by Anna Castle
Francis would not be riding with the field. He had no desire to spend the morning bouncing on the back of a horse in pursuit of a dumb animal. But he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now that shouts and raucous laughter were adding more noise to the mix outside. People must be swarming in to join their gregarious kind in the Great Hall for a quick bite before riding out. So that haven would be even more inhospitable.
He climbed out of bed and lit a candle, then poured water into the basin to wash his face. Pinnock was awake now too, sitting up in the rat’s nest he’d made of the covers on his trundle bed. He yawned hugely and asked, “Why do we have to get up so early? It’s barely even light.”
“No hope for it, my lad. It’s only going to get noisier.” Francis went to the small window to peer down into the yard, watching numbers of overly hearty men and women milling about in the early morning mist. Where could he go until this throng gathered itself and rode away? “Get me dressed and then you can go watch, if you want. They’ll assemble on the green outside the gate. You’ll have the best view from the top of our building.”
In a quarter of an hour, they were ready to leave the room. Pinnock went up the stairs, while Francis went down. He’d remembered a little alehouse by the river on the other side of the Kew road, well past the stables. He could get a cup of small beer and some bread and watch the river flow by while he decided what to say to Michel Joubert.
In the event, he had little time to think — only as much as it took to walk out his door and around the corner through the great arched gate. Michel bumped right into him while turning to admire a lady trotting past on an exceptionally fine mare.
“Bonjour, mon ami!” Michel cried, grasping Francis by the shoulders.
Fearing la bise — the French custom of kissing both cheeks in greeting — Francis stepped away. Too brusquely; his abrupt retreat set a crease between Michel’s dark eyebrows. “How have I offended you, Mr. Bacon?”
“You haven’t. I didn’t —” Francis surrendered to the situation. “It’s just early, and crowds discommode me. I was on my way to a quiet alehouse by the river, away from all this garboil. Would you care to join me? There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”
“I too prefer less garboil. Lead on!”
They wove through the stream of people on horses and on foot, working against the tide. But soon they reached the calm beyond the palace grounds and found the humble retreat. The alewife and her son had already set up tables outside where patrons could enjoy the morning sun when it appeared. She had fresh bread from a nearby bakehouse and ale she brewed herself.
They chose the table farthest from the thatched cottage. They paid for their simple repasts and then sat in silence, listening to the chatter of the birds as the world woke up. Francis held his small, warm loaf between his hands but found he had no appetite. The ale, also warm and mercifully free of spices, helped settle his stomach — but not his mind. He watched the shifting play of light on the river, considering various openings.
Alas, there was no graceful way to ask your lover if he’d murdered two people in the past week.
Michel broke the silence first. “What is troubling you, Frank? Something to do with me, I perceive.”
Francis nodded, then shook his head. “Do you remember the first day we met? We talked about the possibility of some member of your embassy sending intelligences to the Catholic League.”
“I remember.”
“Have you found out who it is?”
“I have not. Indeed, I do not even know if he exists.” Michel shrugged, but a hardness in his eyes showed that he knew this wasn’t the meat of the matter. “I assume there must be someone, but we send a small avalanche of mail to France every day, to everyone of significance. Some of them might be passing something on to someone in the League, but —” He broke off and shrugged again, more expressively this time.
“I believe he exists,” Francis said. “I believe he is collecting information from one of the queen’s gentlewomen. I believe this has been going on for some weeks, at least.” He shot a glance at Michel and then spoke to the bread between his hands. “I believe the spy or the gentlewoman or both together are responsible for the deaths of two young English persons: Arthur Grenville and Anne Courtenay.”
“Mon dieu! But this is horrible!” Michel recoiled. His mobile features first displayed shock and horror, but then shifted to outrage. “No, but it is worse! You think I am this murderous traitor! How can you even conceive of such a thought?”
“I don’t think it’s you, not quite. Or I don’t want to think it.” Francis winced and started over. “I find it impossible to believe the man I have come to regard as a friend could be capable of such vile deeds — except for one thing. That phial, the Venetian glass bottle you handed to Monsieur Chaste last week at the Goat and Compasses.”
“The phial?” Michel looked perplexed. “What do you mean? Speak in plain words, Frank. I’m in no mood for riddles.”
He still sounded offended, but he didn’t seem wary or on guard. The mention of the phial did not alarm him. He must have heard how Lady Anne died, but he clearly did not connect his master’s tonic to the poisoned potion.
Francis nodded, as much to affirm his decision as to answer his friend. “That glass, or its twin, contained the poison that destroyed Lady Anne Courtenay. She thought it held it a love potion and drank it all. The midwife whom I consulted considered henbane to be the fatal ingredient. That phial is now in the possession of the Earl of Dorchester, or more likely, his wife. I know that Lady Anne obtained it from someone at the wedding supper, but I don’t know who.”
“Ah.” Michel smiled, but the smile had an edge. “I heard about the love potion, of course; everyone has. I did not hear where it came from. But I can prove to you very easily that the phial did not come from me or my master.” He reached into the deep folds of his trunk hose, drew forth a small glass bottle, and plunked it down on the table. “Here is the one your queen gave to Monsieur Chaste. As you can see, it is empty. I thought I would have it refilled this morning while everyone is out chasing beasts through the woods.”
Francis let out a small cry of relief when he saw the phial, pressing his hand to his chest. He picked it up and pulled out the cork stopper to take a tentative sniff. He smelled the bite of strong liquor mingled with the rich aroma of cinnamon — and not a hint of the rank bitterness he’d detected in the poison.
He smiled, closing his eyes for a moment of thanks, then replaced the cork and handed the expensive bauble back. “Words cannot express my regret for having doubted you, my dear Michel. But if I train my assistants to follow the evidence wherever it may lead, how can I allow myself to let friendship turn me aside?”
Michel produced one of those peculiarly French nasal grunts. He regarded Francis with a calculating gaze for several long, miserable moments, then broke off with a wry smile. “I would do the same if the chairs were turned the other way.”
“I hope that you would.” Francis felt his tummy growl; now he could eat. He gave his friend a sidelong glance as he tore off a piece of bread. “I can only hope I would be able to prove my innocence so easily.”
“Oh, you are far from innocent, mon ami!” Michel’s eyes flashed with amusement. “But what would you have done if I were not so lucky as to have the little bottle with me?”
Francis sighed in mock regret. “I fear I would have been forced to take you back and search your rooms.”
“Better to search your room, I think. I have too many chambermates.”
Francis smiled. Another half hour and the palace would be nearly vacant. The perfect time to catch up on his rest. He dipped a piece of bread in his beer to soften it and popped it in his mouth. It was good, dark and nutty. Guilt and suspicion made such poor seasonings.
“We must find this man, Michel. I’m glad it isn’t you, but I strongly suspect there is someone within your embassy who is complicit in these murders.”
“I hope you have mor
e evidence than this pretty bottle.”
“Not much more.” Francis decided he could use a fresh perspective. So he laid it all out: Grenville’s wound, the brick, the phials in the queen’s stillroom, the lust for gossip tying things together. “It sounds like so little, and yet two people are dead.”
“It is something though,” Michel said. “And that hole in the wall you conjecture for the sharing of letters — that is more like a spy and his informant than a pair of lovers, I think. Lovers enjoy the thrill of slipping notes into each other’s sleeves. The daring touch, the meaningful glance. . . This is a vital part of that game.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Francis had seldom played that game until he met this charming Frenchman. Tom had engaged in many flirtations, or so he claimed, but not with ladies at court, where exposure meant ruin. He was more likely to stand under a window with his lute, yowling at the moon. If Michel’s instinct was right, the two pairs of untouchable suspects could be crossed off the list.
Better still, he now had an ally inside the enemy camp. Francis said, “You must have some inkling of which one of your colleagues could be working for the Catholic League.”
Michel gave him a sour look. “It is difficult to untangle one’s personal regard from one’s professional observations. I know which one I would like to see sent home in irons. Does that mean he is guilty? But I will try harder. I am the principal secretary; I could demand to look at every letter that goes into our pouch.”
“That will be a great deal of work for you, but I hope not for many more days. If I could only put my finger on the gentlewoman.” He grimaced at the ill-chosen phrase, then laughed at the waggish expression on Michel’s face.
“Having fun?” Trumpet asked, appearing from the direction of the palace. “A funny joke?” She glared at Michel with such blatant hostility he stiffened defensively.
“Lady Alice,” Francis said, hoping his calm voice would soothe whatever had ruffled her. “Have you been introduced to my friend, Michel Joubert? Monsieur Joubert, allow me to present the Lady Dorchester.”
Michel rose and bowed. Trumpet tilted her head in the minimum of courtesy, then rudely turned her back on him to face Francis. She pulled a square letter from her sleeve and gave it to him. “Tom and Stephen found this yesterday in that place.”
Francis met her eyes with a reproving gaze. “Michel is not the one we seek. He has the ambassador’s phial in his pocket at this moment. On that and other grounds, I consider him fully absolved.” He hoped she wouldn’t demand to hear the other grounds. All he really had was his own sense of trust.
Trumpet turned on her heel to face Michel. “You have the fourth phial?”
“I do not know its number, my lady, but yes. Here it is.” He withdrew the precious object and handed it to her. She uncorked it, sniffed at it, and gave it back.
“That smells delicious, actually.” She dropped a short curtsy and took a seat on Francis’s bench. “I apologize for my rudeness, Monsieur Joubert. But you fit the description the apothecary gave Tom of a Frenchman buying a love potion.”
“I understand. And I forgive you.” Michel quirked a smile at Francis. “So this fierce and beautiful lady is one of your so-diligent assistants?”
“That isn’t widely known,” Trumpet said. “I hope you can respect a confidence.”
“My lady!” Michel placed his hand on his heart. “I am a confidential secretary!”
Her tongue poked into her cheek as she cast a dubious glance toward Francis.
“I trust him,” Francis said, “though he seems to have trouble taking things seriously. Still, he might be able to help us identify the spy within the embassy.”
“The sooner, the better. This killer seems to panic easily and I don’t want to lose any more friends.” Trumpet pointed her chin at the letter in Francis’s hand. “Tom was right; the hole in the wall was well over my head. Stephen found it. Tom wouldn’t let him open it for fear it might be from — you know.”
“I admire your forbearance,” Francis said as he slit the seal with his thumbnail and unfolded the letter. “I didn’t think either of you possessed that quality.”
Trumpet pursed her lips and raised her eyes to heaven, but refrained from comment.
“It’s in French,” Francis announced. “It says, ‘Cease at once. You endanger us both. There must be no more letters. This place is watched. Do not come here again. You have had your last payment.’” He handed the letter across the table to Michel. “Do you recognize the hand?”
Michel needed only a glance. “Oh yes. It is the one I struggled so hard not to suspect because I despise him. Pierre Rondeau, the one who brought the dogs from the monastery.” He threw a hand up in the air with a small cry of disgust. “But of course! He sends his English gossip to the monks in the guise of reports about the success of the hounds. They must then pass it on to the Duke of Mayenne, one of the principals in the Catholic League.”
“Rondeau? I’ve heard that name,” Trumpet said. “Tom didn’t like him. He said the dogs didn’t like him either.”
“Then of course we should have him arrested immediately,” Francis said. He waved the inappropriate remark away with a small laugh. “Tom has done very good work, as have you, my lady. And Stephen, I suppose. But aren’t you joining the hunt?”
She was dressed for it in a costume of forest hues and practical construction.
“I’m on my way.” She rose from the bench. “Tom left before sunrise for the quest.” She looked at Michel. “That’s when the hunters go out early with the dogs to locate the stag so the chase can begin.”
“I will show this letter to the ambassador, if I may.” Michel seemed to be asking both of them. Trumpet shrugged.
Francis said, “Perhaps I should be with you to tell him the whole story. Although we don’t have all of it yet. Did Tom learn anything else yesterday?”
“Not exactly,” Trumpet said. “The information mostly flowed the other way.” Francis raised his eyebrows and she nodded, her expression grave. “Tom said that Lady Mary Buckleigh was in the kennel office yesterday afternoon asking a lot of questions. Which Stephen, being Stephen, answered, right down to the henbane. He thought he was being clever. But that means Mary is either the killer or the next victim.”
With that, she shook out her skirts and left.
TWENTY-FOUR
TRUMPET MARCHED BACK to the stable yard. She was glad Mr. Bacon’s friend could be crossed off the list, but now she was worried about this Pierre Rondeau. He must be on the quest, one of the huntsmen scouting the woods with a scent hound in search of the largest stag. Like Tom, who wouldn’t know to be on his guard against him.
She also wanted to keep an eye on Mary, which shouldn’t be too hard since the lady was just now riding out of the huge stable with the Brydges sisters. Trumpet could tell by the things Tom hadn’t said that Mary had flirted with him for all she was worth. She wouldn’t be able to get close to him during the chase, but afterward, during the elaborate hunt breakfast, she might slip something into his cup while his attention was diverted.
Not with Trumpet sticking to her like a pasted proclamation.
She strode into a sea of barely contained confusion, with gentlemen and ladies coming in on foot and going out on horseback. A dozen stablemen and boys scurried around to effect the transformation. To her surprise, the sea of people parted as she was recognized. Hats came off, curtsies were dropped, and voice after voice said, “Good morning, my lady.”
She reckoned she’d become ten times more important in the five days since her wedding. Too bad she hadn’t grown a few inches in the bargain.
The head of the stables hurried up to serve her. “Your horse awaits, my lady. Your husband’s servant told us to expect you.” Stephen must be afield already. He was hosting the gathering — the early breakfast at which the most devoted hunters met to decide which stag to pursue.
She let the stablemen assist her in mounting. Like most women hunters, she’d wo
rn long linen drawers under her skirts with a bum roll instead of a farthingale, preferring to ride astride. She refused the offer of a groom to accompany her and maneuvered deftly through the milling horses and people in the stable yard.
She walked her mare, Callisto, at a seemly pace up toward Richmond Green, keeping Mary in view. She didn’t want to ride with that group — she didn’t trust herself not to make veiled remarks warning the Brydges girls that their new friend might be a poisoner.
As she turned onto the lane running along the palace wall, she saw Penelope Rich and Bess Throckmorton riding together, also in no apparent hurry. They seemed to be surveying the assembling riders and commenting on their clothes and horses. She urged Callisto forward and caught up with them, nosing between their larger mounts as they made room for her.
Penelope glanced at Callisto, who had stepped a little too close to her white-and-brown jennet. “Your mare seems a bit restive this morning.”
“She’s restless. She hasn’t had a good gallop in more than a week.” Trumpet patted Callisto’s spotted neck and leaned forward to murmur, “Not long, my pretty one.” Then she said to her companions, “I see you ladies chose not to participate in the gathering. I’m sure all the lords are there.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “Rise an hour before dawn to have a crude breakfast with an assortment of deer turds scattered among the plates?” She fluttered her lashes while shaking her head. “We’ll leave that to the men.”
“I like riding in good company on a summer day,” Bess said, “but I’ve rather neglected the art of deducing which stag is the largest by a contemplation of its shit.”
“Our educations are sadly lacking,” Trumpet agreed. They all laughed. She let a small silence follow, then said, “Speaking of men, two whom I won’t name have been fully absolved. They are no longer the subject of inquiry.”
