Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  TEN

  TOM MANAGED TO AVOID Stephen all morning by the simple expedient of sticking to his desk in the kennel office copying pedigrees. That was another thing he’d learned at Gray’s: sometimes just doing your job was the best disguise.

  But an hour or so after dinner, His Lordship drifted down to the kennels in search of entertainment. His friends must still be napping. Tom was ready for a breath of air, so he suggested they look up Mr. Lacey to see if they could take the bloodhounds out.

  They found him on the training ground, squabbling with the Frenchman, Monsieur Rondeau, in a muddle of broken French and English. The dogs lay at their feet, rolling their mournful eyes up at the angry men, looking even more unhappy than usual. When they caught sight of Tom, they switched their attention to him, tails thumping on the turf.

  Lacey tilted his head to acknowledge their approach. Rondeau bowed stiffly toward Stephen. Then they both went back at it. Tom and Stephen stood at a little distance to watch, neither understanding nor much caring what the altercation was about. Rondeau had a scrap of something — deerskin, possibly — that he kept thrusting into Lacey’s hand. Lacey thrust it right back, shaking his head and pointing toward the park. A question of theory versus practice, Tom guessed.

  Rondeau kept shooting odd glances at Stephen, as if he knew something about him or wanted to know something. “Why does he keep looking at me like that?” Stephen asked anxiously.

  Tom shrugged. “Maybe he’s never seen an earl before.”

  Stephen laughed, reassured. The man needed a constant companion to help him navigate the rocky shoals of casual social interactions. Another reason to mourn Arthur Grenville’s death. Tom distinctly did not want to take the man’s place.

  Rondeau waved his scrap and shouted something like, “On a vant!”

  The dogs jumped up and ran straight to Tom, standing in front of him wagging their whole bodies. He grabbed their leashes, laughing, and called to Mr. Lacey, “What say we take these animals for a walk in the woods?”

  Rondeau declined their halfhearted invitation to come along. “He’s not really a dog man,” Lacey said after sending a boy to fetch some straw hats.

  “How’s that?” Tom asked.

  “He doesn’t seem to have any sympathy for them. His main duty is clerking for the French ambassador.” Lacey shrugged. “Maybe they were shorthanded at that monastery, or maybe the monks wouldn’t treat with anyone but a Catholic. Not all Frenchies are Papists these days, from what the pamphlets say.”

  “That’s true,” Tom said. “Their king is a Calvinist.”

  Stephen made a sour face. “I suppose that’s good for England, but I’m glad I don’t have to go visit him. I had enough of that kind in Nuremberg.”

  “I get enough of that view from my guardian,” Tom said.

  “Much ado about very little,” Lacey said, “as far as I can tell. You saw which ones the dogs like — the ones that like them too. They’re never wrong, these wise creatures. They have an inborn sense about human natures.”

  The boy returned and passed out wide-brimmed straw hats to protect their faces from the beating sun. Tom and Stephen handed him their tall felt hats to take back to the office. They donned the straw ones and grinned at the rustic effect. Lacey pointed toward the river path and said, “Allons-y!” The dogs stood up and led the way.

  They walked at a comfortable pace along the Thames for a while, then turned left to climb up a steep road that soon turned back to run parallel to the river, still rising steadily. Stephen was panting by the time they reached the top, but even he had to confess it was worth it. The view was magnificent.

  The hill fell steeply away on its western face, affording a magnificent view of the Thames bending south, its blue waters glinting silver in the sun. It flowed around an islet thickly covered with trees. On the far bank, swathes of grass the color of Trumpet’s eyes ran between woods composed of a wondrous variety of trees. The layers of blues and greens extending into the shimmering distance felt like a balm to Tom’s city-stained spirits. He spent too many hours studying squiggles of black ink on dull paper. Now all he could hear was the wind blowing straight up from the river, rustling the leaves of the trees behind them, and a few birds calling here and there. No squealing carts or shouting workmen; no clatter of horses or clang of machinery. Pure peace.

  “Don’t get too close to the edge,” Lacey said. “It’s a nice view, but a nasty drop. I’d like to take the dogs farther into the park to see if they can manage without you gentlemen for a little while.” He winked at Tom as he said it.

  Stephen granted his permission with a wave of his hand, then found a largish rock to sit on.

  Tom joined him. They sat in silence, appreciating the brisk wind blowing across the open vista. After a few minutes of rest, Stephen gave Tom an odd, sideways look. “Have you learned anything about Grenville’s death?”

  “Me? No. How would I?”

  Stephen poked his tongue into his cheek to show his disdain for that disingenuous answer. “I know you and Mr. Bacon do that sort of thing sometimes — inquiring into odd deaths.”

  “How in God’s name would you know anything about that — if it were true?”

  Stephen puffed a dismissive breath. “I helped the first time, remember? Old Mr. Smythson and that thing with the Catholic spy at Gray’s.” He cocked his head. “I don’t think I ever found out how that ended. But it doesn’t matter because I know it wasn’t the only time. One of my old friends from Cambridge wrote to me a few years ago to say he’d heard you were going around asking questions about some tutor who hanged himself from your bedstead.”

  “Not my bed,” Tom mumbled, but the point was taken. Stephen knew far more than he ought. Luckily, he had a solid partial truth for an answer. “I asked Mr. Bacon about Mr. Grenville, as a matter of fact. He said he had no intention of getting involved. No one has asked him to, and it’s not his place. Sir Walter Ralegh and the coroner made their determination, and that’s the end of it, as far as I know.”

  Stephen gave him a long, cool look, cool enough to give Tom a bit of a chill. Then he shrugged one shoulder and turned away. He picked up a small rock and pitched it into the empty air beyond the cliff, his arm arching over his head. The sight of that arm sparked a vision in Tom’s mind, of Grenville surprising Stephen in the orchard, grabbing his arm, laughing, until Stephen swung the brick in his hand down upon his head. You couldn’t defend yourself from such a sudden attack. You wouldn’t even have time to duck.

  Tom studied his old friend out of the corner of his eye and saw lines in the jaw and a hardness around the eyes that hadn’t been there five years ago. “He was a good friend, wasn’t he? Grenville?”

  Stephen shrugged again. “For a while.” He found another rock and threw it, watching until it vanished into the many-hued scene below. Then he turned to Tom with his chin tilted up, in that prideful pose he used to strike when he felt an affront to his dignity or doubt about his position. Who knew what it meant now.

  “I trust you, Tom,” he said, “for old times’ sake. But you’d be wise not to cross me. Things have changed a lot for me this year. I’m not the man you knew.”

  Soon after, the hounds came bounding out and surrounded Tom, licking his hands and face. Lacey caught up to restore their leashes and led them all back down to the palace, taking a different route through the park to come in across Richmond Green and down past the outside of the Great Court.

  Tom and Stephen agreed to change clothes and meet at the main entrance to the Privy Lodgings in half an hour. Combed, perfumed, and dressed in their second-best finery, they met as the clock struck half past four and climbed the wide oak staircase to the first floor and passed into the Presence Chamber.

  “Where shall we stand?” Tom asked.

  “Let’s make a circuit,” Stephen said, eyeing the other gentlefolk standing about in beautiful clothes. “We’ll examine the decorations.” He placed his hands behind his back and began to stroll at a state
ly pace.

  Like all the state apartments, this room had tall windows on one side looking onto the Middle Court. The doors in each chamber, framed in half columns with a Greek capital over the top, stood close to the windows, leaving the rest of the room free of passing traffic. Gentlemen ushers, chosen for their height and comeliness as well as their families, stood beside each door.

  Stephen paused at a window to gaze down at the people milling around the fountain, nodding as if he’d instructed them to be there. He continued on to the door, where he granted the usher a patronizing smile.

  Tom followed contentedly in his wake. He appreciated the chance to view these storied rooms, and in truth, it didn’t matter what he did when he wasn’t with Trumpet. Copy pedigrees, tour the park, meet peers of the realm — anything other than a heart-shaped face with sparkling green eyes was merely a time-passer.

  Stephen paused to contemplate a golden dragon coiled around a shield embossed with the Tudor coat of arms. It looked real enough to spit fire. He grinned at Tom in genuine delight. Tom returned the grin without reservation. The room had been designed to awe, and it achieved that effect in full measure. Not one square inch had been neglected. The walls were painted with red, green, and gold chains of diamonds. On top of that were gilded moldings shaped like shields and urns framing figures of mythical giants or knights of yore. Add to that the multicolored marble mantelpiece and the carved frame around the throne’s draped dais, lavishly embellished with dragons, lions, and naked cherubs, and a man could barely see the room for all the decoration.

  The decorations were so rich and so dense, it took many minutes to peruse them all, but at last Stephen circled back to the inlaid marble mantelpiece and came to a halt. “Now we stand and converse.”

  Tom dutifully followed Stephen to the chosen spot and positioned himself slightly behind him to signal his lesser status. “What should we talk about?”

  “How should I know? You’re the one that studies all the time. Tell me something about the law I don’t already know.”

  Anything, then. Tom began to recount the last trial he’d attended at the Queen’s Bench, a thrilling tale of clashing torts. Stephen listened for almost a half a minute before his eyes glazed over. He was rescued by a bustle at the outer door.

  Tom stopped in the middle of a word, his jaw hanging open as the queen entered the room with Sir Walter at her side and a small retinue in her train. Stephen puffed up like a rooster, thrusting his chest forward, placing a hand on the hilt of his rapier. He held that pose while everyone else lowered themselves in a bow or curtsy, then swept off his hat, extended a leg, and bowed, head to knee. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

  “My lord of Dorchester.” The queen brought her small procession to a full stop. “How good to see you.” She smiled as he straightened, arranging his feet so that one angled slightly behind the other. “You must be eager for this week to end.”

  “How so, Madam?”

  She laughed. “Your nuptials, my lord, on Friday.”

  “Oh yes! I’d forgotten. I mean, thank you, Madam. Naturally, I’m possessed with impatience.”

  Her eyes flashed with amusement, but she didn’t laugh again. “I’m fond of your bride, you know. She amuses me. And I’m pleased to unite two prominent Protestant families.”

  Stephen’s mouth opened and closed, unable to produce an answer to that.

  The queen nodded as if that were the response she’d wanted. “Not too ostentatiously Protestant, of course, which is the way I prefer it.”

  “Oh, indeed, Madam.” His body visibly relaxed. Nothing was being asked of him. “That’s the way I like it too.”

  “May your wedding feast be merry! And, my lord,” her twinkling hazel eyes met his, “treat your wife with courtesy, always. I’ll hear of it if you don’t.”

  “I would never dream of doing anything less, Madam.”

  She flicked a glance at Tom, smiled slightly, then tilted her chin at Sir Walter. Stephen and Tom bowed deeply again as she and her entourage moved on.

  “God’s bones,” Stephen breathed after the group passed out of sight. “She wished me a merry feast.” He looked as if he’d been hit on the head with a big soft mallet.

  “You are a peer of the realm, my lord.” Tom gave him full points for not blabbering or falling into a dead faint. He felt more than a little queen-smacked himself, and he hadn’t been required to speak. “You’ll get used to it, I wager. This time next year, it’ll be ‘Oh, Madam this and Madam that.’ As soon as next week, maybe. We have the big hunt to look forward to. You’ll be beside her all day long.”

  “With Sir Walter too.” He sounded proud rather than envious. He’d held on to his youthful admiration for the bold adventurer.

  Tom had too — until last night. He hadn’t missed the steely gaze Ralegh had leveled at him past the queen’s shoulder over the bland smile painted on his face.

  Why couldn’t they have stumbled on an ordinary couple in that cursed dovecote? Even catching Stephen with Anne Courtenay would have been less trouble than holding a secret over Sir Walter Ralegh’s head.

  Stephen grinned at nothing, nodding, pleased with himself. “She stopped to speak to me alone. I mean, I’m the only one she stopped for. Did you notice that?”

  “It’s about time Her Majesty gave you the recognition you deserve, my lord.” A woman spoke behind them, making them both jump. As they turned, she made a small curtsy, smiling at their recognition as she rose to meet their worshipful eyes.

  “Lady Rich!” Tom backed up a step so he could bow properly. What a day this was turning out to be! First, the queen, not three feet away; now Lady Penelope Rich, immortal subject of a cycle of sonnets dedicated to her wit and beauty. She’d married since the poems were written but hadn’t lost a particle of her allure.

  Her fair hair gleamed beneath her fashionable man-styled hat. Her ruff, composed mostly of lace, was open at the front to reveal the hollow of her throat while the back tilted up to frame her head. Her black velvet bodice descended in a steep point over her flat belly, sweeping open to expose a white satin forepart embroidered with silver thread. Her huge puffed sleeves were made of the same costly fabric. She wore a yard-long string of pearls and carried a jeweled fan.

  “My lady,” Stephen said. “We’re honored.”

  “The honor is mine, my lord. I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I believe we’ve met before. Years ago, at Whitehall, wasn’t it?”

  They’d gone to court for the first time to deliver a message to her from Mr. Bacon. She’d terrified them, as Tom recalled, haughtily treating them like the callow youths they’d been.

  “Of course I remember,” Stephen said. “You were graciousness itself. I wished we’d had time to linger and enjoy a longer conversation. Alas, our errand was most urgent.” He shot a glance at Tom. “Or I think it must have been.”

  “Most urgent, my lord,” Tom said.

  Her onyx eyes turned toward him, her slender eyebrows arching in a question. Tom nudged Stephen’s foot with his to prompt the introduction.

  “This is my old, ah, retainer, Thomas Clarady,” Stephen said.

  Tom bowed again, murmuring some polite nothing while she blinked that catlike blink of hers. He’d dreamt about that blink from time to time. He always woke gasping, staring into the darkness until his heart stopped pounding.

  “I was so sad to hear about your friend Mr. Grenville,” Lady Rich said to Stephen. “Though I only knew him by reputation. What a tragedy! Cut down so young.”

  Tom wondered at her choice of words. “Cut down” implied a deliberate hand.

  “Yes,” Stephen said. “I’ll miss him. He made me laugh.”

  Lady Rich accepted this weak eulogy gravely. “Would that my friends can say as much of me when my time comes. I understand your Lady Alice was one of those who discovered him. She sent for you, and you sent your Mr. Clarady to attend upon her in her terrible ordeal.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, “more or less.
She mistakenly sent the messenger to the kennel office rather than my lodgings, or naturally I would have gone myself.”

  Lady Rich breezed past the spluttering excuse. “Very wise of you to send a surrogate, my lord. You ensure your interests are protected without appearing to encroach on Sir Walter Ralegh’s prerogative.”

  Stephen’s mouth opened in surprise, but he recovered and turned the gape into a throaty chuckle. “Yes, indeed. I can always rely on good old Tom.”

  Now the lady turned her attention to Tom. “Mr. Clarady is a man of parts, or so my brother tells me.”

  “I’m flattered, my lady,” Tom said honestly. He’d never met the earl, although he knew that Mr. Bacon had consulted him in the course of their commissions.

  “You’re Francis Bacon’s clerk, aren’t you? At Gray’s Inn.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “We started there together,” Stephen blurted in an obvious grab for attention. “I was a student of Bacon’s myself, if you can believe it. One term of that dusty stuff was enough for me, I can assure you!”

  “I can only imagine.” Lady Rich shook her head in apparent sympathy.

  “Tom seems to like it,” Stephen went on. “He left me, after so many years together, to keep slogging away at those old books.”

  “So wise of you to maintain that connection, my lord.” Lady Rich had the knack of turning Stephen’s gaffes into achievements. “My brother holds Mr. Bacon’s counsel in the highest esteem.”

  “So do I,” Stephen said. Tom doubted he understood what she meant.

  She turned to Tom again. “I understand Mr. Bacon has been asking questions about poor Mr. Grenville’s death.”

  “Mmm.” Tom’s mind buzzed with his options for responding. He’d just told Stephen the complete opposite, which, as far as he knew, was the truth. But it was an odd card for the lady to play without something else in her hand. Tom hadn’t spoken with Bacon since yesterday morning. Something might have happened to change his mind.