Assassin (8 page)

“Please may I walk the dogs?”

“Oh, go to!” she snapped. “By all means, I had rather have you out with them in the garden than wriggling about on a cushion distracting me.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you!”

“
If
you can go upstairs and change your kirtle without making a thunder to wake the dead.”

Honestly! Anyone would think I was made of lead. I ran upstairs as quietly as I could, changed into my hunting kirtle, wrapped a cloak around me, and then carried my boots down the stairs until I got to the door into the Privy Garden—where I astonished the guard there by pulling my boots on and lacing them, standing on one leg. One of the dog-pages brought me the dogs on their lead and we ran out into the garden, Henri in front, barking madly.

I went round the maze twice and then through
the gate into the Orchard, where I let the dogs off the lead and climbed my cherry tree to sit and think in a good sitting place—the crook between two branches. I could see where the buds were coming, but it was still too cold and wet for them to swell yet.

My head felt close to bursting with plans. I knew exactly how to find out the murderer: Uncle Cavendish once told me how much you can tell from a dead body. For instance, if you shine a light into the eyes, you might see an image of the murderer. And if you bring the true murder weapon near it, the body will bleed again. So it was obvious what I had to do—I needed to see Sir Gerald’s body again.

I climbed down and went to explore the compost heaps. Ellie and Masou were there, bent over something on the ground. Eric rushed between them and tried to grab whatever it was, but Ellie snatched it up and held it out of reach while he bounced on his haunches, yapping.

“Ellie,” I said, “why are you holding a half-skinned rabbit?”

“We are going to spit-roast it over a fire and eat it,” Masou answered, as if this were perfectly obvious.

“And I’m going to peg out the skin and scrape it and cure it to make a muff for the winter,” Ellie put in.

I tied up the dogs out of reach and squatted down to watch Ellie finish her work. She was very quick and deft. She had already taken off the paws, and she was peeling back the skin as if she was undressing it. It wasn’t nearly as disgusting as you’d think because there wasn’t any blood. The rabbit was already drawn and gutted.

And that’s when the thought suddenly struck me: when I saw poor Sir Gerald with the dagger in his back, there hadn’t been any blood around the wound! Which didn’t make any sense because only
dead
bodies don’t bleed—and surely Sir Gerald was alive when the dagger went in. It was one more mystery and one more reason why I needed another look at Sir Gerald’s body.

“One of the kitchen spit-dogs caught it in the yard and broke its neck and I managed to get it off him,” Ellie was explaining about the rabbit. “I gave him the guts. There now,” she finished, handing the rabbit to Masou.

Masou had a long peeled twig, which he carefully threaded through the rabbit, and then he hung it
over the fire, where it started to steam and cook. Ellie sprinkled some breadcrumbs over it while we began to discuss the murder.

There had been plenty of gossip and theories about it, one of which, Masou and Ellie told me, was that armed Scots had burst into the palace and murdered Sir Gerald in his bed in mistake for the Queen. I told them what had really happened and explained why it couldn’t have been Lord Robert. I
did
have a moment’s doubt, because I suddenly remembered Lord Robert saying that he hated Sir Gerald and reaching for his sword at the St. Valentine’s Ball. But then I realized that that was just silly—Lord Robert would never have stabbed Sir Gerald in the back. I’m sure of it.

“Poor man,” said Ellie ghoulishly. “He’ll hang for a clean bill then.”

“No, he won’t,” I said. “I’m not having my future husband hanged before I can even marry him—that would be stupid.”

“But not so bad if it happened after the marriage?” asked Masou teasingly.

“At least then I’d be a proper matron,” I sniffed.

“I’ll go along and throw lavender and rue on the scaffold,” said Ellie. “And I’ll tell him how sad you
are—that’ll comfort him. And then I’ll get the ballad-maker to invent a ballad and print it and—”

“Ellie, he’s not going to hang because I’m going to find out what really happened,” I told her severely.

Masou made a mock bow and turned the rabbit on its spit. “My lady, you are all-wise,” he said. “Tell me, how will you do that?”

I punched him on the arm (not hard). “First I want to get a good long look at Sir Gerald’s body,” I began. “I’ve heard that it’s being kept in St. Margaret’s Chapel.”

“Ugh,” said Ellie. “Why?”

“Because when I saw Sir Gerald’s body with the knife in it there wasn’t any blood,” I said very significantly.

“So?” frowned Masou.

“So, if I stabbed you, blood would come out, wouldn’t it?” I explained. “Probably quite a lot if I stabbed deep enough to kill you. But there wasn’t any blood around the wound and I remember my uncle, Dr. Cavendish, telling me once that the tides of your blood only stop when you die.”

“Oh,” murmured Masou thoughtfully.

“So I simply must look at Sir Gerald’s body
again. And there’s another reason, too.” I lowered my voice because it was a frightening idea even if it was a well-known fact. “If we look into his eyes we might even be able to see who the murderer really was!”

“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, certainly 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.