by Anna Castle
“The men?” Penelope asked. “But not the women?”
Trumpet offered them a sphinxlike smile. “Soon, perhaps. These things take time.” She saw Mary and the Brydges picking up their paces as they reached the open field beyond the tents. “And now Callisto wants her gallop. Good hunting, my ladies!”
She squeezed her legs and gave Callisto a light kick with her heels to set her into a trot. They left the last cottages behind and entered the grassy park, moving smoothly into a canter. The women ahead were riding at about the same speed, maintaining the distance between them, but Trumpet had no desire to catch up. They were all going in the same direction, to the gathering tent a mile or so away. The members of the field would assemble there to await the horns calling them to the chase.
But it was glorious to be out in the open air with the fresh wind blowing away the last dregs of sleep and her horse driving her strong legs into the springy turf, propelling them up the gentle slope. When they reached the crest of the first hill and started down the other side, Callisto kicked a little, twisting to one side.
“What’s wrong with you today, sweetling?” Trumpet patted her neck again. “We’ve both got stiff parts that need working out, I guess.”
Horns started sounding. The stag had been unharbored, and the chase had begun. Elizabeth Brydges, many yards ahead, looked over her shoulder and waved at Trumpet. “Halloo!”
“Halloo!” Trumpet called back. “Can you see the flags?”
Elizabeth pointed toward the left, where trees rose at the edge of the greensward. The three of them cantered off in that direction.
Trumpet squeezed her legs, asking Callisto for a little more speed for the last stretch. She spotted the ditch only moments before her mare did and kept her hands low, wanting the horse to leap over it. But Callisto jolted to a stop inches before the hazard, throwing Trumpet abruptly forward.
“What’s wrong with you? You love jumping!” Trumpet turned her around and trotted back several yards. “We’re going to try this again, my girl. No fussing this time!”
She clucked her into motion, with a light kick to start trotting. As they approached the ditch, she gave the mare a few light taps on the croup with her whip. Callisto obeyed, gathering herself and leaping over the gap. As she came down on the other side, she made a loud, screechy grunt, a sound of pain. Then she reared up, slammed her forelegs down, and kicked up her hind legs. Trumpet held on for dear life, but her mare had gone mad. She seemed determined to throw her rider off her back.
She succeeded. Another buck and Trumpet’s feet slipped out of the stirrups. When Callisto reared up again, Trumpet flew off the saddle into the air, landing with a thump and rolling, legs tangling in her skirts, burying her nose in the dirt.
WHEN THE HORNS STARTED blowing, Tom began jogging two paces behind Mr. Lacey, who was holding Guinevere’s lead. They had the advantage because the assembly had chosen their stag as the best of the lot. Gwen already knew full well the scent of her prey. The running hounds had flushed him from his covert; now their job was to keep up with him.
Tom had every confidence in Gwen’s nose. She seemed able to guess what ruse the beast would try next — doubling back to leap to one side, splashing through a stream, or even running through a small herd of roe deer to confuse his trail. The mighty stag was cunning, and he knew his forest better than his pursuers, but Gwen had the implacable certitude of an exceptional hound. He’d never known a less distractible dog!
He didn’t even mind being afoot instead of astride. A man could run down a deer given time, and the hunt could only go forward as fast as a hound could run. Besides, it was fun being out in front, the host of lords and ladies behind him. Including the queen, who had ridden up just as the masters reached their final decision. She had viewed each clump of deer droppings herself and listened to each huntsman’s report. Then she had graciously accepted the judgment of the assembly and declared that the hunt should begin.
Tom loved every minute of this morning, even the chilly mist that had greeted him as he’d left his snug chamber. The baying of the hounds, the music of the horns, the occasional shout from one of the other hunters — pure glory!
Mr. Lacey had explained to him that the hunt par force de chiens — by strength of hounds — was the perfect marriage of the physical, the spiritual, and the intellectual. The wily stag tried every trick he had, leading them up hills and into dales, crashing through thick bracken, racing across grassy glades. Tom’s legs were wet to his thighs and his shirt was soaked with sweat, but he wasn’t tired. Who could be tired on such a thrilling chase!
Finally, the stag began to falter. They nearly had him for a minute; six hounds leapt in to snap at his heels. But he gathered his strength and bounded away, only to be trapped by a jumble of fallen logs. Then he turned to face his opponents, the fire of gallantry in his black eyes. Tom and Lacey stepped aside with Gwen; her work was done. Half a dozen lurchers ran forward to bark and feint with snapping jaws. The stag lowered his head to fend them off with his weighty, sharp-pointed antlers.
He could not escape the dogs, but they were wise enough not to attack him. The stalemate was broken by the arrival of the queen on her magnificent golden stallion. Sir Walter and Sir Charles rode beside her, with Stephen on the other side of Sir Charles and an array of England’s finest in their train. The knights dismounted and helped her to do the same, though she was a skilled horsewoman and needed little assistance.
The mighty stag trembled at her approach. They regarded one another, monarch to monarch, while everyone else held their breath. Then Her Majesty tilted her head to the beast and said, “Well run, Sir Stag.” She regarded her knights with a teasing smile on her lips and then made her decision. “I choose you, Sir Charles, to deliver the killing blow. May you honor this valiant beast with the sword rather than slay him with a bolt as if he were merely a common brute.”
No wonder the people adored her! Tom worshipped her at this moment. One day, perhaps he would be the chosen knight.
Stephen knelt and presented the sword. Sir Charles drew it from its scabbard and performed the deed, bravely darting between the stag’s slicing hooves to run the blade straight through its breast. The stag cried out and fell to the ground. The huntsmen called off their dogs; their turn would come.
Then Stephen opened a leather case of knives and presented them to Sir Walter. He and two other lords tied back their sleeves and began respectfully dismembering the corpse. Everything must be done in the proper order, with the proper tools, in the proper way.
The hounds were now rewarded with bread mixed with blood. Guinevere and Lancelot, who had done the best work, each received a portion of the liver.
And then it was done; the hunt was over. Horns sounded again, calling the followers in the field to the pavilion for breakfast. This would be a feast of many courses, not a hunk of bread and a mug of ale, which was all Tom had consumed that morning. After three hours of running through the forest, he was ready for a real meal.
“What do we do now?” he asked Mr. Lacey.
“Now you go join your friends at the breakfast. The lads and I will take the dogs back. They’ve earned their keep today, wouldn’t you say?”
“Those are the finest hunting dogs I have ever known,” Tom said. “And I’ve seldom had a better human companion either, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
The grin on Lacey’s amiable face was answer enough.
Tom left him to manage the dogs and followed the ambling riders toward the tent, which had been decorated with pennants and colored cloths since the early morning. The queen sat at her ease in the center of the upper table with Sir Walter on one side and Stephen on the other. Stephen had one elbow on the table supporting his cheek with his hand as he gave Her Majesty his rapt attention. He didn’t notice Tom.
Tom swept off his hat and bowed in case anyone was looking. Then he grabbed a fistful of raisin buns and stood beside the entrance, watching people come in and sit down. He’d expected
to see Trumpet among the other riders at the finish, distinctive in her green garb atop her neat black-and-white jennet. Where was she?
Not in here. He went outside and made a full circuit around the tent and then on around the tented offices of easement set up thirty feet away. No Trumpet, and not much of anyone else either, apart from servants in palace livery. Everyone was hungry.
They had planned to meet at the feast and decide if it was worth the risk to slip off to that guardsman’s hut. He’d had a chance yesterday after supper to pass her the letter from the wall and give her a brief account of Lady Mary’s visit. She’d said she would find Mr. Bacon and pass both along to him.
It wasn’t like her to miss a tryst, to say nothing of this festive event. What if that French secretary had been with Bacon and realized the jig was over? He could have overpowered both of them if he caught them by surprise. Bacon wouldn’t be much help, but Trumpet could fight like a cat when cornered. If the man had hurt her, Tom would kill him. He wouldn’t wait for the law to work its tedious course.
He went back inside and scanned the crowd. He saw Bess Throckmorton sitting near the end of one long table. Grabbing a pitcher from a waiter, he went over to fill her cup. “Have you seen Lady Dorchester?”
She said, “Not since this morning. She rode with us just long enough to tell us your list is shorter by two.” She gave him a sly smile, but he didn’t care about that right now.
“Where did she go next?”
Mrs. Throckmorton shrugged. “She said her horse wanted a gallop, and off she went.”
“Didn’t you see her during the chase?”
“No, now that you mention it. But this isn’t a good time for you two, you know. The woods around here will be swarming with lovers.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Tom left the pitcher on the table and went outside. Maybe Trumpet had mixed things up and was waiting for him at the place with the view. They’d have to start there to find that hut again anyway.
He took the time to down a pint of ale and devour two pork pies, perched at the end of the bench nearest the entrance. Several men passing by clapped him on the shoulders and said, “Fine hunt! What a dog you had!” He mumbled short answers with his mouth full. He didn’t want to waste time, but he needed food.
He gulped down the last of his hasty meal and left, making as straight a path as he could toward the ledge overlooking the river. He was worried. Trumpet had started the hunt, but not finished it. What could have happened to her?
When he reached the ridge with the exceptional view, he saw Mary Buckleigh standing near the edge with her hands on her hips, looking down. A horse — not Trumpet’s — was tied to a low branch a few yards away.
“Hoi!” Tom called, not caring about the rudeness. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Clarady! Thank God you’re here! I thought heard a voice down there.” She pointed down into the void. “Someone crying, I think.”
“Lady Dorchester?” Tom closed the distance between them in three swift steps. “What have you done to her?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t do to you. You’re very inquisitive, aren’t you? Both of you.”
“What do mean, ‘nothing you wouldn’t do to me’?” Tom glared at her, then went to peer over the edge himself. “Trumpet?” he called. Then he felt hands on his back thrusting him forward, and he was falling, falling, into the empty air.
TWENTY-FIVE
TOM TRIED TO CURL HIMSELF into a ball as he fell, hoping to land on the meaty part of his upper back. Then he crashed into the top layer of trees, branches tearing at him, breaking under him, snagging his arms and twisting him sideways. He couldn’t protect himself. He hit something solid, some log or stone that shifted on impact and started rolling, rolling him with it, helpless, arms and legs flailing, more debris rolling over him, until he hit the ground, grinding his face into flinty gravel.
He tried to cover his head with both hands as rocks and branches bounced over him. He screamed as a massive trunk landed on his right leg with a crack. He fainted.
A while later — not long, he thought — he woke and lifted his face from the leaf-littered scree. He couldn’t see anything but thick undergrowth, some of it rooted on the steep slope, but also the tops of trees rising up from the base of the slope somewhere below him. He had no sense of how far down he’d have to crawl, but once he reached the bottom he could aim for the river. Someone would see him and come to help.
He hoped his leg wasn’t broken. Maybe that cracking sound had been a branch. Either way, he had to drag himself out from under that log. He pressed his palms into the dirt, took a deep breath, and pulled. Pain lanced up his leg, and he roared into the brush. He lay flat, gasping until the worst subsided, then tried again. This time he fainted.
He woke again and assessed his predicament. He’d made a lot of noise with the crashing and the screaming, but no one had shouted down to him — or up, though he didn’t think there was much below except a grassy stretch along the riverbank. But people did use the path across the top of the ridge sometimes. Not so much today, perhaps, with the hunting party going the other way to ride back to the palace.
He wouldn’t be out here long though. Trumpet would find him. She’d move heaven and earth once she realized he hadn’t returned from the hunt. She’d go to the kennels to ask Mr. Lacey, and he would say, “Let’s get out the dogs.” Guinevere could sniff him out even if he’d fallen all the way down to the Antipodes.
But wait — what had that bitch Mary said? “Nothing I wouldn’t do to you.” Had she served Trumpet the same trick? She could be lying somewhere near him, injured, fainted — or worse.
He rose up on his elbows and shouted, “Trumpet! Alice! Lady Dorchester! Are you here?” Nothing. He tried shouting, “Help! Help! Help!” using his deeper voice to project it farther. Nothing but silence. He’d frightened the birds away.
What had Mary done to her? He refused to believe Trumpet was dead. He’d know it in his heart. He could feel her out there, somewhere, and if she lived, she’d find him.
It would help if he could pull his leg out and crawl down toward the river, but the pain was too great. He just kept fainting. Maybe he could find a long branch within reach and push it behind him to lever up the trunk enough to roll it off.
A possibility, but the prospect of that much effort made him feel exhausted. He’d spent the morning trotting after an eager hound, and this disaster had sapped what strength he had left. He’d rest for a while and then muster himself for another big push.
He cushioned his face on his crossed arms and summoned a vision of Trumpet in a simple dress, sitting on a backed stool by a glowing hearth with a blue-eyed baby in her arms. She’d name him William, after her father — and Stephen’s father, as luck would have it. He’d grow up to be the ninth earl of Dorchester. The second one would be Nathaniel, after her uncle. He was something of a scoundrel, but then so was her father. The third one could be Thomas — there must be a man by that name somewhere in her family tree.
He pushed away the thought that there would never be a Nat or a Tom if he died here under this log and focused on her heart-shaped face and her Cupid’s-bow lips as she crooned a lullaby to his son.
“WHERE WERE YOU?” STEPHEN asked Trumpet. He stood on the threshold of her bedchamber, knowing better than to enter but leaning on the doorframe so his men wouldn’t think he was afraid of his own wife. “I didn’t see you at the breakfast.”
“I fell my off my horse and had to walk back.”
True enough, as far as it went. It would only confuse him to mention the huge bristly teasel the stableman had found under poor Callisto’s saddle. No wonder she’d balked at that ditch! The stableman had promised extra oats and a soothing liniment. As he’d pocketed her shilling, he’d also promised to keep the teasel under his hat until she spoke with him again.
“Fell off your horse! I thought you could ride.” Stephen sounded a little tipsy; he also sounded very pleased with himself. “You sh
ould’ve been there, Alice. Watching Her Majesty address the stag.” He patted himself on the chest, his eyes shining. “I handed Sir Charles the sword he used to slay the beast. That was the most thrilling moment in my life.”
“I’m glad it went well.” She meant it. A happy earl was a biddable earl. “Where’s Mr. Clarady? Isn’t he with you?”
“Tom? No, he went with the dogs. It was his hound that found the best stag. Those French hounds are something to watch, I don’t mind telling you.” He kept a hand on the jamb but leaned in to offer his newfound morsel of wisdom. “Now I know the true meaning of the word ‘dogged.’”
She laughed weakly. “Did the doggies get to partake of the breakfast?”
“No, silly. They get their rewards at the kill when the carcass is butchered. It’s all very formal, very correct. Then I suppose they went back to their kennels.”
She couldn’t push any harder without arousing his suspicions. Tom must have come back and fallen asleep in his own room.
Stephen yawned rudely, stretching out both arms. “I’m dog-weary.” He waited for another laugh, but she didn’t oblige. He took the hint. “I’ve earned a nap. In fact, I may sleep till suppertime.”
“Rest well, my lord.” Trumpet waited until he’d closed his door across the anteroom, then tilted her head to bid Catalina to close theirs. “He would’ve mentioned it if Tom had been at the breakfast, don’t you think?”
Her Gypsy maidservant shook her head. “He does not think of Tom, my lady, unless he desires for him to do something.”
“True.” Trumpet tapped her foot on the rush-strewn floor and poked at the remains of the light dinner they’d taken here in their room. “I’m feeling much better. In fact, I’m restless. Let’s go look for him.”
Catalina frowned at her. “Let me try your bump. I’m not sure you should strain yourself so soon.”