Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  Tom saw an overturned boat and waved her toward it. They perched awkwardly on its sloped surface. “Mr. Bacon would say that’s a lot of maybes. But we know Grenville was following Bess, and now we know she had a big secret to hide. But is a little lovemaking really worth killing for?”

  “Jesu, Tom! How can you ask that? It’s huge.”

  Tom shrugged. “Like us, more or less, isn’t it? If we get caught, we’ll be sent home in disgrace — as long as you don’t turn up with lasting consequences. I might lose my place at Gray’s, but not forever, I’ll bet. Lady Russell has a stake in my prosperity, and she’s a formidable advocate. I’d never be allowed back at court. You’d be in bigger trouble if Stephen refused to marry you, but it’s hard to say if he would or wouldn’t You could blame it all on me and let those dreaded matrons examine you again. Not good, but you wouldn’t kill someone to prevent it.”

  Trumpet growled at the memory. “Don’t be so sure. But there’s no comparison. Sir Walter is the queen’s favorite. He owes everything he is or has or hopes to be or ever have to her.”

  “That’s my point. He’s her favorite, so she wants him to be happy.”

  “No, Tom. No.” She inched toward him and lowered her voice. “Let me tell you about the queen. She’s Cynthia, the huntress — that’s what Sir Walter calls her — but she’s also Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom. She’s awesome, wise, full of humor and insight. She reads the hearts of men and women. I adore her and admire her; we all do, we who spend our days in her service. But she’s an Almighty, like a god, and like a god, she is jealous. She has moods. Storms rise up and strike swiftly, dashing all to pieces. She demands absolute loyalty. When he first came to court, Sir Walter was little better than you. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Tom was honored by the comparison.

  “I think he first spent some time in the service of the Earl of Oxford, but he soon left. They’re nothing alike. Then he served the Earl of Leicester for a while, and that’s how he came to her attention. She sent him to Ireland, where he performed admirably. He came back, she liked him, and she raised him up with more lands and important posts to maintain them. He owes everything he has to her, and she can take it all away with one glorious snap of her fingers.”

  “Hmm. He’s a proud man, they say.”

  “None prouder. And if Bess is expecting to marry him, the stakes are the same for her.” Trumpet found his hand and squeezed it. “If the queen found out about them, the storm would be so great no one would notice or care if you and I made love stark-naked on the dais in the Great Hall.”

  Tom’s head filled with throbbing lust at the words “made love stark-naked,” so he didn’t register everything she said. But he got the gist.

  “We’d best go back.” Tom could barely see her face. When she dropped her veil again, she almost disappeared into the shadows. He hopped to his feet and held out a hand to help her up.

  They strolled along the sandy path, not worried now about being caught walking together. Trumpet had her veil, and nobody paid any attention to them. Many people were out in boats enjoying the cool river, playing lutes and guitars in the light of lanterns swinging in the bows. Others walked about the lawn or sat in groups laughing and singing. Summer night at Richmond Palace.

  They walked across the grass to the gate leading into the Middle Court. They stopped for the last time, loath to separate.

  “What should we do about this new development?” Tom asked.

  “Say nothing to anyone. We all agreed.”

  “But what about Mr. Grenville?”

  “We don’t know they did it,” Trumpet said, always the contrarian.

  “They had a powerful motive, as you explained. And he was in a hurry to cut off the question-asking.”

  “He’s always like that.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep poking around,” Tom said. “Not them; don’t worry. I’ll steer clear. Besides, we know their secret. But Grenville was a notorious gossip; Stephen said so, and he should know. I’ll bet he poked his nose into more than one hornet’s nest.”

  Trumpet nodded. “There are plenty of them. I’ll ask some discreet questions among the ladies and see if I can catch a glimmer.”

  Tom looked down at her, wishing he could see her face under the veil, loving every familiar line of her head and figure. “Good night, my lady. Sleep well. And don’t fret about your chambermate being out too late. She’s in good hands.”

  He chuckled at his joke as he touched his hat and turned away, but she grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “Don’t joke about it, I beg you. Sir Walter is a dangerous man.” Her tone was deadly serious. “And Tom — watch your back.”

  EIGHT

  BESS CREPT INTO BED sometime during the wee hours. She’d whispered, “Alice?” as she burrowed under the covers, but Trumpet kept her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

  She rose first, as usual. She’d cleaned her body and her teeth before Bess so much as cracked open an eyelid. Trumpet was seated at her dressing table letting Catalina brush her long black hair by the time Bess reached out a hand to open the bed curtain. Flail at it feebly, more like; her maid had to help her.

  Trumpet said, “You’ll spoil your looks keeping such late hours so often.”

  Bess didn’t bother to answer. She sat up and met Trumpet’s laughing eyes in the mirror. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

  “I always mean what I say.” Trumpet couldn’t let that stand, in all honesty. “Unless I’m lying on purpose.”

  “Say nothing to anyone, ever?”

  “That’s the agreement.”

  “Especially not Mary and Anne. They’re the worst gossipmongers in court now that —”

  Now that Arthur Grenville was gone.

  Trumpet blinked at her blandly. “I would assume they fall under the heading of ‘anyone.’”

  “All right.” Bess staggered out of bed and let Maud guide her through her morning rituals. Trumpet pretended to be disdainful, but she burned with curiosity. Had Bess and Sir Walter spent all those hours together in that dovecote? They must have brought blankets, or more likely kept them there or hidden some nearby. What could they find to do all that time? She had the sense from comedies at the theater that the act of love didn’t take all that long. Catalina had told her you could do it more than once in a given session, especially if the man was young like Tom, but even so.

  Maybe they’d fallen asleep. But Bess didn’t look like a woman who was getting enough sleep. Well, she’d find out all about it in four more days, counting Friday.

  “Who is your young man?” Bess asked. “Walter called him the one with the dogs, but you’re surely not walking out with a man from the kennels. Although he is very handsome.”

  Trumpet was offended on Tom’s behalf. “He’s the Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds. It’s a ceremonial post. He doesn’t raise dogs. And he’s the handsomest man alive.”

  “I see.”

  It might provide a little protection from Sir Walter, if any should be needed, to know how well connected Tom was. “He’s a member of Gray’s Inn, as a matter of fact. And he’s a ward of the court, as it happens, since his father died before he turned twenty-one and left him vast estates owing feudal duties. And his guardian is Lady Elizabeth Russell.”

  “Oh! I don’t know her, but she has a reputation for being tenacious.”

  “A reputation well deserved,” Trumpet said. “What’s more, Mr. Clarady is a pupil of Francis Bacon, who is Lady Russell’s nephew.”

  “Francis Bacon.” Bess sat at the dressing table so Maud could brush the bits of leaf and litter from her tangled hair. “Does your Mr. Clarady know Sir Robert as well?”

  “I should certainly think so.” Although Robert had never come to dinner, and you’d think he would have, being Lady Russell’s nephew also. Too busy, or pretending to be. Still, drawing a short line from Tom to the man most likely to be named next Secretary of State couldn’t hurt.

  THEY FINISHED DRESSING withou
t further talk and hurried across to the Privy Lodgings. “Is she awake?” Trumpet asked Mr. Folsham.

  “A few minutes ago, but she’s not yet up.”

  He opened the door, closing it silently behind them. The shutters had been opened, filling the stuffy room with clear light that reflected off the polished paneling and the gilt carvings of the queen’s bedstead. The big gold-threaded tassels hanging from the valance above the purple bed curtains gleamed like golden bells. The portrait of King Henry beside the fireplace stood out, each detail revealed. The portrait must have been placed deliberately in that particular spot so the sleeper would see the mighty visage on first awakening.

  A servant knelt beside the fire, stirring it with a stick to bring up the glow. Another one emerged from behind a painted screen carrying a covered chamber pot. She walked serenely toward the door, which Trumpet opened for her.

  Lady Stafford, dressed in black apart from her ruffs and coif, stood before the fire draping linen towels on a rack. Her sharp eyes swept the latecomers from head to toe, inspecting their appearance. Then she nodded, greeting them and granting approval at the same time. Not too late, then.

  The bed curtains had been drawn back. The queen sat up against her lace-trimmed pillows, blinking at the new day. She yawned luxuriously, stretching out both arms. “Good morning, ladies.”

  “Good morning, Madam,” Trumpet and Bess answered in unison, sinking into deep curtsies on the thick rush matting.

  “We’re wearing red today,” Her Majesty informed them. “Lady Stafford says we’ll have drizzle and thinks the Presence Chamber will want cheering up.”

  “Yes, Madam.” She’d woken in a good humor, it appeared. That would make everything go more smoothly that day.

  Bess had dressed in black and white, while Trumpet wore white and black, a safely neutral background to whatever color the queen chose to wear. It also saved money since the two chambermates could trade sleeves and foreparts to add variety to their costumes.

  Trumpet started folding a stack of underclothes discarded the night before. Bess picked up a wisp of linen, but Lady Stafford said, “Stockings, if you please, Mrs. Throckmorton,” so she opened a carved fruitwood chest and began searching for a matching pair.

  “Sir Charles owes me nineteen shillings,” the queen remarked, watching her. “He’s the worst card player at court.”

  Bess laughed. “Make him pay his debt in dances, Madam. He wants exercise.”

  “I’ll do it. And I’ll have Sir Walter play with me tonight. He can’t spend every night attending to business.” She shifted to the edge of the bed and extended her royal toe. “I should never have made him Lieutenant of the West Country. It takes up too much of his time.”

  Bess knelt to roll a stocking up the royal leg, tying it under the knee with a pink silk garter. “You need your ablest man in that position, Madam. His work is vital to the safety of the realm.”

  Trumpet kept her eyes on her folding, but her ears followed every word of the light conversation. This was how ladies advanced their men: a quiet word here, a small jest there. Saying just the right thing at just the right moment was a skill she must master.

  Lady Stafford’s fluted tones interrupted her thoughts. “You’re wig this morning, Lady Alice.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Trumpet left her stack of folded clothes on a stool and crossed to the dressing room, a small adjoining chamber used for preparing the queen’s cosmetics, hairpieces, and other elements of her elaborate costumes. Her Majesty wisely believed in presenting a figure of awe to her subjects whenever she appeared outside her privy apartments. The long peace she’d achieved for England depended upon her strength and continued good health. No one wanted to see an aging woman in a shabby gown sitting on the throne.

  Anne and Mary were already there, one primping a huge lace-trimmed ruff, the other mixing the lotions that would embellish the royal face that day.

  Anne gave her a sly look. “Late again. Bad dreams? Worried about your wedding night?” She’d been taking little jabs at Trumpet for several days now, ever since she’d started casting sheep’s eyes at Stephen.

  Trumpet had no experience with this viperous competition for men and hadn’t decided how to handle it. She wanted to encourage the little flirt-gill while pretending to have no idea what she meant — a delicate balance. For now, she simply told the truth. “I was tucked into my bed by ten o’clock and slept like a little lamb.”

  She went to the wig cupboard and assessed the choices arrayed on the wooden stands. She chose one with warm brown tones under the ginger, avoiding the brassier ones. It wouldn’t do for the hair to clash with the red gown. She set her selection on the counter and removed its sheer linen covering, folding that and setting it aside. Then she picked up a fine-toothed comb and began tweaking the curls.

  As she picked up a curl at the front edge over where the right eyebrow would be if the faceless form had eyebrows, she stopped, staring down at the line of the ivory comb against the dark form, remembering the red lines against Grenville’s white forehead. She poked the point of the comb into that spot, imagining it sinking into soft flesh instead of meeting polished walnut. She changed the position of the comb in her hand and pretended to strike the spot from below, touching her own eyebrow for reference. Sure enough, that would produce a different pattern of injury.

  “Huh.”

  “What are you doing?” Mary asked. “You aren’t still thinking about . . . about that horrible . . .”

  “No, no.” Trumpet hadn’t realized she was being watched. “Although yes, a little. I can’t help thinking about it. Can you?”

  “I’m determined not to.”

  “Best not to dwell,” Anne said, looking over her shoulder. She was whisking egg whites with a little alum into ceruse and vinegar.

  “No, no,” Trumpet repeated in her idiot’s voice. “We mustn’t dwell! But I can’t help thinking about poor Mr. Grenville. He was so sweet.”

  “You called him a blister last week,” Anne said.

  Trumpet clucked her tongue. “Who could think such a thing? He was tres galant. He thought of nothing but romance. Who would he have married, do you suppose? One of us?”

  She wanted a weighty secret to counter the massive one of Bess and Sir Walter. She wanted a plausible alternative — more than one, if she could get it — to argue about with Tom in a tavern somewhere up or down the river, where no one would notice him sitting with her and Catalina dressed like men. They could sneak out this evening if they skipped supper. She’d gone a whole year without getting to help investigate one of Mr. Bacon’s special commissions, and she missed those lively, beer-soaked debates. She wanted one more chance before her life changed forever.

  She wouldn’t be nearly as convincing as a young stableman with a baby on her hip.

  “Well, certainly not you,” Anne said, “since you’re marrying my lord of Dorchester on Friday.”

  “I didn’t mean me, of course,” Trumpet said, “but why not you?”

  “He couldn’t afford me,” Anne retorted. She and her sister were heiresses to an immense fortune, assuming they outlived their father. Trumpet blinked at her, smiling her idiot’s smile as an ominous realization struck her.

  If she and Tom were caught together and Stephen decided to repudiate the marriage contract on grounds of infidelity, Anne Courtenay might be the first maiden thrust into the breach. She’d been too young, and he hadn’t been attractive enough as the son of a tight-fisted Calvinist, but now that he was the earl himself, his merits as a match had bounded up the scale. He could secure a tidy fortune and marry a woman who genuinely wanted him.

  Trumpet pushed that uncomfortable thought away. Luckily, Mary had followed a different thread in the conversation.

  “Not to speak ill, but I think Mr. Grenville was more interested in other people’s secrets than in romance for its own sake. He could be a bit of a pest, couldn’t he, nagging for details about whose parents had been writing to which guardian.”

>   Anne shrugged. She tested a dab of cream on her own face, picking up a hand mirror to inspect the result. Her complexion was similar to Her Majesty’s — pale cheeks, brown eyes, ginger hair and eyebrows. Her hair was lighter than the queen’s natural color, but they could take a snip from Anne’s head in a wig emergency.

  “That’s too thick,” Mary said. She had been trained in stillroom methods by her mother and had appointed herself Mistress of the Paint Cabinet. Not that she had any use for such arts herself. All the queen’s gentlewomen were beautiful — that was a minimum standard — but Mary stood out even in such select company. She was a classic English beauty: white skin with a touch of rose in the cheeks, blue eyes, and hair like spun sunshine. Her features were neither too large nor too small, her voice neither too shrill nor too deep.

  Tom’s ideal woman, in former times, although shorter than his usual choice. Trumpet didn’t think he’d met Mary yet. Could that be prevented given the crowded conditions at court? Probably not, and besides, she trusted him. They were past all that.

  She turned the wig around to tend to the back, smoothing the center top and lightly teasing up the frizz around the bottom. She glanced out the window at the gray clouds, which seemed to be descending into the river. “What a miserable day! At least we won’t be tempted to slip out and pick fruit for her breakfast this morning.”

  “Jesu, Alice, are you still harping on Mr. Grenville’s accident?” Mary snapped.

  “I can’t help it,” Trumpet whined, as if she’d been scolded for stealing a sweet. “I keep thinking about why Mr. Grenville would do such an odd thing right before a feast. I mean, the kitchens were certain to supply the best of everything, weren’t they? Why did he choose that moment to go to that place? I keep wondering what — or who — led him there to meet his death?”

  A startling crash cut off any answers. Anne had dropped her dish of face cream. “Mercy! It slipped right through my hands!”