Let Slip the Dogs: A Francis Bacon Mystery, #5

LET SLIP THE DOGS

A Francis Bacon Mystery — Book 5

by

ANNA CASTLE

Copyright 2018 by Anna Castle

Editing and cover image by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial

Let Slip the Dogs is the fifth book in the Francis Bacon mystery series.

It’s Midsummer, 1591, at Richmond Palace, and love is in the air. Gallant courtiers sport with great ladies while Tom and Trumpet bring their long-laid plans to fruition at last. Everybody’s doing it — even Francis Bacon enjoys a private liaison with the secretary to the new French ambassador. But the Queen loathes scandal and will punish anyone rash enough to get caught.

Still, it’s all in a summer day until a young man is found dead. He had few talents beyond a keen nose for gossip and was doubtless murdered to keep a secret. But what sort — romantic, or political? They carried different penalties: banishment from court or a traitor’s death. Either way, worth killing to protect.

Bacon wants nothing more than to leave things alone. He has no position and no patron; in fact, he’s being discouraged from investigating. But can he live with himself if another innocent person dies?

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

HISTORICAL NOTES

BOOKS BY ANNA CASTLE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

ONE

EAST MOLESEY, 22 JUNE 1591

The gentleman would like your best room for a . . . for a nap. Something airy, facing the river . . . Francis Bacon frowned at the French secretary, uncertain what was expected. He’d never been inside a brothel before, much less arranged for the use of its services.

Not too much wind, Michel Joubert added.

The brothel-keeper’s thick brows furled.

Breeze, Francis corrected. Not too breezy. And it must be clean.

The woman rolled her eyes. All my rooms are clean, Master. I know my gentlemen. She eyed the French ambassador, who stood near the front window watching two men wrestle a basket filled with flopping fish out of a small watercraft. What sort of company does the gentleman prefer?

Oh, Francis said. Let’s see. Young, one assumes. A nice young woman. On second thought . . . He whispered to the secretary, Does he want a woman?

Joubert smiled, not the least offended. Well, he was French, after all. Woman, yes. He held up two fingers. But two. Does not matter the hair, but should be plump and . . . He quirked a brow at Francis. "How do you say, accomodantes, de bon humeur?"

Francis, surprised, answered, Good-natured. It would never have occurred to him to ask for an easygoing whore, but then he knew nothing of brothels. There must be fifty men at court this week who could have performed this chore more effectively.

The bawd was not the least perplexed. She snapped her fingers at two women lounging at a table, pointed to the ambassador and then upward.

They rose, tugged at their bodices to display more of their pasty bosoms, and sashayed over to Monsieur Chaste, each taking one of his spindly arms. His white moustaches twitched as he grinned at them, his round face reddening with excitement. As he reached the stairs, his secretary stopped him.

Monsieur, your tonic. Joubert handed him a small engraved glass bottle filled with a brownish liquid.

Merci! The ambassador tucked the bottle into his pocket with a wink at the girls and let them lead him up the stairs, taking each step with a lightness surprising in a man of his years.

I hope this won’t be too much for him, Francis said, thinking of the trouble he’d face if the French ambassador died in his care. If he requires medicine . . .

"Oh, do not distress yourself. It is merely a mild tonic to enhance the desire, you understand. An herb with some cinnamon, a touch of vanilla from le Mexique, in a type of liquor made in Cognac, a town in the Aquitaine. Do you know the place?"

Francis shook his head. I’ve tried French brandy. It makes me woozy.

Joubert laughed. "That is its function, mon ami! But with or without his tonic, the ambassador believes this exercise is good for the gout."

Don’t they all, the brothel-keeper said. Who’s paying?

Oh! Ah . . . Francis frowned. Not him, he hoped. I would assume the queen’s household has an account . . . Some fund somewhere in the Lord Steward’s vast account books, labeled Entertainment of foreign dignitaries.

Patrons from the palace pay in coin. She held out a broad palm, her stony expression making it clear she brooked no exceptions to that policy.

I will pay, Joubert said. And for our supper as well, if you will permit me to invite you, Mr. Bacon.

Will we be here that long?

Joubert shrugged. Monsieur Chaste is young for his age, but his age is seventy-seven years. He will take a nap afterward. Then he will be sufficiently refreshed to watch the dancing in the Presence Chamber this evening without falling asleep in front of your so lively queen.

Well, I’m not hungry.

A glass of wine, then. The secretary ignored the ill-mannered response. Shall we sit by the window?

The bawd snapped her fingers again. Another wench came out to chase two men in tradesman’s garb from the best table in the front room. She swabbed at it with a towel, remembering to wipe the seats, then waited while the gentlemen sat down. Joubert ordered a bottle of the best wine and an assortment of delicacies, leaving Francis to gaze out the window and reconcile himself to this latest indignity.

He had been tasked that morning with escorting the new French ambassador on a tour of Hampton Court Palace. This was a routine service for a courtier, especially one as fluent in French as Francis. The court was at Richmond Palace this month, a mere eight miles downriver along the twists and turns of the Thames. Not so onerous a journey on a sunny day in late June, when the English landscape was at its verdant best, every breath of air laden with the fragrance of flowers and green growing things.

Francis rather enjoyed showing off Cardinal Wolsey’s fine palace, widely regarded as the perfect marriage of English native style with the Italian Renaissance. But Monsieur Chaste hadn’t even wanted to stop long enough to admire the gatehouse. He had directed the boatman, with the aid of his secretary, to the Goat and Compasses, a large tavern in East Molesey on the opposite bank of the river. More than a tavern — this place was a brothel made famous in Great Harry’s time. Francis had heard of it, though he’d never been there himself, and it would never have occurred to him to offer a visit to the new ambassador.

The wench brought the wine, and Joubert poured him a large cupful. Francis gave it a tentative sip. It was delicious; light yet fruity. He took a large swallow and felt the spirits sooth his ruffled self-regard. His gaze slid toward the patient secretary, whose lips formed the very slightest of smiles. The dark eyes twinkled with understanding.

The wench brought plates of tidbits — cheese, fresh berries, and tiny pies — along with white napkins. This establishment was well maintained, at least. It must enjoy a steady stream of patrons from the upper strata of society given its location.

Francis selected a raspberry and savored it while looking out the window, fully aware of Joubert’s warm attention. The wine, the berries, and the sympathy were some compensation, but he still felt unfairly used. The task of entertaining the French ambassador had been given him by one of his lord uncle’s secretaries, so he assumed the request had derived from the queen. But Lord Burghley wasn’t with the court at present, confined to his bed by a worrisome ailment. He’d stayed at home in London, sending daily messages through his son, Robert — now Sir Robert Cecil.

Francis had to wonder if Cousin Robert wasn’t fully aware of Monsieur Chaste’s predilections. Robert made it his business to know everything about everyone, however mundane or unsavory — especially the unsavory. And he would find humor in using this method to keep Francis away from the real business of the court, relegating him to the role of tour guide and translator, a mere assistant.

Wait and see: when it came time to conduct real business with the French ambassador, Francis’s elegant language skills would no longer be required.

They were scarcely needed now. Michel Joubert’s English was excellent. Where did you learn to speak English so well? Francis asked.

I spent several years in Cambridge.

Did you? When?

Oh, it must be ten years ago. Perhaps fifteen.

Fifteen years ago I was in Paris, learning French at the court of Henri the Third. I had just come down from Cambridge.

Impossible. Joubert frowned dramatically. You cannot be that old.

No, I cannot. Francis laughed. I was only twelve. I went up with my brother Anthony.

Ah yes, your brother Anthony. A great friend of my party in France. Joubert helped himself to a small pie and took a bite, releasing the aroma of gingery mincemeat.

Francis’s tummy rumbled. He took a pie himself and nibbled at the crust. Do you know Anthony?

Only by reputation. He is a friend to all French Protestants. Joubert leaned closer to speak confidentially. I am a Huguenot.

That needn’t be a secret here, you know. Although Lord Burghley would be glad to know it. The new King of France was a Protestant, and thus potentially a greater friend to England than any of his predecessors. But his kingship was contested by the Catholic League, strongly supported by the King of Spain, England’s most implacable enemy. I didn’t realize the ambassador—

Joubert cut him off with an upraised finger. Monsieur Chaste is a good Catholic. But he is an old friend of my king. He is also a flexible man, a man of wide experience. He rolled his eyes comically toward the stairs.

Francis ignored that, not prepared to be amused yet. He wondered how many of the ambassador’s staff were leftovers from the old regime. He’d brought four clerks to England, Francis thought. One or two of them must be spies for the Catholic League. It would be useful if he could find out which. Perhaps there would be some value in these expeditions, after all.

One step at a time. How did you come to be in his service?

The usual way. My father served him when he was governor of Dieppe. I came to the embassy from the court of the Admiralty. I am a lawyer, like you, Mr. Bacon, only I practice the civil law of France. I confess I am baffled by your English common law.

We are too, as often as not. That won a genuine smile. This civil lawyer had charm as well as wit.

Joubert’s eyes sparkled at the small victory. I hope to learn something of your law from you during these afternoons. I am told you are one of the foremost experts in that complex subject.

I’ve been told that too, whenever they want my services — without compensation, of course. Francis winced at the petulance in his tone, but he couldn’t help it. The most prestigious position he’d been able to obtain in the past two years was an appointment to a commission of lawyers charged with reviewing all the statutes. They were to make recommendations for revision or deletion of those deemed obsolete. The tedious chore had been presented as a compliment to his abilities, but of course it brought no tangible reward.

At least Monsieur Joubert bought him wine, showing him a sympathetic — and very handsome — face. Although he must want something from the exchange. Perhaps he suffered under the illusion that Francis was privy to matters of consequence, being the nephew of the Lord Treasurer and the son of the long-departed Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.

He was doomed to be disappointed, then.

Francis turned toward the window, nibbling on his pie. It was delicious. He took another one and ate it while watching a wherryman pull up to the wharf and climb out of his boat. He straightened his doublet and set his hat at a jaunty angle, then strode along the wharf with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face, entering a narrow building at the end.

In only a few moments, he came back out, glowering furiously. He stamped back to his craft and jumped in, rudely splashing the wharfman as he thrust his oars into the water.

Mon dieu! Joubert said. What do you suppose he was expecting inside that little house? A loving welcome from his sweetheart? Payment of a long-owed debt?

A knighthood, Francis said, not trying to hide the bitterness. He shot the secretary a wry glance.

Joubert laughed out loud. "So that is what is troubling you, mon ami. I hope I may call you my friend. He poured more wine into both cups. I have heard about your cousin and his new honor. I made the mistake of referring to him as ‘Mr. Cecil’ yesterday and was sharply corrected."

He’s ‘Sir Robert’ now. England’s newest knight. Francis had been there, of course. The queen spent two weeks last month at Theobalds, the Cecils’ palatial home in Hertfordshire. The visit had been designed to produce the desired result, with lavish entertainments and endless opportunities for Lord Burghley to regale Her Majesty with his son’s virtues. Theobalds lay less than twenty miles from Gorhambury, the Bacon family estate. That nearness underscored the contrast. Robert’s father worked tirelessly to advance his son, while fatherless Francis languished.

He was honored for services rendered, whatever that means.

Does he not render services? Joubert asked.

He never does anything else. He never bothered to pass the bar. He doesn’t own much in the way of estates, and he only recently married. Francis selected a piece of cheese, weighing the wisdom of augmenting that observation in the present company. "Robert — forgive me, Sir Robert — follows closely in his father’s footsteps, even attending meetings of the Privy Council. At this point, he must see everything of importance that passes across his father’s desk, which means everything of importance to English policy."

Joubert shrugged as if that were common knowledge, which it probably was. Lord Burghley is a great man, respected throughout Europe. You are his nephew. Your turn will come, will it not?

Francis shook his head. I turned thirty in January and have nothing to show for it. No position of consequence from which I might achieve something of lasting value. I write letters; I serve on the most tiresome committees. All without thanks or compensation.

Joubert shook his head, clucking his tongue in commiseration. That is a waste, if you want my opinion. My king knows better than to waste so valuable a counselor, so gifted a mind, with such exceptional experience. Perhaps you are seeking recognition from the wrong direction?

Francis met his eyes and saw an invitation in their brown depths. But was it personal or professional? Both, perhaps. This wouldn’t be the first time a foreign ambassador had attempted to recruit an English courtier to serve as an informant. He would never accept the offer, of course — at least not the professional one.

But the other . . . How often do you suppose Monsieur Chaste will wish to visit this establishment, assuming he finds it to his liking?

I think we can assume that he likes it very much since trays of food and drink have gone up, but none have yet come down. Joubert smiled at him, understanding the unspoken change of subject. Once or twice a week, perhaps.

If we asked for a private room, we could work while we wait.

Joubert’s eyes widened as if the thought were completely novel. "We could indeed, mon ami. There are always letters to write. We may be forced to spend many afternoons together, you and me. A private room will make that much more confortable."

Francis smiled and chose another ripe red berry. Perhaps this duty wouldn’t be so tedious after all.

TWO

RICHMOND PALACE, 22 June 1591

There’s Syon House, Mr. Clarady, the wherryman called. Won’t be long now.

An imposing block of golden stone with a crenellated roofline loomed atop a hill on the right bank of the river. It seemed like a harbinger of great things to come.

Sorry, lads, Tom said. Guess that was the last song. He opened the leather case at his feet and tucked his lute inside, ignoring the groans of his fellow travelers. They’d beguiled the long trip upriver from London by singing every song they knew. The wherryman had known the most, including a collection of bawdy ballads he claimed to have composed himself.

Tom hooked up the front of his doublet. He’d opened it to enjoy the cool of the river on this hot June day, but it wouldn’t do to arrive half-dressed at Richmond Palace. He fluffed the pleats in the ruffs at his neck and wrists, smoothed his wind-blown hair with his fingers, and set his hat at the angle that best displayed the new pheasant feather.

He had visited Whitehall once, five years ago for about thirty minutes, delivering a message from Mr. Bacon. That was the sum and total of his experience at court. Back then, he’d been as green as the grass carpeting the banks of the Thames, awed by everything from the silver draperies to the rush matting.

But he’d learned a thing or two since then. He’d taken a few hard knocks and climbed a few painful rungs up the ladder of success. He knew who he was, even if he didn’t know yet where he was going. This month would be his best chance to meet important people and be recognized for his qualities. He meant to make the most of every minute. While enjoying a real holiday away from Gray’s Inn’s dusty law books and London’s filthy streets.

They’d been rowing southwest. Now the river took another sharp bend, turning them eastward. Another minute flowed by under the powerful strokes of the wherryman. Then he pointed his chin at the south bank. There she is.

Richmond Palace rose behind a sloping lawn — a compact city of white stone punctuated with slender towers topped with bulb-shaped domes. Each dome was crowned with a weather vane sporting the queen’s arms in gold and azure, glinting bravely in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fairy castle where all Tom’s wishes might be granted.

All except one, and that could never be.

Even so, his heart beat faster. Lady Alice Trumpington, known to a few close friends as Trumpet, was in there somewhere. Service buildings like the stables and kennels stretched out on the west side and orchards spread to the east. There must be some nook or arbor where they could meet in private. He’d see her soon, speak to her, hear her laugh. Maybe today, if he was lucky.

But tomorrow was good enough. Tomorrow was fine. No need to squander a portion of his luck to gain three-quarters of a day.

As the wherry pulled up to the long dock, Tom rose to his feet, not waiting for a full stop, and slung his lute case over his shoulder. One of the other men was getting out at Richmond too; a merchant, by his clothes. He grinned at Tom’s eagerness. Have you ever stayed with the court on summer progress, Mr. Clarady?

Tom shook his head, eyes still clapped on the scene before him. First time.

The man let Tom help him onto the dock. Well, good luck to you. But watch your back.

Kindly advice, well meant, but Tom didn’t need it. He knew how to handle himself. He waited on the dock while the wherryman and his boy handed his large chest to the waiting porters. They loaded it onto a small cart, then paused for directions.

I’m going to the kennel office, Tom told them. Lead the way.

He strode along the path a few feet behind the cart, trying not to goggle at everything he saw. But it was all so grand, so handsomely built of red brick and white stone — even the kitchens. That buttressed building with the arching windows must be the Great Hall, where Tom would have his supper tonight, along with England’s most important noblemen and women.

They crossed a bustling court redolent with the aromas of cooking meat and laundry soap, where persons of all classes strode to and fro. Tom squared his shoulders and added a touch of strut to his stride. His travel clothes were somber brown with ivory linings, as befit a man of the law, but he’d had his tailor fix the canions so he could fasten them a few inches higher on the thigh. In a place like this, a man had to make the most of his assets.

His efforts were rewarded by admiring glances from a trio of well-dressed ladies. He appreciated the warm looks. It had been a while since he’d spent time in the company of the fairer sex. He used to be something of a gallant, dressing bravely and haunting any place ladies could be found. The theater, London’s finest taverns . . . anything for a wink and a tickle.

But those days were behind him. Apart from his studies, he’d lost his heart for good; no matter that Trumpet would marry another man next week right here. No hope for it. She couldn’t marry him, though he’d suggested it once upon a time. But an earl’s daughter and the son of a privateer? Not even in a French romance.

He’d learn to live with it. He’d even agreed to serve wine to the lords on the dais at the wedding supper, though the thought of her nuptials made him grind his teeth. His snarl startled the trio of ladies until he caught himself and took a deep breath. He touched his hat as they walked by, a semblance of balance restored.

He followed the porters through another court filled with the unmistakable odor of horses. Stables on three sides must house over a hundred beasts, doubtless among the finest of their kind. The fourth side of the court appeared to be for people, not horses, judging by the windows downstairs as well as up. He heard barking from that direction and guessed the kennels ranged on the other side.

Which building will you be lodging in, sir? the porter asked.

I don’t know, Tom said. You can leave that in the kennel master’s office for now.

The man led him through another passage and stopped at a wide oak door flanked by diamond-paned windows, opened to admit the breeze. Tom heard a familiar nasal voice droning within.

He held up a hand to tell the porter to give him a minute while he readied himself for this meeting. He could see Stephen Delabere inside, lounging in an armed chair with his feet propped on something. He wore a tawny doublet with russet details, simply trimmed to fit the setting. Tawny was one of the queen’s favorite colors and happened to look well with Stephen’s dark blond hair and light brown eyes. He’d always had a keen sense of color.

Tom scanned the once-familiar features for signs of maturity or depth, something to show he’d changed enough to be worthy of the most fascinating woman in the world. He saw nothing but the same long nose, thin lips, and narrow chin; heard nothing but the same affected drawl.

Tom’s lips curled back at the sound, baring his teeth, just for a moment. He shot a glance at the porter, whose expression said he never saw anything, anywhere, at any time.

Just leave it inside, if you will, Tom said. We’ll find someone to shift it later.

At the sound of his voice, Stephen’s face turned toward the window. Time to step onto the stage.

Tom opened the door without knocking. As he made way for the porter, he noticed another man resting one hip on a second desk. He was also dressed as a courtier in dark green gabardine with white silk linings.

Tom flashed him a smile, then turned toward Stephen, setting his lute on the floor and sweeping off his hat. He extended a leg and lowered his forehead to his knee in a full court bow. Lord Dorchester, I am here to serve you. Stephen loved formal protocols and was wholly immune to irony.

Stephen had somehow been appointed Master of the Privy Buckhounds this summer and had granted Tom the position of Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds. Tom had no idea what the post entailed, but he liked dogs and he longed to spend some time out of doors. He’d figure out the rest as they went along.

Thomas Clarady! Here you are! Stephen let him hold the pose for a second longer than necessary, then rose to embrace him with both arms.

They clapped each other on the back, genuinely glad in this moment to be reunited. They had spent their adolescence together, after all, inseparable for six whole years. They’d parted on less than friendly terms and now a major grievance lay between them, but the old offense was long past, and Stephen didn’t even know about the new one.

There was something special about a childhood friend. You might not like them, or respect them, or even trust them, but that didn’t seem to hinder the friendship on a practical level. The old familiarity lived on, regardless.

How long has it been, old friend? Stephen took a few steps back to look him up and down. You look good. Older. Are you taller?

Thicker, I should think. Tom chuckled, knowing he was in perfect condition. His guardian insisted he practice the arts of a gentleman on a weekly basis: fencing, dancing, boxing, and archery. He stood just under six feet, lean muscle with not an ounce of fat. Besides, his tailor would scold him if he gained an inch anywhere. It’s been five years. You look well yourself. Your new position suits you, my lord.

He did look well. One scant inch shorter than Tom, he was equally trim and he moved like a man who took regular exercise. But he definitely looked older. Twenty-three years weren’t enough to give a man wrinkles, but there was a tension along the clean-shaven jaw that hadn’t been there five years ago.

Stephen accepted the compliment with the same old smug smile, however. He soaked up praise like a hunk of fresh bread in a bowl of gravy.