by Anna Castle
Trumpet had hit her head on the grassy turf when Callisto bucked her out of the saddle. She’d blanked out for a second or two, she thought. Her head ached a little, and it hurt under Catalina’s probing fingers, but otherwise she felt fine.
“I won’t strain myself. I’m sure Tom is tired too. I just want to see him, that’s all.” She had an odd sort of jangly sensation in the pit of her stomach. They’d arranged to meet at the breakfast and see about slipping off to find that little hut again. But she hadn’t been there, obviously. She didn’t know how to find the breakfast tent without the other people to follow, so she’d had to come back to the palace. Then Catalina had made such a fuss and made her lie down. She’d fallen sound asleep until the chapel clock struck twelve.
When she woke up and remembered the broken tryst, she assumed Tom would come looking for her. He should have been standing behind Stephen just now, making faces at the pompous remarks. He wouldn’t come back from the hunt and go straight to his room singing, “Hey ho, the end of the day,” without at least finding out what had kept her from meeting him.
So where was he?
They put on their shoes, tucked their hair into coifs, and went out. Trumpet had adopted the habit of nodding imperiously at the two retainers who followed Stephen around. They would touch their hats and give her a look that said they knew she was up to something, but it wasn’t worth their jobs to find out what. One of these days she’d have to start paying them — or have them replaced with her own men.
They stopped at the kennel office first. Empty. Then they went around to Tom’s room and knocked on the door. No answer. Trumpet called his name twice. “Pick the lock,” she said, and Catalina pulled out the leather case of tools she carried tied under her skirts.
In half a minute, they were inside. No Tom. A quick inspection told Trumpet that he hadn’t even come back and changed clothes. She stood in the humble chamber she loved best in all the world, chewing her lip, that jangly feeling in her gut growing stronger. “Let’s see if the hounds are back.”
They went down the stairs and whistled into the kennel. “Guinevere,” Trumpet crooned. Both dogs emerged, looking sleepy but willing to have their ears ruffled. “Where’s Tom, my pretties?” They wagged their tails at the sound of his name, but had no insights to offer.
“This is bad,” she said to her maidservant.
Catalina nodded, her face grim. “Let us ask their master what he may know.”
They asked the few men they met in the kennel yard and got the same answer from each one. “Everyone’s having a rest, my lady. They was all up before dawn.” No one had seen Tom, but one of them had seen Mr. Lacey bring the French hounds back.
They finally tracked the man to the small alehouse where she’d found Mr. Bacon that morning. Lacey hadn’t seen Tom since the kill. He’d sent him along to join the other gentlefolk at the breakfast. He didn’t seem much surprised at her questions. He seemed to think she was an admirer who had lost the contest for Tom’s affections but couldn’t bring herself to let go. Trumpet couldn’t explain more without risking their secret.
But the alehouse garden reminded her of one person to whom she could explain the problem fully, including her jangling gut: Francis Bacon. The sun was hot on their shoulders as they walked across the barren Great Court to the odd building near the gatehouse where Bacon had his room.
They found him napping as well. Trumpet was beginning to feel as if the whole palace had fallen under an enchantment. Maybe she’d find Tom propped in some corner of the garden or the hall, snoring peacefully away.
“Tom’s missing,” she said without preamble as Pinnock let her in.
Bacon frowned. “Where was he last seen?”
She could’ve kissed him for not doubting her — almost. “At the killing of the stag. The kennel master told him to go on to the breakfast. Stephen didn’t mention him being there, and I think he would have.”
“Not necessarily,” Bacon said. “I hear the queen attended the hunt breakfast. If she did, Stephen would have been seated next to her. She tends to command one’s full attention. He might not have noticed Tom, even if he had been there.”
“That’s what Catalina said.” Trumpet ignored their exchange of knowing looks. She told Bacon about the teasel under her saddle and the missed appointment.
He wasted no time on queries about her fitness since she was obviously well enough to be up walking around and agreed that Tom would not go off to some other task or sport without assuring himself that she was all right. “He’d want to pay you back for making him look for you, at the very least.”
“Precisely,” Trumpet said. “So where is he? No, I know you don’t know. What I mean is, how do we find him? That teasel didn’t get under my saddle by accident. What if Mary or Pierre Rondeau did something like that to Tom?”
Bacon agreed that the matter required immediate attention. He offered to ask around to see if anyone had seen Tom since the hunters returned. He had every right to search for his own clerk, so that would not provoke questions. Trumpet wanted to go straight back to the breakfast tent to start searching for him there.
“Not just the two of you,” Bacon advised. “Get those dogs that are so fond of him, with their handler. And someone more authoritative — Sir Charles, perhaps, to speed things along. He owes you a favor, in a way. You may need someone strong enough to carry him back.”
Those words sent a lance of terror through Trumpet’s heart. She met Bacon’s eyes and said, “If he’s dead, I’ll burn this palace to the ground.”
He blinked at the determination in her tone but only answered, “Noted.”
The women went back out. Trumpet said, “Sir Charles would be helpful, true enough. He does owe me a favor, in my view. But if I’m going to get someone strong and authoritative, I want the best. Let’s find Sir Walter Ralegh.”
“I would choose him first for any reason, my lady.” Catalina had been panting for Sir Walter since she first laid eyes on him. “But what if he is with the queen?”
“She’s probably asleep. We don’t have to ask him ourselves anyway. I have a quicker method in mind.”
She led the way back to her old room at the top of the Gentlewomen’s House, hoping she’d meet Lady Mary on the stairs so she could push her down them. That reckoning would come, but not yet. First, she had to rescue Tom.
She barged in and shook Bess awake while Catalina dealt with Maud. “Get up! Tom is missing. He may be hurt. I need you to fetch Sir Walter for me.”
“Nobody fetches Walter.” Bess sat up, rubbing her face with one hand. “What time is it?”
“A quarter past one. He’s been out there for hours, alone and injured, probably.” Almost certainly. Her gut jangled like a band of drunken waits. “I need Sir Walter to organize a rescue party. And I need him, personally, to come with me in case Tom has to be carried out of some . . . some . . .” Tears sprang into her eyes, pushed out by the suffocating terror filling her chest. She grabbed Bess by the shoulders and shook her. “Tom’s in trouble, damn you! Get your scraggy arse out of this bed and go find Sir Walter or I will start cutting your fingers off one by one!”
Catalina peered over her shoulder to add, “I will hold you down.”
Bess gaped at them as if they’d gone mad. Trumpet knew she wasn’t far from it. Bess finally understood that urgency was required and got up and dressed. “He’ll probably be in his rooms. Maud will beckon to one of his men, who will tell Walter, who will meet me outside the middle gate. Ten minutes, most like. Where shall we look for you?”
“At the kennels. We’re bringing those French bloodhounds.”
MR. LACEY HELD OUT one of Tom’s shirts for the hounds to smell. They buried their big noses in it, wagging their long bodies with pleasure. Catalina had conjured the shirt from Tom’s room while they waited for the others, though they hadn’t had long to wait. Bess found Walter in the library with Sir Charles, studying a plan of the Low Countries. Seasoned campaigners, it would appear
, did not take naps.
They also didn’t stand around asking questions which could be as easily asked afoot. In half an hour, the party had left the palace grounds, taking different routes to be less conspicuous, meeting up again on the grassy track Trumpet had ridden that morning. Lacey suggested they start at the breakfast pavilion, reasoning that the hounds hadn’t been there with Tom, so they could avoid retracing the whole chase.
He told them, “Cherche,” and they were off, noses to the ground, an eager look on their homely faces. They snuffled everywhere inside and outside the tent, then made a circuit of the area around it, including the temporary privies. Then they struck off at a goodly pace toward Richmond Hill, with all the company trotting after them — Lacey, Sir Walter, Sir Charles, Bess, Trumpet, Catalina, and three of Sir Walter’s men.
They reached the ledge with the magnificent view of the Thames beyond a steep precipice. The dogs stood on the brink, noses in the breeze rising from the dense brush, their tails high and wagging. They gave two deep barks to signal their discovery.
“He must be down there,” Lacey said, and a weird keening sound emerged from Trumpet’s throat. Bess gripped her hand.
Sir Walter and Sir Charles joined Lacey and the dogs at the edge, bending to look down with their hands on their thighs. Sir Charles stood up and cupped his hands around his mouth to call, “Clarady! Are you down there? Thomas Clarady!”
No answer. Trumpet’s mouth turned down as silent, gulping sobs broke from her chest.
The men took a few steps back to make their plan. “I think I can manage it,” Sir Walter said. “I’ve climbed many a cliff on many a coast. Cleaner rock faces, but this isn’t all that steep if you’re prepared for the descent. That loose scree will give me something to dig my toes into, and I can cling to branches as I get into the brush. The rest of you go around to the bottom as quickly as you can.”
He took off his hat and doublet, handing them to one of his men, and sat down on the brink with his legs dangling over. He studied the terrain for a moment, then launched himself into a controlled slide on the heel of one foot and one hand. He soon disappeared into the leafy overgrowth.
Trumpet stood with her hands clutched to her heart, overwhelmed with fear for Tom. If he was down there, he hadn’t answered their shouts.
Bess gathered her into her arms and patted her back. “Walter will find him, Alice, never fear. And he’ll get him out and carry him back to the palace in his arms, if he has to. He would never leave a man behind, especially not one he respects.”
“But what if he’s dead?” Trumpet whispered.
“I don’t believe he is.” Bess released her. “I mean that sincerely. I’ve heard these men talk about their exploits in battle around the dinner table at Essex House. A young man like Tom — strong, fit, and agile — is the most durable of God’s creatures. You’ll see. He may be hurt, but he’s alive.”
Catalina gripped her hand. “That is true, my lady. You would know if he was gone. Your Tom would never leave you.”
Trumpet met their eyes and nodded, but she couldn’t stop thinking, Unless he broke his neck. But they had their part to play now too. “Let’s go. Let’s hurry.”
It didn’t take long to walk down the hill and back along the grassy sward between the wooded slope and the river. It was hard to see the top of the ridge from down here, but the dogs didn’t have to rely on sight. Their noses led them a few yards up the slope.
“We’re here!” Sir Charles shouted up.
“I found him!” Sir Walter shouted back. “He’s alive!”
Trumpet cried out as tears sprang anew into her eyes. Tears of joy this time, washing away the fear. She clasped her hands and lifted her face to give thanks to God.
“His leg is trapped,” Sir Walter called down. “Broken, I think. Chester, come up here and help me shift this trunk.”
One of Ralegh’s men, nearly as tall as his master, with a broader chest, started up the slope. He seemed to be swimming through a waterfall of tangled brush. Trumpet kept her eyes on the ripple of tossing branches as he moved.
Sir Charles said, “I’ll get some boats. It’ll be faster and easier on that leg.” He strode down to the river.
Trumpet stood with the faithful hounds, their full attention riveted on the slope. She heard men shout, “One, two, heave!”
Tom yelled, “God’s teeth!” and she laughed, tears streaming down her cheeks. He was alive and still himself.
Soon Sir Walter’s head emerged from the shrubbery with Tom’s round arse right beside it. He hung feet forward from the tall man’s shoulder, arms dangling down his back. Sir Walter’s man struggled to keep pace and give some support to Tom’s injured leg. They brought him down at last and laid him on the ground.
Trumpet ran forward to kneel beside him and wrap her hands around his beloved face. “Tom! Tom!” She patted his cheeks. She wanted to see those clear blue eyes.
“He’s only fainted,” Sir Walter said. “A broken leg hurts like the devil at the slightest touch. But it’ll heal, never fear.”
Trumpet grabbed his hand and looked up to hold his gaze. “Anything, Sir Walter. Anytime, anywhere.”
He smiled. “Not necessary. But I’ll remember it.”
“Trumpet?” Tom sounded like his normal self, if perhaps a trifle weak.
“I’m here.” She turned back to him, smiling through her tears.
“I knew you’d find me. I wasn’t a bit worried.”
“The dogs found you.” She bent forward and kissed him, not caring who saw her. These men already knew that secret anyway. Well, not Mr. Lacey, but he’d proven himself to be their friend.
Tom stroked her cheek. They lost a minute in each other’s eyes. Then he asked, “What happened to you? You missed the breakfast.”
This wasn’t the time for details. “I fell off my horse.”
Tom snorted in disbelief.
She whispered, “Someone put a burr under my saddle. Were you pushed? Who did it?”
“Mary,” he whispered back. “I’m such a fool. She made me think you were down there.”
“She’ll pay for this. We’ll see her hang.”
He nodded, then said in a normal voice, “You wouldn’t happen to have a jug of beer in your pocket, would you?”
Sir Charles strode over to look down at Tom, grunting as if confirming a job well done. “I’ve got a couple of wherries.”
The men carried Tom to a waiting boat and laid him in the bottom, lifting out the center seats to make room. Trumpet, Catalina, and Sir Walter went with him. Sir Charles had commanded two more boats to carry the rest, including the dogs. The boatmen recognized the two famous knights and were happy to oblige them.
They reached the palace in a matter of minutes, rolling swiftly downstream with the outgoing tide. Tom fainted again as they lifted him out, though they tried to be careful. They laid him on the ground again.
Mr. Lacey brought the dogs over and let them give him a thorough slurp, which revived him. “Good dogs.” His voice was tight with pain.
“I’ll give them a nice treat, never fear,” Lacey said. “We’ll be going back now.” Trumpet clasped his free hand to thank him and offer him greater rewards, but he said, “No need, my lady. I consider Mr. Clarady to be one of ours. And so do the hounds.”
One of Sir Walter’s men ran up to the service yard and came back with two men in palace livery bearing a litter. They lifted Tom onto it, and Sir Walter said, “Where shall we bring him?”
Trumpet answered, “Lord Dorchester’s chambers. Put him in my room. Stephen will insist on it once I tell him it’s the lordly thing to do.”
Sir Walter grinned. “Lead on.”
They formed a procession around the litter. People gathered to watch them pass, asking questions. Sir Charles told them a gentleman had slipped on the cliff at Richmond Hill, but alternative rumors starting buzzing at once.
Tom kept passing in and out of mind, fainting whenever they were forced to tilt his litt
er to get through a narrow way. He awoke once, and his eyes found Trumpet walking right beside him. He said, “Call the first one William. That’s only right. Second can be Nathaniel, if you want. But the third one’s Thomas. There must be one somewhere in your tree.”
“What’s he babbling about?” one of the litter-bearers asked.
Trumpet said, “He must be dreaming about dogs. He and my lord husband have been debating whether to acquire some of those French hounds.”
Sir Charles, walking on the other side of the litter, said, “They’ve proven themselves to be excellent beasts. But who would name a dog William?”
TWENTY-SIX
FRANCIS LEANED HALFWAY out the window at the top of the Canted Tower, waving at the small procession far below surrounding a litter carried by two liveried servants. In vain; no one could see him up here. He recognized Trumpet and assumed the man on the litter was Tom. The tall man must be Sir Walter. She’d found a way to persuade him to assist her. Wise choice.
He climbed down the hundred and twenty-two steps as quickly as he dared. No purpose could be served by slipping and cracking his own head. He hoped Tom wasn’t seriously injured, but he had every faith in the man’s powers of recuperation. He knew he was alive because he smelled no smoke and had spotted no flames.
Francis had questioned a few men in the Great Hall about Tom’s whereabouts, made one circuit of the orchard and gardens, and then abandoned that futile exercise. Tom would never come back and go on about his day after Trumpet missed their tryst. He would go search for her, thereby separating himself from the group and exposing himself to the ruthless and opportunistic killer.
He deduced that they would take him to the best bedchamber Trumpet had in her command: her own. She’d convince Stephen it was his idea. It was as good a choice as any, on the ground floor with adequate windows to keep the room from getting too hot in the afternoon should Tom develop a fever . . .
He caught up with them at the door and waited outside while Tom was transferred to the bed and someone was sent to fetch the palace surgeon. He stood beside Mrs. Throckmorton, who told him how they’d found Tom trapped under a huge log on a steep slope. She didn’t say how he had fallen, and Francis didn’t ask.
