looking at Joubert. Her face was turned the other way, toward Tom and Trumpet, who leaned against one another, laughing. Trumpet piled things on a plate and shoved it toward Tom while he helped himself to her cup. They were far too familiar with one another. Stephen might not be the most observant man in the world, but even he would understand those touching hands, the feet twining under the table, visible to anyone whose glance happened to wander in that direction.

  He should go admonish them. He put his cup down, about to rise, then thought better of it. That would only draw attention to their play. They would ignore him anyway.

  “It isn’t fair,” Mary said. “We haven’t even had a chance to meet him yet.”

  “We’ll go visit the French hounds tomorrow,” Anne promised. “And I won’t feel the least bit naughty flirting with my lord of Dorchester anymore.” She tossed her head and sniffed again.

  Francis relaxed and took another draught of wine. His companions saw only the sort of light flirtation that was the principal sport at court. It seldom meant anything, and no one here knew about the history between those two miscreants.

  Servants appeared with torches and splints to begin lighting candles on the tables and lanterns hung from posts. Some of them twinkled from the walls of the adjacent orchard, leading the eye into the deepening twilight and creating the sensation of a fairy world surrounding them, just out sight. Lights bloomed on the musicians’ barges, casting golden pools onto the surface of the water.

&n
bsp; Day had ended. Midsummer Night had begun.

  Francis welcomed the shadows. No one would notice if he wobbled a bit on the bench. He watched Tom and Trumpet with an objective eye. Given her mask and Tom’s newness at court, he doubted anyone would pay them much attention. But it occurred to him that he did possess one morsel of information unknown even to his inquisitive cousin Robert. Francis had the full measure of Lady Alice’s complex character. He, alone of all the queen’s men, knew the future Lady Dorchester to be devious, energetic, decisive, and willing to go to almost any lengths to achieve her aims. She would have her weak, phlegmatic husband leashed and trained to her command within days of their nuptials. He’d lay odds on it.

  An explosion boomed over the water, followed by whistling rockets that soared high overhead before bursting into cascades of red and yellow light. The revelers cried out in delight, but the French hounds yelped in dismay. They broke away from the elderly ambassador, knocking Sir Walter into the grass. The queen laughed out loud as the dogs raced through the crowd, flinging their long legs onto tables, sending plates and cups flying, barking at the shrieking guests, shaking off all who tried to stop them, and creating absolute chaos until they reached the last table, where Tom was planting a kiss on Trumpet’s ear.

  The dogs bayed their relief, clambering up onto the table to reach their favorite, knocking him backward and pouncing on top of him. Trumpet slid off the bench the other way just before Stephen, Sir Walter, and the ambassador crowded around the front of the table, oblivious to the woman beneath it.

  Quick-witted as ever, she gripped the bottom hoop of her farthingale between her teeth to lift up the frothy layers of her gown and crawled swiftly past many pairs of feet, emerging several yards away to snatch up someone’s cup and lean against the table, laughing and pointing as if she’d been there all along.

  Francis watched with unbated admiration. He’d never known a more resourceful person. And soon she would have charge of two earldoms — her father’s and her husband’s. What would she do with them? Would she accept his guidance in any small way? She knew that he knew her unusual history and trusted him with that knowledge.

  Life took peculiar turns. It turned out he did have something of value. If only he could find someone who wanted it.

  FOUR

  “GOOD MORNING, MY LADIES! Time to rise!”

  Trumpet heard the rattle of curtain rings and peeked out from under her pillow. Pale sunshine streamed through the window, promising a clear day. She yawned, stretched, and sat up. “Is it six o’clock already?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Catalina Luna, her maidservant, seemed in a good humor this morning.

  Trumpet noted the twinkle in the Gypsy’s black eyes. “You look like you had fun last night.”

  “I did, my lady.”

  “I’m glad someone did.” After the debacle with the dogs, Trumpet only managed to speak to Tom long enough to agree to give up for the night. Too many couples sneaking into the gardens anyway; they’d never find a private place. Then when she’d seen Anne Courtenay drooling all over Stephen’s ermine, she decided to abandon the field and go to bed.

  That little wagtail ought to be encouraged. If Stephen had his own illicit love affair, he’d be a lot less interested in how she spent her evenings.

  “I can’t get up. Not yet.” Bess Throckmorton, Trumpet’s bedmate, groaned. “Everyone go away and let me sleep.”

  “Up you get, Mistress Lazybones,” Trumpet said. “Our queen awaits us.”

  “She’ll sleep late this morning. She always does after a feast.” Bess rolled over, mumbling into her pillow. “I only want one more hour.”

  What time had she come in? After midnight, Trumpet thought. She vaguely remembered waking as the bed shifted under Bess’s weight and hearing the chapel bell toll at least twice.

  “Lady Stafford will be up whether the queen is or not. And it looks like a glorious morning.” Trumpet hopped out of bed, eager for the day to begin. Tom was here, not a quarter of a mile from this very room. She meant to spend part of this day with him, even if she had to put up with Stephen to do it.

  She skipped to the hearth, where the bricks could warm her bare feet. She accepted a warm linen towel from Catalina and began rubbing her skin briskly from the chin down. Glancing at Bess, whose breath had regained the rhythms of sleep, she said, “Wake up, Bess! You know we can’t be late again!”

  Bess groaned but managed to struggle up to a seated position. “Heartless wretch. How can you be so cheerful at this unnatural hour?”

  Trumpet regarded her disheveled appearance. Bess looked about as horrible as a beautiful woman in her prime could look. “You’ll want rose water for those dark bags under your eyes.”

  Bess threw a pillow at her, missing her and the fire by a yard. Trumpet laughed. She held up her arms so Catalina could slide her chemise over her head and sat on a stool to pull on her stockings.

  “I know why you’re so merry,” Bess said. “I saw you with that handsome kennel man at the end of the feast.”

  Trumpet paused in the middle of tying her garter. “He’s a gentleman, and no, you didn’t. Not anymore than I noticed what time you came in last night.” She caught Bess’s gaze and held it. “Or should I say this morning?”

  Bess pursed her lips, then nodded once, accepting the compact without further comment. She threw back the bedclothes and let her servant slide short woolly socks onto her feet before padding to the washstand to splash cool water on her bleary face.

  It was a man, then. If she’d been out playing cards with Lady Rich’s friends, she’d have said so. Trumpet sincerely hoped he wasn’t married. That could only lead to trouble, and she’d grown to like Bess over the past few months. The woman had actually read more than one book in her life, including several having nothing to do with religion. She took an almost masculine interest in political affairs, teaching Trumpet to pay more attention to the talk in the Presence Chamber.

  Most of the queen’s ladies were only interested in matchmaking. There was plenty of speculation behind Bess’s back about her continued lack of husband. Could a married lover be the reason she hadn’t wed? That was a bad strategy, sure to end in sorrow. She should follow Trumpet’s lead and marry a simpleton, securing her status and her income. Then she could do whatever she liked, as long as she was discreet.

  If only women could be more candid about these things! Bess could benefit from Trumpet’s farsighted planning, while Trumpet would love to get some tips on keeping an affaire d’amour secret in this beehive of a palace.

  They performed the stiff, slow dance of being dressed for court by their maidservants: arms up for petticoats, farthingales, and skirts coming down over their heads, turning slowly at each pass for laces to be tied. Then each arm raised to shoulder height for sleeves and shoulder rolls. Last came ruffs, necklaces, and finally, slippers.

  Trumpet was ready long before Bess. She leaned out the window, watching servants cross the Great Court with buckets and baskets, wishing she could see the kennels from here. Tom was undoubtedly still asleep, snoring away. He had his own room above the dogs’ runs, he’d said; tiny, but all his. Thank God for that lucky stroke!

  She could never smuggle him up here. She and Bess shared a room on the upper floor of the Gentlewomen’s House. There was always someone coming in or going out, as far as she could tell. Impossible to predict who would go where when.

  She and Bess swung on their cloaks. It would be hot by midafternoon, but it was still chilly at this hour. The queen liked to walk in the garden before breakfast as often as not, and sometimes she wanted company. They went outside, crossed through to the Middle Court, and jogged up the stairs to the first floor of the Privy Lodgings. They passed through the series of increasing private rooms — Outer Chamber, Presence Chamber, Privy Closet, and Withdrawing Room — to reach the inner sanctum, the queen’s Privy Bedchamber.

  “Good morning, Mr. Peveril, Mr. Folsham,” Trumpet greeted the gentleman ushers guarding the doo
r. “Is she up yet?”

  Peveril shrugged. “I haven’t heard a peep.”

  Trumpet and Bess entered the room as quietly as they could. As Bess eased the door closed behind them, Trumpet curtsied to Lady Stafford, who put a finger to her lips. She sat on a cushioned stool near the great carved and gilded bed, whose purple curtains were still closed. The shutters were closed too, so the chamber was lit only by the soft light leaking through the slats and the faint glow of embers in the hearth.

  Two other ladies sat on stools under the windows, examining stockings for holes. Trumpet went to a cupboard and took out a stack of rubbing cloths, hanging them on the rack near the fire. This was her usual morning task. Bess picked up an embroidered chemise and shook it out with a small flap that rang out in the silent chamber.

  Lady Stafford made a shooing gesture at them, so all four ladies crept out again.

  They stood in the Withdrawing Room under the bland gaze of the ushers. “What shall we do?” Trumpet asked. “Shall we wait in the garden? It’s a lovely morning.”

  “We could pick some fruit for Her Majesty’s breakfast,” Mary Buckleigh said. “She likes raspberries. There might even be some ripe cherries near the wall.”

  “Let’s go,” Trumpet said. “She doesn’t need all of us standing around tapping our toes when she’s been up late enjoying herself.”

  No one else wanted to come. She and Mary passed back through the series of rooms to a small staircase at the end of the building. This led them down to Her Majesty’s private door into the orchard. Once outside, they stopped, inhaling the fresh morning air, laden with the smell of flowers and wet grass.

  “Which way?” Mary asked. “Raspberries or cherries? Her Majesty likes cherries best, but it’s early yet.”

  “Let’s try along the wall.” Trumpet pointed to her left, where the morning sun glowed against the weathered red bricks.

  They set off through the grass that grew between the trees, soaking their hems in the thick dew. Trumpet would have to change gowns before dinner so this one could be hung up to dry. Luckily, she’d had the forethought to wrangle a clothing allowance from Stephen in preparation for their nuptials. It hadn’t been hard; the one thing he valued most was a gallant display. She’d bought three complete outfits, far richer than she would wear on an ordinary day in London, but here kept them all in constant use. Catalina and Bess’s servant, Maud Digby, put in long days just tending to their mistresses’ wardrobes.