Assassin

by Lady Grace Cavendish

  “Why didn’t the doctor do it when he saw the body?” asked Ellie matter-of-factly, munching on one of the marchpane arms of Venus that Masou had produced from his sleeve.

  “Well, my uncle was upset,” I said. “And he drinks too much, ever since … you know.”

  They both nodded.

  “But I’m sure I’ve picked enough up from him to spot anything that might help,” I went on.

  Masou laughed. “So all we need to do is creep out to St. Margaret’s Chapel at dead of night—”

  “Yes, I was thinking midnight,” I put in. “Then we take a careful look at Sir Gerald’s body, shine a light in his eyes, and we’ll have the answer.”

  “Such simplicity that we must do it and nobody else has,” Masou said, grinning.

  I scowled at him. “Nobody else has because they all want it to be nice and simple. Lord Robert hasn’t got a lot of friends and he owes people money and it would be simple if it were he,” I explained.

  “Not for the people he owes money to,” Ellie pointed out.

  “What about Lord Worthy’s men, who will be guarding the chapel?” Masou asked quietly.

  I hadn’t thought about that. “You don’t have to come with me,” I told them. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. I can find St. Margaret’s Chapel on my own, you know.”

  “Oh, fie!” said Ellie. “I owe you one for not telling anybody that I cleaned up after Sir Gerald.” She made a face. “Not a penny did I get for it, and his sick smelled horrible.”

  “And I,” said Masou, “am a warrior and afraid of nothing—and I’m the best boy acrobat in Mr. Somers’s troupe. They will require much worse of me before they turn me off, and if they do, why, I’ll go to Paris Garden or the theatre and make my fortune.”

  “I’ll go to the apothecary and get a sleeping draught,” said Ellie, winking at me. “Maybe it will find its way into the guards’ beer.”

  I kissed them both—Masou rubbed quickly at the side of his head where my kiss had landed. Then I gave Ellie some coins for the sleeping draught and rushed off to round up the dogs and take them back in for rubbing down by one of the dog-pages.

  Which is why I happened to be at the stables talking to a groom when Sir Charles came wandering along, as he always does at that time of day. “Ah! Lady Grace,” he said.

  “Did we have a riding lesson today?” I asked, conscience-stricken that I might have forgotten it.

  He looked bewildered and then said, “No, I think not. With all that has happened…”

  “Well, at least let’s go and say hello to Doucette,” I suggested, because I didn’t want him to be disappointed. “I’m sure she misses you, if not me.”

  “Hmm,” he replied. He still seemed very uncertain, so I led him to Doucette’s stable and unlatched the upper door. She put her pretty head out—I think she has some Welsh pony in her—and nickered to me. I patted her velvety nose and she blew.

  Sir Charles reached out suddenly to pat her neck, and she jerked away, snorting and showing her teeth. He pulled back. “Good God, what’s wrong with the nag?”

  I stared with astonishment. Never ever in all my many (fairly dull) riding lessons with Sir Charles have I heard him talk of a horse that way, or indeed seen a horse react to him like that. It was astonishing.

  I was going to ask what was wrong with him. How could he forget everything he had told me about moving softly and slowly with horses? But then a dog-page came trotting up with the newly brushed dogs.

  “My lady,” he said breathlessly, “the Queen has called for you to take the dogs to her.”

  I guessed Her Majesty’s Council meeting had tried her patience. She likes to play with the dogs when she’s annoyed. I took the leads, said a hurried goodbye to Sir Charles, and rushed back to the Privy Gallery.

  Just in time, I remembered to take my boots off before I went upstairs to change again (it is hellishly hard work to look smart and fitting for the Queen’s magnificence). Then I lifted my skirts and raced up the stairs. As I reached the top, Mrs. Champernowne pounced.

  “What are you doing, Lady Grace?”

  “I’m going to change my kirtle again so I can attend Her Majesty properly attired,” I said, quite sickly and sweet.

  “Your stockings, child, look at your stockings!”

  I looked down at where I was still holding up my skirts. Well, they had been a very nice pair of knitted white silk stockings but they were now a bit blackish around the feet and there was a hole in the toe of one and the knee of the other.

  “Oh,” I said, hastily dropping my hem to hide the offending garments. “I was trying not to make so much noise, Mrs. Champernowne, like you told me, and…”

  She shut her eyes for a second, then looked up to the ceiling. “Lady Grace, boots are for— Wear your slippers while you— Oh, for goodness’ sake, give me the stockings and go and put your woollen ones on. You cannot possibly attend the Queen with filthy stockings, look you…”

  Very quickly, for she seemed near to bursting with annoyance at me, I stripped off the offending stockings, gave her the whole lot, along with garters, and ran barefoot along the passageway to my chamber to change again! Woollen stockings are a penance! They itch like mad! Why not go barelegged? Who can see your legs under all the petticoats and the farthingale and so on? Ellie doesn’t even own a pair of stockings and it doesn’t seem to be killing her.

  The Queen was in a terrible mood that afternoon. I sat near her while she petted the dogs and threw balls for them, and did some embroidery. Mary Shelton was then lunatic enough to slap crossly at Henri when he bounced over to lick her face.

  “Out of my sight!” Her Majesty roared. I’ve left out her swearing because it’s too rude to write down. “How dare you beat my dog? Out, you, and your sour, yellow looks…” And a hairbrush and a pot of lip balm whizzed past Mary’s head as she ran for the door, ducking as she went.

  I whispered to Lady Bedford, suggesting that maybe the tumblers might amuse. So they were sent for and we all watched Masou and a little old dwarf man and a strongman do somersaults and handstands and juggle with their feet. Masou then did a trick where he kept pretending to drop his balls and clubs and then caught them with his feet or his knees or his teeth and kept it all going, and that, at last, cheered the Queen up.

  Since she felt sorry for him, Her Majesty invited Lord Worthy to share supper with her. And then she bade me join them, too. I really didn’t want to—I was too nervous about the midnight plans to have much appetite for pheasant and salt beef and venison pasties. But I didn’t have any choice.

  Lord Worthy arrived late, looking flustered and still upset, and he still hadn’t changed his shirt. Normally the Queen would have thrown a slipper at him for that, but she was being gentle with him because of his bereavement.

  Lord Worthy decided to talk only to the Queen and only about terribly boring things like Scottish politics and French politics—it was all Guises and Maxwells and if so and so did this, then such and such would do the other thing. How anybody can keep it straight in their head is a mystery. I didn’t mind. I was thinking about what we were going to do later in the night, wondering what I would wear and whether Ellie would manage to get the sleeping draught. I sat there looking as interested as I could, fighting the urge to yawn. At least there were some new Seville orange suckets, which I really love.

  At last Lord Worthy ground to a halt.

  Her Majesty put her hand out and touched his. “My lord, you will now have the estates belonging to Sir Gerald to administer as well as your own and Lady Grace’s,” she said softly.

  Lord Worthy looked bleakly at her. “I have a very good steward, Your Majesty,” he replied. “We shall manage.”

  “Of course,” Her Majesty agreed. “And of yourself, my lord?” she continued gently. “I know how highly you rated your nephew.”

  “I did, Your Majesty. He was a fine young man— with a young man’s faults, true. He was hasty-tempered, inclined to sarcasm when crossed, certa
inly arrogant, but I believe time would have mended those faults as it normally does.”

  “Well,” said the Queen, blinking at the dullness of Lord Worthy’s voice, “we shall commit young Lord Robert to trial in a day or two.”

  Lord Worthy nodded sadly, still staring at the candle flame.

  I watched him curiously. It had suddenly occurred to me that he might be almost as sad about his nephew dying as I was about my mother dying. My eyes suddenly prickled.

  The Queen could see there was no cheering him up, and so she went over to her virginals, which stood in the corner of her Withdrawing Room, lifted the lid, and began tuning them. The Queen is very musical. She played some beautiful Italian music which made me feel much better—I really like listening to her play. Even ambassadors do; you can see them tense up as she gets ready to start and then smile and relax because they can actually tell the truth and be complimentary at the same time.

  Lord Worthy sat politely and I got the impression he was waiting to talk to the Queen on his own, so as another song came to an end, I rose and curtsied and asked to be excused to go to my bed. The Queen kissed me goodnight on the cheek and I went upstairs quite slowly, feeling sorry for Lord Worthy.

  The other girls weren’t there yet, they were playing cards in the Presence Chamber, but Ellie was sitting on my bed looking very perky.

  “How did it go?” I asked her. “Did you get the sleeping draught?”

  “Yes. You gave me lots of money—look, I got a whole bottle of laudanum for it.” She held up a small green bottle. “I got all wrapped up in a striped cloak and went to an apothecary in Westminster.”

  I looked sideways at her. “Where did you get a striped cloak?” (Only harlots wear them—it’s a sort of uniform for them. The City Fathers make them do it.)

  “Oh, we do a little extra laundry on the side,” Ellie said casually, “and one of the strumpets at the Falcon got a new one when we were washing hers, so she didn’t bother to collect it, said we could keep it. It comes in quite useful sometimes.”

  I nodded.

  “Here’s the change.” Ellie dropped the coins on my bed. “Now remember not to drink any of the wine on the sideboard there—I’ve put several drops of laudanum in it so the two twitter-heads will sleep well.”

  Ellie can’t bear most of the Maids of Honour, which is hardly surprising, considering how rude they are to her when she collects their dirty linen.

  “Me and Masou will meet you by the kitchen,” she continued, “an’ if you don’t turn up by the time the moon is over the trees in the Orchard, we’ll go and ’ave a look at Sir Gerald ourselves. He’s already in St. Margaret’s Chapel but I don’t think he’s laid out yet—they need to do the inquest first.”

  Ellie hopped off the bed, gathered up a couple of smocks lying in a twist on the floor and one ruff that had been stamped on, stuffed them in her bag, and headed off down the passageway. So I cleaned my teeth, changed into my hunting kirtle, pulled a smock on over the top of it, and here I am. And now, at last, I can hear Lady Sarah and Mary approaching. Soon I will set off on my midnight adventure.

  For now, I will pretend to be asleep.

  Lord preserve me, I am in the most terrible trouble. I hardly dare think how angry the Queen was. At least, as I am sent to my bedchamber in disgrace, I can write this.

  To begin where I left off. Last evening, the two twitter-heads came back quite late, about ten of the clock. They had been playing Primero and were arguing over who had given her point-score wrong. Olwen, their tiring woman, helped them out of their gowns. They glugged some of the drugged wine after they’d cleaned their teeth and got into their beds, still arguing about the Primero game. I gathered they’d lost to Mrs. Champernowne.

  Olwen bustled about hanging things up and brushing things and folding things until I wanted to shake her, and then she left, at last. Very soon, I could hear the twitter-heads snoring.

  I waited impatiently for the guard to change at midnight outside the Queen’s Privy Gallery. When I’d heard the changeover I slid out of bed, leaving the curtains closed, and pulled off my smock. I’d already left my horrible wool stockings off. Then I crept out of the door and down the passageway, dodging into a doorway when a cat came past with a mouse in her mouth.

  The first frightening part was climbing out of a window into the Privy Garden. That bit over, I slunk through the gate into the Orchard: it was kept locked, but I knew that the gentleman who held the key hid it under a stone next to the gate so he didn’t lose it. I went through the Orchard to the compost heaps, where Ellie and Masou were waiting for me.

  Ellie was already wearing boy’s clothes—borrowed from one of the women at the laundry whose son had died of plague the year before, she said, which made me shiver. She’d brought another set for me, but I refused to wear them. Only people like Ellie, who’ve already had plague and got better, aren’t scared of it, because you can’t get it twice.

  Masou shrugged. “If we are caught, my lady, it will go better for us if they can see you are one of the Queen’s women,” he said.

  I didn’t really want to hear about that because I think half the fun of a midnight adventure is getting disguised. I frowned. “I’ll have to wear my kirtle then,” I concluded. There was nothing else for it. I could hardly climb the Orchard wall in my shift.

  We climbed over the compost heap and the old bean staves covered in bindweed, and found the bit of wall that’s crumbling. Masou had brought a rope to help us and we scrambled over.

  The next courtyard was behind a row of houses that were rented by the room to the young gentlemen of the Court. It was a mess of brambles, beer barrels, broken horn mugs, broken clay pipes, tables, a broken lute, half a dozen chairs that must have been in a fight, and a piece of petticoat caught on a nail halfway up a wall.

  We crept through the clutter, with Masou muttering in his own language when he caught himself on a thorn; then we slid along an alleyway that gave into New Palace Yard. Westminster Abbey loomed over us as we passed through the gate leading to the chapel where Sir Gerald’s body lay.

  Masou crept ahead noiselessly to see if any of Lord Worthy’s men were still awake.

  “They’ll be snoring,” whispered Ellie behind me. “I found ’em hanging about waiting for his lordship to finish supping with the Queen, so I took their flasks down to the buttery for ’em. Aqua vitae and laudanum. Wasn’t that kind and serviceable of me?” She grinned.

  Masou crept back, his white teeth shining in the moonlight. “Sleeping like babes.”

  We picked our way past them—they were rather sweetly propped up against each other on a bench inside the church porch—and carefully, carefully opened the heavy wooden door into the chapel.

  There were six black corpse candles around the body, which had been wrapped in a shroud and was laid on a trestle table covered with damask. No doubt a very special elaborate coffin was on order but it hadn’t arrived yet.

  It was very cold and very frightening. The moon was shining through the old Papist stained-glass windows, making pale blues and yellows on the shroud, and there was a nasty smell. Ellie shivered and crossed herself, while Masou clutched a little amulet he wears round his neck and muttered in his own language.

  I gulped, stepped forward, and nearly tripped on a step. Heart beating fast, I then went right up to the body. Up close, the smell was truly awful, a bit like an unemptied close-stool. But there was something else as well: another, much fainter odour—dusty and bitter, it caught inside my nose. Curiously, it made me want to cry. Why? I didn’t understand it. Although it’s sad when someone dies, I certainly hadn’t loved Sir Gerald.

  He was lying on his back—they’d taken the knife out of the wound, of course. I held my breath and slowly drew the shroud back from his face.

  There were pennies on the eyes to hold them shut. I took them off. The lids were half opened. His eyes were like jelly. I held a candle close, but I could see no reflection of a murderer in Sir Gerald’s eyes. I wanted to
look at the dagger wound again, but I didn’t want to actually touch the corpse in case I was cursed. I reasoned with myself that Sir Gerald’s ghost should be pleased we were trying to discover his murderer. But then I remembered that Sir Gerald wasn’t a very nice man in life, so you could hardly expect his ghost to be. And then I noticed a slight yellow crusting at the corners of his mouth.

  I blinked in surprise. My heart began to thud. That same yellow crusting had been on my mother’s lips when she died. Now I knew where I’d smelled the dusty bitter odour on Sir Gerald. I had smelled it at my mother’s deathbed. The smell of darkwort poisoning.

  I stood for a moment, trying to understand. It seemed lunatic, but what if Sir Gerald had already been killed by darkwort poison when he was stabbed with the dagger? That would account for his not bleeding when stabbed, would it not? For if he was already dead, the tides in his blood would have stopped, and thus no blood would have streamed from the dagger wound.

  Suddenly there was the sound of voices and heavy footsteps. Masou and Ellie and I froze, staring at each other. There was a scrape at the church porch, an angry shout. The door latch rattled. They were coming in.

  I felt so sick I thought I was actually going to vomit, and my legs felt as if they would bend sideways like a rag doll’s. Ellie had her hands to her mouth. Masou looked grey. Both of them would get really badly beaten if anybody saw them—especially Masou. Lord save us, they might even flog him properly! Both of them might be dismissed from the Queen’s service, they would probably starve—whatever Masou said about making his fortune in Paris Garden. Whereas if I got caught …

  “Hide,” I whispered. “I’ll manage this.”

  They hesitated, then slipped into one of the box pews. I could hear scraping as they hid under the bench.

  I stayed exactly where I was near the body of Sir Gerald and started to cry. I don’t find it easy to cry when I want (though Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton seem to find it so. They often grizzle to win sympathy and favour). But as soon as I thought about getting birched, or the Queen telling me off (which would be worse), the tears came. I helped them along by sniffing hard and sobbing and pinching my fingers on the middle of my nose.