Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  Besides, a murder in the royal orchard ought to be investigated, and if it were to be done, Tom wanted to do it. He liked investigating; it gave him a purpose other than following Stephen the Simple around, explaining things without seeming to explain them. Last, but hardly least, he’d decided long ago that one of his jobs was to prod Mr. Bacon into doing things he ought to do because otherwise the man would just lie around all day reading Italian philosophy.

  “Yes,” Tom said at last, winning a slow blink and a smile of approval from the lady and a sharp glare from the lord. “There were oddities that demand explanation.”

  “Which Sir Walter swept aside with a wave of his mighty hand, one presumes,” Lady Rich said.

  “More or less.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Stephen snapped. “Isn’t Sir Walter’s determination the end of it?”

  He’d remembered Tom’s words nearly verbatim. When had he acquired that skill?

  “A very important question, my lord,” Lady Rich said, turning his question on its head. “I’m glad you asked it. It’s certainly worth having Mr. Bacon look into it. He’ll get to the truth. My lord brother tells me he’s quite implacable once his mind is engaged.” She smiled at Tom. “With your invaluable assistance in the field, Mr. Clarady, of course. It isn’t everyone who can claim a gentleman of the Inns of Court as an intelligencer.”

  Pride swelled Tom’s chest. “I do what I can, my lady. I’ve learned so much from Mr. Bacon over the course of our, ah . . .”

  She put a finger to her lips, smiling so sweetly they might have been talking about a secret supply of marchpane. She turned that complicit smile back to Stephen and lowered her voice. “I, for one, applaud your desire to seek justice for your slain friend.”

  “My slain friend,” Stephen echoed. His expression straddled the fence between confusion and suspicion, which did not bode well. The conflict would soon resolve into irritation, which would make him look like an idiot in front of the sister of the Earl of Essex, the queen’s rising favorite, and the man every other young earl in England most wanted to impress.

  Tom jumped in. “My lord of Dorchester has always been a loyal friend, to both his retainers and his peers.” He gave Stephen another sharp nudge with his foot.

  “Loyalty is the most important quality a man may possess,” Stephen said, looking at Tom.

  “Or a woman.” Lady Rich’s gaze shifted toward the entrance, where a tall, dark-haired man now appeared. “Oh, there’s Sir Charles! I wanted to ask him something about my horse. Will you permit me to take my leave, my lord?” She dropped into a curtsy.

  “Of course.” Stephen waved his hand, all benevolence. But after she walked away, leaving the scent of jasmine and civet in her wake, he turned narrowed eyes toward Tom. “You lied to me.”

  “I lied to her. I didn’t know Mr. Bacon had taken an interest in Grenville’s death.”

  He curled his lip, not believing it. “She said you were some sort of intelligencer. I find that incredible. Why were you keeping it a secret?”

  “It hasn’t come up, has it? My lord. It isn’t the sort of thing you go around announcing to people. Besides, Lady Rich seemed impressed by your cleverness in getting Mr. Bacon onto it, so I’d just be pleased about it, if I were you.”

  Stephen pressed his lips together. He glared at Tom for another moment, then turned to watch Lady Rich and the newcomer chatting near the door. “I did impress her, didn’t I? The immortal Stella of the sonnets.” He sighed, and the moment of suspicion passed.

  Then he delivered the lesson he’d learned from that strangely artful conversation. “That’s the one lady in this whole court who knows how to dress.”

  ELEVEN

  “MONSIEUR WAS PLEASED with the arrangements last week,” Francis told the mistress of the Goat and Compasses. “He wishes to repeat everything just as it was: the room, the refreshments, and the, ah, persons.”

  Here it was only Wednesday, but Monsieur Chaste was thirsting for another afternoon with his strumpets. In truth, Francis didn’t mind being freed from the futility of loitering in the Presence Chamber. Still less did he mind spending the afternoon with Michel Joubert.

  “We’d like a room for ourselves as well,” Joubert told the portly bawd. He flicked his dark eyebrows at Francis. “We require privacy for our conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “An excellent idea,” Francis agreed, as if he hadn’t been looking forward to that very thing all the way there. “One with windows facing the river, if possible. It’s so hot this afternoon.”

  “We’ll want a cool drink as well,” Michel said. “White wine with a jug of spring water. And some cheeses, some fruits . . .”

  They charged it all to the ambassador’s account and followed him upstairs, turning left instead of right. Two lightly clad women skipped past them giggling, heading toward Monsieur Chaste’s chamber, which they entered to a rousing cheer. When the door closed, Michel shook his head admiringly. “My master pleases his doxies as much as they please him, it would seem.”

  “May we both enjoy such vigor at his age,” Francis said.

  A servant showed them into a room where the ceiling slanted acutely over the bed. Still, it looked clean enough, and it did have a goodly window overlooking the Thames. Francis unhooked his doublet as soon as the servant left. The wool was summer weight and the lining silk, but both were black, and they tended to absorb the sun’s warmth. He draped it over the back of a chair and then sat down.

  Michel followed suit, taking his time, making a bit of a show of releasing his surprisingly broad shoulders from the confining contours of his own black doublet. He held the garment up with a wry smile. “How dull we men of intellect are, eh, Mr. Bacon? All is bright and gay at court in summer, yet we still cloak ourselves in these sad colors.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I wore something other than black or gray. It’s expected of us.”

  “Someday you will come to France for Easter, and we will buy you a suit of red silk with big pink feathers for your hat.”

  Francis laughed out loud. “And I will hide in my room the whole week, Monsieur Joubert.”

  “Ah, but you must call me Michel now that we are alone together en deshabille.”

  “Then you must call me Frank.”

  “Frank.” Michel nodded. “I like it. So strong and Anglo-Saxon.” He opened the diamond-paned windows as far as they would go, and a refreshing breeze entered the room. Michel leaned on the plastered wall by the windows, crossing his arms. “How has your week been, Frank? Not too much travail, I hope?”

  “None whatsoever. I stand, I wait. I chat, I observe. I am unwanted, like a thick doublet on a hot day.”

  “Nonsense! I want you.” An unmistakable invitation sparked in his dark eyes. Francis felt a shiver of anticipation.

  The servant returned with a tray laden with a tall bottle, a sweating jug of cold water, and several plates of comestibles. She set them on the table, asked if they wanted anything else, and left.

  Michel poured wine, adding a splash of water to each cup, and leaned a hip against the table near Francis’s chair as he handed him one. “You claim to do nothing. But a man of your talents must be given some vital task, surely?”

  Francis shook his head, not caring much at the moment. It was marvelous how a pair of sympathetic eyes could lessen a man’s grievances. “I am charged with seeing to the needs of Monsieur le Ambassadeur and his confidential secretary. And so, here I am.”

  “And so, here am I as well.”

  They toasted one another and drank deeply of the tart, but not unpleasant, wine.

  “Speaking as a confidential secretary,” Michel said, “I wish to confide that I appreciate you, Frank. I only wish there were some way I could demonstrate the truth of what I say.”

  Francis took another drink, then set his cup on the table. He rose to stand in front of his new friend, finding he had to look up to meet his eyes. “I would be gratified by an opportunity to show my a
ppreciation for you as well, Michel.”

  The secretary nodded, eyes alight. His gaze shifted downward, and he clucked his tongue. “Oh, this must be much too hot.” He reached around Francis’s neck and untied his ruff, drawing it slowly away from his tingling skin and tossing it onto the chair.

  Francis smiled, ready for the games to begin. “Already, I breathe more freely.”

  THEIR MUTUAL APPRECIATION fully expressed, the two men of intellect rose and restored their clothing, at least as far as shirts, stockings, and trunk hose. They weren’t sure what time it was and didn’t want to be caught in too informal a state when the ambassador sent for them.

  “More wine?” Francis asked. “The water’s not so cool anymore.”

  “Whereas I feel wonderfully refreshed.” Michel grinned. “Yes to the wine; no to the less than cool water.”

  Francis filled their cups and sat at the table, picking through the edible offerings, feeling somewhat sharp-set. “Mmm, mince tarts. I love these.”

  Michel joined him, taking a piece of cheese and a sliver of pear. They snacked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the waterfront below their window. A boatman shouted something in an unintelligible dialect. A goose honked, perhaps in answer. The breeze continued to waft fresh air into the small chamber. It must originate higher than the wharf or it would be laden with the smell of fish and tar. Luckily the sun sinking into the west was behind the inn, leaving their window in the shade.

  Michel leaned back in his chair, resting his cup on his taut belly, and regarded Francis as if planning to paint his portrait. “Have you ever thought of returning to France, mon ami?”

  “Oh no.” Francis chuckled. “I hate travel. It discommodes me.”

  “But to be in Paris in the spring! You spent some years there in your youth, did you not? Have you no desire to make another visit?”

  “Desire?” Francis shrugged in the Gallic manner. “Sometimes, perhaps. But I know I will stay where I am. There are two women keeping me in England.” He gave Michel a sly smile.

  “Two? Women? Should I be jealous?”

  Francis laughed, shaking his head. “My lady mother and my sovereign queen.”

  “Ah, very well. I must accept it. But those inestimable ladies are growing old, are they not? And you are quite young.”

  “Not so young anymore. At thirty, one’s youth is past.” Francis picked up a dried fig and chewed it thoughtfully. “In all honesty, mon ami, I am content with my life at Gray’s Inn most days. I study to my heart’s content — almost. I enjoy the conversation of intelligent men. I take a little legal work now and then, mainly to prove that I can.”

  Michel laughed, and Francis acknowledged the arrogance of that remark with a rueful grin. “If it weren’t for the nagging sense of failing to live up to my abilities, to achieve the position I believe God intends for me . . .”

  Michel nodded, understanding him perfectly. “You suffer from the sense of destiny obstructed. Your family, by whom I mean your uncle, Lord Burghley, fails to take the place of your late father to help you achieve the place you deserve.” He cocked his head, as if exploring the thought for the first time. “Rather, I think he frustrates you. How do you say contrecarrer?”

  “Thwart. Not an easy word for a speaker of French to pronounce.” Although Francis enjoyed watching the working of Michel’s lips as he made the attempt. He’d enjoyed this whole session, in fact. It had been so long between lovers, he’d almost forgotten how good it felt.

  “Between you and me,” he said, “I think your suspicion is well founded. They don’t even pretend otherwise anymore. Knighting Robert last month at my uncle’s house, knowing I would be there, perforce . . . Two years younger than me, with no greater achievements to show on the surface.” He popped another fig in his mouth, but it wasn’t as sweet as the first.

  “And beneath the surface?”

  Francis met his eyes, recognizing an invitation of a different kind. Some men — and women — would gladly accept the opportunity to relieve pent-up resentments or display themselves as knowledgeable members of some inner circle. They might have nothing but minor scandals, but when the listener was a member of a foreign embassy, the lines between gossip and espionage blurred.

  Everyone always sought those bits of confidential information, whenever the chance arose. The best means of advancement in any political career was the possession of reliable knowledge about the plans of one’s enemies — and allies. Often the best way to deduce those plans was to keep track of the shifting alliances among persons of influence and power.

  Francis shrugged. Why not give a little? “It’s no secret that Robert has been doing much of his father’s work in the past year. My lord uncle’s health is failing. He has weeks when he can’t even sit at his desk. Robert fills the breach — under his father’s guidance, of course. I don’t believe he takes any decisions on his own yet.”

  Michel lifted one shoulder. “You are correct; that is no secret.”

  Francis shot him a tart look and took his time choosing a salted almond. He could give a little more in exchange for the sympathy and caresses. “I could tell you one small thing. Robert is even more opposed to Continental wars than his father or the queen. He’ll oppose our involvement in France as strongly as he dares. The things he saw on his journey from Ghent to Antwerp in 1588, after the Duke of Parma had been there, shocked him to the marrow. Not just the violence, but the terrible waste.”

  “The thrifty Cecils.” Michel wrinkled his longish nose. “Lives lost, communities shattered, goods and houses destroyed. I would agree with him if we did not have the Catholic League marching against us.”

  The Catholic League had been formed by the Duke of Guise twenty years ago with the explicit aim of driving all Protestants out of France by whatever means necessary. Much blood had already flowed in that unholy cause. King Philip of Spain, Pope Sixtus, and the Jesuit priesthood had joined the party as major supporters. They had prevented Protestant Henri IV, the legitimate King of France, from entering Paris, his capital city. Only last year he had been forced to retreat to the south. Fortunately, the League was unable to produce an alternative candidate for the throne. The best they had so far was Philip’s twenty-five-year-old daughter, Isabella Clara Eugenia. Most Frenchmen rightly believed her accession would place their country under Spain’s thumb.

  It would threaten the English as well. The narrow sea between Dover and Calais was only twenty miles across. Once the League had eliminated every Protestant in France, it would turn its sights on England with the same murderous intent. That horrific possibility filled the pamphlets in St. Paul’s churchyard and haunted many men’s dreams.

  Francis granted Michel a twisted smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to express support for another potentially endless war. “Many of the queen’s other advisors agree with you, as I’m sure you know. My lord of Essex, Sir Walter Ralegh. They press her constantly to send more troops and more money.”

  “Your gallant lords martial. We’re grateful for them. But what does Her Majesty herself think?”

  “No one knows that!” Francis laughed at the very idea. “Her Majesty’s mind is inscrutable. But, like all of us, she fears the Spanish. After that long, terrifying year fending off their mighty armada, we have no doubts about their intentions. But the queen hates war as much the Cecils. It’s risky, expensive, and closes off options.” Francis shook his head. “I genuinely have no idea. She doesn’t share her thoughts with me — or anyone, not completely. If you want my guess, I believe she’ll resist as long as she can, then grant half of what’s wanted.”

  Michel sighed. “Then we must hope her handsome soldiers will prevail sooner rather than later.”

  Francis tested a cheese puff, found it delicious, and popped the whole thing in his mouth. Too much! But it gave him a chance to decide how to pose his question. He swallowed it down, finished his wine, and then refreshed both their cups. Then he sat back with a smile, resting hi
s cup on the arm of his chair. “Fair is fair, mon ami.”

  Michel chuckled. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Last time, we spoke of Ambassador Chaste’s liberal views on religion.”

  “He does not consider it his job to choose a man’s manner of worship.”

  “That sounds like my queen. And he has you to assist him in understanding the Protestant view. But he must have inherited some of his staff from the previous ambassador, when France had a less tolerant king.”

  “You wonder if any of my fellows are in the pay of the Catholic League.” Michel sounded weary or perhaps disappointed.

  But Francis knew it wasn’t a trivial question, not with Arthur Grenville being sent back to his parents inside a wooden box. “It would be surprising if there weren’t, but useful to know which one.”

  “I have asked myself that question, you know. It isn’t so easy to answer. I can’t read every letter, not if I’m to spend afternoons dallying in a riverside tavern.”

  Francis smiled to show his appreciation for the sacrifice. “Would you tell me if you knew?”

  “Possibly.” Michel shrugged. “But I would tell my master first, and then you could watch the traitor be sent home with his tail between his legs.”

  That wasn’t really an answer, but it was the best Francis would get. He couldn’t expect a confidential secretary to empty his master’s laundry basket onto the table. Still, he did wonder if Grenville had stumbled onto an assignation between the spy in the embassy and his English informant. That discovery would bring charges of treason down on the heads of both conspirators.

  Michel inched his chair closer to the table and shook out a napkin. “I’m hungry.” He gobbled up a small pie, redolent of mushroom gravy, washing it down with more wine. The sustenance restored his playful humor. “One more question remains: What does the sagacious Francis Bacon think?”

  Francis shook his head. “No one cares what I think.”