Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  Michel clucked his tongue. “You know that I care, Frank. Or do I have to demonstrate it to you again?”

  “I doubt we have time.” Francis glanced out the window, where the azure of midafternoon was fading to a softer shade of blue. If his opinion had no value, why shouldn’t he share it? “If you must know, I agree that it is in every way to England’s advantage to have a France that is fully independent of Spain. A Protestant king on the throne in the Louvre would be an extra plum in that sweet cake. We must support you, that much is obvious. The question is, to what extent? And at what cost to the English people?”

  “What does your brother Anthony advise? He is a great friend of my brave king.”

  Francis shook his head. “Anthony doesn’t make recommendations. He supplies news and observations from his comfortable house in Bordeaux.”

  “Astute observations, from what I understand.” Michel chewed on an olive, spitting the pit into his palm. “I read your Notes on the Present State of Christendom. I found it most illuminating.”

  “God’s light! That’s an old one. But you’re right; it was largely a compilation of material from Anthony’s letters.”

  “The Bacon brothers, when they work together, are tres formidable.”

  Francis shook a stalk of boiled asparagus at him in mock outrage. “You flatter me, sir! You flatter me!”

  “Do you like it?” Michel waggled his black eyebrows.

  Francis drew in a breath between his teeth. “I don’t altogether mind. But why would you read that old article? The matter must have been familiar to you.”

  “Some, perhaps. It improves my English to read such beautiful prose. One seldom finds such clarity of expression in our field.”

  “Sadly, that is all too true.”

  “He knows a great deal about France, your brother. Does he not?”

  “Indubitably. It was prescient of him to become such good friends with Henry of Navarre, long before anyone thought he would ever become king.” Francis took a draught of wine, then decided to share another tidbit not generally known. “He’s coming home soon.”

  Michel gaped in surprise. “Anthony Bacon, leave France? Say it is not so!”

  “His health is not good, as you may know. And the constant warfare makes it so hard for us to receive letters or even know how he is. Sometimes even where he is. My mother and I have been pleading for him to return for some time now. Papers and money have yet to be organized, but I’m hopeful we’ll see him again before the year is out.”

  “Your gain will be our loss. It has been very useful for your queen and her councilors, especially your Lord Burghley, to receive such astute observations about politics in my country, has it not?”

  “Without question. But Anthony has agents who will carry on for him when he comes home.”

  “That would be good news.” Michel delivered himself of a heartfelt sigh. “I only wish my king had equally good observations about the politics in your country.” He gave Francis a droll but pointed look.

  Francis pretended to be outraged. “Aha! This is what you’ve been wanting from me all along, isn’t it? The wine, the breeze, these little cheese puffs that I can’t stop eating . . .”

  “No, no, no! I assure you, my dearest Frank, I would have maneuvered you into this private room even if you had no brothers and wrote like a pig.”

  They laughed heartily, both mature enough to recognize that a man may pursue several goals simultaneously when circumstances allowed.

  Michel tilted his head to give Francis a coy look. “I would be your liaison, naturally. We would be forced to spend many afternoons together.”

  “A most enjoyable prospect.”

  “For me as well. And do you know, Frank, we can offer you more than cheese puffs. There would be payments in money.”

  “I like money,” Francis said. “I never seem to have enough of it.”

  “You should have everything you need, my friend. And more than merely money, you would have our appreciation and our gratitude.”

  “Two more things I seldom receive from my current employers.” Francis tried to remember when his uncle had last thanked him for one of his expertly conducted discreet investigations. “Correction: I never get such things from my current employers.”

  “A sad state of affairs that should not be allowed to continue.” Michel licked his lips, eyes shining. “You will consider my offer, I hope.”

  Francis shook his head, but he was smiling. And he didn’t say no.

  TWELVE

  “SHE SAYS WE CAN GO out!” Anne Courtenay announced, clapping her hands with delight at her news. She’d swept into the Presence Chamber in a rustle of silk, dropped a brief curtsy to a group of gentlemen talking earnestly, then pattered toward the circle of gentlewomen sitting on their poufs in the corner. “Better still, my lord of Dorchester has offered to take us out to the park to practice shooting! He’s to meet us outside the orchard wall.” Her joyousness faltered a little as her gaze lit on Trumpet, but she recovered and clapped her hands again. “Quick, quick, everyone! Let’s go before she changes her mind!”

  She was the queen, of course. She must be meeting with the Privy Council this afternoon. Trumpet stuck her needle into her work and rolled it up. No one had to ask her twice. She’d rather muck out the kennels than sit indoors embroidering on such a fine June afternoon. And she could guess the true source of the idea of a shooting expedition. Tom must have a plan for slipping into the shrubbery out there somewhere.

  She hopped to her feet and held out a hand to her chambermate. “Coming, Bess?”

  They dashed over to their room, where they found Maud Digby sewing by the window. Trumpet leaned out as far as she could, stuck her fingers between her lips, and whistled. Catalina liked to bring her sewing down to the courtyard, where she could flirt with members of the palace staff. A minute later, the dark-eyed maidservant appeared at the door and hurried across the room to help her mistress out of her expensive court clothes.

  Off came the silks and velvets; on went the lightweight worsted. Trumpet chose a wide bum roll instead of a farthingale — easier to climb over stiles and under branches. Catalina had devised a hunting costume in shades of green with brown trim and a wide hem guard.

  Trumpet could become nearly invisible in the woods, especially if she pulled the matching hood out of her pocket to cover her black hair and white face. Bess, on the other hand, wore tawny with shiny orange linings that would draw the eye like a yellow-breasted bunting.

  “Will Sir Walter join us, do you think?” Trumpet asked.

  “I hope so. If she’s with the Privy Council, he might.”

  “Don’t you leave messages for one another somewhere? Like in a hole in the orchard wall?”

  Bess gave her a level look from under her furled brows that Trumpet didn’t know how to interpret. It either meant you are far more brainsick than I imagined or now that you know, I’ll have to kill you too.

  No explanation followed the look. Bess merely shook her head, adjusted her brimmed hat in the mirror, and said, “Let’s hurry, shall we? Anne will persuade them to leave without us if she can.”

  They fairly flew out the main gate, laughing at the porter as they passed. They hurried around the garden wall and past the little cluster of buildings where the friary had once been. There they found a group of ladies and gentlemen milling and chatting while waiting for everyone to arrive.

  Sir Walter was there, taller than the rest and thus easy to spot. Bess flicked a wry smile at Trumpet and moved toward him. He stood in a group that included Penelope Rich and several of her friends. Trumpet intended to make her way into that select circle after she found a suitable house in London and persuaded Stephen to go fight in the Low Countries or conduct an embassy to Poland or something equally far away.

  Tom stood next to Sir Charles Blount, chatting over the heads of the French bloodhounds. The dogs lay quietly on the grass with their massive heads on their huge paws, their sad eyes rolled comically
up toward Tom. He wore his brown-and-beige hunting clothes — an undecorated doublet and galligaskins banded a few inches above the knee — plain clothes made elegant by his effortless grace. He truly was the most beautiful man in the world, even alongside the likes of Sir Charles and Sir Walter.

  “How fares my lady today?” Stephen asked, bowing as he took her hand.

  “I am well, my lord.” Trumpet dipped her head in mock bashfulness. The next few weeks would be vastly easier if Stephen believed she found him intimidating. It wasn’t too hard since he liked believing it.

  He looked her up and down, appraising her costume, then nodded his approval. “Artfully done, my dear, and perfectly appropriate. Is this your maidservant’s design?”

  “Yes, my lord. She’s very clever.”

  “I agree. You may tell her I said so.” He beamed as if he’d given Trumpet a treat. She pursed her lips in a prim smile and cast her gaze toward the turf.

  “I brought you this.” He slipped a bow from his shoulder and handed it to her. She hadn’t noticed he was carrying two. “Can you shoot, my lady?”

  “A little.” She accepted the quiver too, slinging it over her shoulder. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Not much fun to go out shooting without a bow, now, is it?”

  She shook her head, already weary of the conversation. But it had been thoughtful of him to bring a weapon for her. He’d clearly chosen it with consideration for her smallish stature. She didn’t like it when Stephen was nice; it made things harder.

  Then Mary’s voice sang out. “Here we are!” She and Anne sauntered toward the group, arms linked. Anne’s eyes met Stephen’s, which brightened as an eager grin spread across his face. Trumpet’s momentary twinge of guilt vanished in a blink.

  Stephen spoke to Tom with his eyes still clapped on Anne. He was flirting with his paramour right over his future wife’s head! Tom handed the she-cat his extra bow and quiver. She began playing with it, asking Stephen for advice.

  Trumpet turned her attention to the dogs. She bent to pat each one in turn, stroking their silky ears. Then she looked up at Tom and spoke in her idiot’s voice. “Their faces are so droll!”

  “Oh, now, your ladyship, be fair.” He put an extra dollop of West Country in his voice, playing the bumpkin for some reason. “They can’t help the way they look, poor foolish beasts.”

  Her heart skipped two beats when Tom’s eyes met hers. They both shifted their gazes back toward the dogs. Speaking normally again, he said, “I think they’re beautiful in their own special way, my lady. And they need a good long walk.”

  “We could all use a good walk,” Sir Charles said. “Lord Dorchester, won’t you lead us onward?”

  Stephen flashed a broad grin. “Come on, Tom! Let’s put these dogs through their paces.” He strode forward, leaving the ladies behind. Tom shot a wry glance at Trumpet, clucked his dogs to their feet, and followed. Sir Charles angled toward the group around Lady Rich.

  Anne gave an irritated little cry. “Well!” Then she laughed lightly and linked arms with Trumpet. “I guess we ladies must struggle along as best we can.”

  “My lord doubtless has some place in mind for us. A nice field of rabbits or some such. Don’t you think so?” Trumpet held out her other elbow to Mary.

  They marched in step for a few yards, then separated by unspoken consent. Trumpet strode across the short grass swinging her arms, reveling in the simple pleasure of moving her limbs without constraint.

  “He is so handsome, isn’t he?” Anne said.

  “My lord of Dorchester?” Trumpet answered with a touch of crispness. The ninny seemed to relish the overt rivalry. If it would encourage her to keep Stephen occupied, Trumpet was happy to oblige.

  “All of them,” Mary said. “I especially like your husband’s gamekeeper.”

  “He’s a gentleman,” Trumpet said, “if you mean the one with the dogs. But my lord is far more beautifully dressed.”

  “His Lordship does have exceptionally good taste.” Anne’s smirk made it clear she included herself as an example of same.

  “Sir Walter overtops them all,” Mary said. “It’s no wonder the queen admires him.”

  They all hummed their agreement at that. If there were no such person as Thomas Clarady, Trumpet would doubtless be in love with Sir Walter Ralegh. But Tom did exist, and Sir Walter remained near the top of her list of candidates for Arthur Grenville’s killer — right below Bess Throckmorton.

  “Do you think he was right?” she asked, starting small.

  “Who was right about what?” Anne said.

  “Sir Walter. Was he right about Mr. Grenville falling off that ladder in the orchard? He was such a good dancer!”

  “Sir Walter?” Mary asked.

  “No, goose! Mr. Grenville. You’d think a man who could dance with such agility would have a better sense of balance. Wouldn’t you?”

  Anne gave Trumpet a sidelong look, biting her lip as if debating with herself. But she only said, “He was a lovely dancer.”

  “Sir Walter wouldn’t mistake such a thing,” Mary said. “He’s Ralegh!”

  “Well, yes,” Trumpet said. “He is. But he’s still a man for all that. And his first concern is not troubling Her Majesty. He might have snatched the first explanation that presented itself.”

  “There was something odd about that ladder,” Anne said, earning a sharp glare from Mary. “Well, Mr. Grenville was a good dancer! You should know that better than anyone, Mary. You were his favorite partner.”

  “Dancing has nothing to do with it,” Mary said. “One doesn’t dance on a ladder. And Sir Walter has spent months at sea. Months! Have you ever been on a ship?”

  The other two shook their heads.

  “Well, I have,” Mary said. “My family accompanied Sir Edward Stafford to France two years ago. Ships have ladders everywhere, large and small. Sailors run up and down them all day long. They must fall off them sometimes. Sir Walter must know everything there is to know about falling off a ladder.”

  She sounded a trifle overheated. She must be in love with Sir Walter too, poor creature. He’d be lucky to get away with one affaire de coeur under the queen’s nose; two would be madness. Nor did Bess seem the type to accept betrayal calmly. He’d suffer the wrath of both women in tandem.

  “Ladies!” Stephen stood at the top of the hill, waving his hat. “Up here!” Tom stood beside him with the dogs at his feet.

  They hastened to catch up. Lady Rich’s group had already moved past him, following a wide track into the woods. They all had their bows in their hands, but none of them seemed to be scouting for prey. Two other gentlemen stood a little distance down the hill on the other side, taking turns firing arrows into a big straw target.

  “Do you prefer birds or rabbits?” Stephen asked as the three ladies reached him. “Or practice with targets, like those two lads?”

  “I want a French hound to guide me,” Trumpet said. She reached toward the leashes in Tom’s hand, trying not to touch him. “Which one is Guinevere? I feel certain she and I have a kindred spirit.”

  “Here, my lady.” Tom put the end of a leash in her hand. “Don’t worry, she’s quite docile.”

  “I don’t know about this, Tom,” Stephen said. “Are you sure she can handle that animal?”

  “Of course I can, my lord. We’re the best of friends already.” Trumpet patted the great beast, inwardly girding herself for a fast run. “How do I ask her to find me a rabbit?”

  “You tell them to search, my lady. Remember, they speak French.”

  “Oh, such clever doggies!” Trumpet met the hound’s somber gaze and said, “Cherche, Guinevere!”

  Then she shrieked as the dog took off, loping toward the thickest section of forest in view, pulling Trumpet along behind her. She heard Tom say, “Don’t worry, my lord. I’ll look after them.” When she reached the edge of the woods, she stopped and Guinevere stopped with her, standing quietly at her side. She turned around in time to catch Stephen
and Anne walking briskly in the opposite direction. Tom and Lancelot were jogging her way, panting eagerly.

  Well, only Lance was actually panting. But Tom should have to work a little too.

  Trumpet said, “Cherche,” and let Gwen lead her toward a narrow path winding into a cool thicket, lush with tall bracken. She dodged a few overhanging branches, padding along in near silence until they reached a clearing. Both woman and dog stood and waited, watching the way from which they’d come.

  They heard Lance snuffling a moment before the two shapes emerged from the shadows. “Assieds,” Tom said, and both dogs dropped their haunches to the leafy floor. Then Tom said, “Coucher,” and they lay down. “Reste.” He dropped Lance’s leash. “They’ll stay put. You don’t have to keep holding her.”

  Trumpet dropped her leash and took one step toward Tom. The next thing she knew she was on her toes with her body stretched hard against him, their arms twined around each other and their cheeks pressed together, gasping for air. There had been a world-shattering kiss in between there somewhere. She only needed a little air and then she wanted more.

  Tom’s fingers worked at the small of her back, tugging at her laces. She felt a gap open up between doublet and skirt and remembered all those people still within hailing distance — including Stephen.

  She sank onto her feet and stepped back. He growled and tried to pull her toward him again, but she said, “No, we agreed to wait. Two more days, not counting today.”

  “Today counts.”

  She sighed. “What have you learned?”

  “That Stephen is a monstrous ass.”

  She laughed, moving a little farther away. It was easier just to be friends for a while. “I mean about Mr. Grenville.”

  “Oh. Well, nothing. We think Sir Walter did it, don’t we? And we agreed not to pursue it.”

  “I never agreed to that! I only agreed not to speak of the other part. But I think Bess did it. She was Grenville’s idol, don’t forget. She’s tall enough, I think, standing on her toes, especially if he were bending down a bit. Maybe he bent to kiss her and she rose up to swing her brick. Sir Walter would come up with any stupid story to protect her. And we could bring her to justice if she’s guilty. She’s nobody’s favorite — except his, I suppose.”