Assassin (7 page)

The other two are still asleep in their bed. Lady Sarah is still snoring like a pig, while Mary Shelton is now snoring like a billy goat. But that isn’t what woke me. There is some kind of flurry over near the Grace-and-Favour Chambers. I can hear hushed voices, somebody running, lots of nervous whispers. Nobody wants to wake the Queen, of course. She’s always bad-tempered in the morning, especially if it was a late night.

There’s definitely something interesting happening. I’m going to find out what it is.

I cannot believe it. I’ve never heard of such a thing. A duel, perhaps—they happen sometimes and then
there’s a scandal until it all dies down. But this! I can hardly write, my hand is shaking so much.

I have just told my bedfellows, Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton, and they’ve rushed off to look for themselves. I don’t want to go back just yet because I need to think about something.

It seems hours ago that I got up, slipped a dressing gown over my smock, and put on my pattens, then clip-clopped out into the passageway. But it must only be five and twenty minutes or so. I thought the fuss was coming from the Grace-and-Favour Chambers, held by my Lord Worthy as a sign of the Queen’s esteem, so I made my way there.

I didn’t take a candle, I just crept along the stone floor, down the stairs, and along the passage. A crowd of people, wearing dressing gowns or clothes they’d thrown on hurriedly, were gathered round one of the doorways.

And there was poor Pip, white as a sheet, wringing his hands and stuttering. “I only went into my m-master’s chamber so early to put out a bite of bread and beer for when he woke up, and I’ve n-n-never ever seen such a thing in all my d-days!”

It took a bit of quiet work with elbows and feet to get through—I’m tall enough, and being skinny and
flat-chested is sometimes useful. Then I saw what had happened.

I didn’t scream. Well, I did, but I had my hands to my mouth so it only made a squeak. At least I didn’t swoon. That would be such a Lady Sarah thing to do. But my legs went all wobbly and my stomach turned inside out.

There was Sir Gerald, still in his velvet doublet, face down on the bed with the curtains pulled. And there was a dagger in his back!

In fact, it was the pretty dagger which had been his gift to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It wasn’t that disgusting—there wasn’t even any blood. It was just so shocking. My heart was banging
bam-da-da-bam
like French Louis’s drum.

I’m not sure how long I stood and stared before I noticed that Sir Charles was in the room, by the bed, and so was Lord Robert, standing by the wall in his shirt and hose. He looked pale green.

There was a flurry and Lord Worthy arrived with four of his men, ploughing through to the front of the crowd and marching straight in. He stopped dead, staring at the bed. His usually rather grey and boring face was as white as the feathers of that nasty swan we’d eaten at the feast.

Pip kneeled. “My lord, I b-brought Sir Gerald’s
breakfast early and s-saw…” He trailed off and just waved a hand helplessly.

Lord Worthy didn’t seem to be listening properly; he was still staring at the pretty dagger in his nephew’s back.

Then he gazed round, collecting his thoughts very slowly, as if somebody had scattered them all over the room and he was having to bend down and pick up each thought separately. After an age he began to speak. “First, double the guard on Her Majesty’s bedchamber. When she wakes, please tell her what has occurred. Has Dr. Cavendish been sent for?”

“On his way, m’lord,” said one of the men-at-arms of the Queen’s Guard. “As this crime took place within the Verge of the Court, we must call my Lord Chamberlain and convene the Board of Green Cloth to hear the inquest.”

Lord Worthy’s face then crumpled and he held on to the pillar of the bed.

I felt so sorry for him, even though he had little time for me, despite being my guardian. I slid next to him and touched his arm.

He turned his head and looked at me, but I don’t think he saw me. His hair was standing straight up and he looked quite exhausted—and quite slovenly for him. He hadn’t even changed his shirt, which
had a wine stain on the blackworked front and a greenish stain on the cuff.

He blinked at me, then shook his head and turned back to the corpse. “Did anyone see anything suspicious after my nephew left the St. Valentine’s Ball?”

Pip started with how he had wanted to attend his master, and how he had gone in and hung up Sir Gerald’s doublet but left his hose and canions so he could sleep off the drink, and how he had gone in specially early with bread and beer …

I noticed he had left out Ellie cleaning up Sir Gerald’s vomit for him. I opened my mouth and took breath to point this out, and then I thought a bit: it might be better if Ellie’s being there wasn’t mentioned—it was impossible she could have stabbed Sir Gerald, but I was sure that the person who
had
would love to get an unimportant laundrymaid blamed for it!

My uncle Dr. Cavendish arrived then, wrapped in his brocade and marten dressing gown and rocking slightly. His face was puffy and his eyes bloodshot and he looked as if he wished his head would just get on with it and fall off. He even winced at the candlelight. Then he bent to examine Sir Gerald.

As he was doing so, Sir Charles pointed to a little silver shape lying next to Sir Gerald’s hand on the
pillow. “What is that?” asked Sir Charles sharply.

Dr. Cavendish picked it up and held it close to a candle. “It’s an aiglet,” he said. “Still with a bit of lace attached. Hmm. The crest…”

“That’s not my master’s,” said Pip, peering at it closely. “Looks more like the Radcliffe crest.”

“What?” snapped Lord Worthy, and everybody turned to stare at Lord Robert Radcliffe.

He stared back, going red, doing his usual thing of mouth-opening-but-nothing-coming-out.

“By God, you must have dropped it when you stabbed Sir Gerald!” shouted Sir Charles. “It’s clear evidence.”

“B-b-but …,” stammered Lord Robert desperately.

“Don’t lie, sir—how else could your own aiglet come to be there?” demanded Sir Charles. “You were jealous of Sir Gerald’s affections for your lady love—jealous enough to kill your rival while he slept.”

“I…” Now Lord Robert grabbed for his sword hilt, but since it was not part of his night attire, he didn’t have it with him. Lord Worthy’s henchmen moved to either side of him.

“Aha!” said Sir Charles, standing four square in front of Lord Robert, waving his forefinger. “So now
you threaten me? How long will it be before you come and stab
me
in
my
bed?”

It was no good, I had to say something. After all, he was my betrothed! “But, sirs,” I said, “could not the killer have put the aiglet there on purpose to implicate my Lord Robert?”

They didn’t hear me at all. They just went on shouting. Sir Charles and Lord Worthy really didn’t like Lord Robert. Both looked delighted that they could blame him for the killing and present the Queen with the culprit as soon as she heard the news. It was so convenient, I knew nobody was going to listen to a young maid in her shift and dressing gown.

So I watched, feeling sick, while Lord Robert’s arms were grabbed by Lord Worthy’s men. Then he was officially told he was under arrest on suspicion of killing Sir Gerald, most dishonourably, while he slept.

Lord Robert stared back, white-faced. At least he had the sense not to talk. Then there was a pause while Lord Worthy tried to think where to put him. There are no dungeons at Whitehall, every scrap of space being needed by the Court. All the dungeons are downriver at the Tower. In the end they decided
to put him in the basement of one of the Court Gate towers, in one of the storerooms there, which has barred windows.

Lord Robert didn’t say anything when they took him away. Lord Worthy and Dr. Cavendish conferred to arrange the details of the inquest. It was decided that there didn’t need to be an autopsy because it was obvious what had killed Sir Gerald—nobody survives a knife blade stuck deep into their back, even if it is a very pretty one with garnets on the hilt.

Suddenly it occurred to me that the blade could have been mine if I had chosen to marry Sir Gerald. Would I then have been charged with murder instead? That made me feel so sick, I turned and ran all the way back to my chamber.

When I got there Mary Shelton was sitting up in bed with her hair in curling papers and she looked at me curiously. “What are you doing out of bed, Grace?” she asked.

“The most extraordinary thing has happened,” I told her excitedly. “There’s been a murder at Court!”

Mary let out a little scream and Lady Sarah blinked slowly awake. “Wherefore are you making
such a fuss and bother?” she asked irritably. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, Sarah, dear,” gasped Mary. “Really, you’ll never guess. There’s been a murder. Grace knows all about it.”

Sarah snapped awake immediately. “Lord preserve us!” she exclaimed. “A murder? Not the Queen?”

“No, no, not the Queen,” I assured her quickly, as I pulled my stays on over my head. “Somebody stabbed Sir Gerald in the back.”

“How dreadful!” Sarah declared, looking downcast. “He is so charming and he dances well. Will he recover?”

“Unlikely. He is dead. It’s very mysterious. They have arrested Lord Robert but I don’t think he was the assassin….”

That was that. By now, they weren’t listening. I’ve never seen either of them dress themselves so fast and then they ran out of the door and down the passage. I wonder when Mary noticed she still had her curling papers in.

Poor Sir Gerald, I still can’t believe he is really dead. One moment showing off to me in the Volta, the next moment—gone!

And as for my Lord Robert … I hate to think of him locked in some storeroom. The Queen will have
him committed to the Tower if nobody does anything to find out the real murderer. I feel so sorry for him. Of all people who might have stabbed Sir Gerald, I really don’t think it was he. Why should he? I’d agreed to marry him, hadn’t I? Now if Sir Gerald had stabbed Lord Robert, that would have made sense….

I must soon dress and make ready to serve the Queen at her rising. I do find that writing about things clears the head; if you set it down in black and white, you must think it through first. The Queen told me that and she is right—she is very wise. Aha! That’s what I’ll do to help Lord Robert. I’ll speak to the Queen for him. At least she never tells me not to worry my pretty little head about things.

I am back in bed, writing this to keep myself awake. I have a plan, and it’s very exciting, but I mustn’t fall asleep if it is to work! After dressing this morning, I went along to serve the Queen at her rising, hoping she would be in a mood to talk. Everyone at Court knows if you want to talk to the Queen, you have to pick the right moment.

While I held the Queen’s bodice straight for Lady
Bedford to sew the neckline into place, I got up courage to talk to her.

“Your Majesty,” I began hesitantly. “May I talk to you about—”

“My Lord Robert?” The Queen had her lips compressed and looked very fierce. “Very well. But please remember that the aiglet lying on Sir Gerald’s pillow was his.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty!” I agreed. “But it makes no sense for Lord Robert to want to kill Sir Gerald over me, when I’d chosen him anyway! Is it possible that someone planted the aiglet, so that we should think the worst of poor Lord Robert?”

The Queen looked at me for a moment, while Lady Bedford tutted disapproval that I was being so cheeky.

Then the Queen said, “Hmm.”

“At least don’t commit him to the Tower yet,” I begged. I kneeled and took her hand to kiss it. “Please, Your Majesty, may I … try and find out the truth of the matter?”

“Well, really, I don’t think it’s suitable …,” began Lady Bedford, but the Queen held up her hand.

“Very well. You may make discreet enquiries, Lady Grace,” she said sternly. “But report your findings to me, and to no one else. Lord Robert can stay
where he is for a day but after that I must commit him to the Tower, or release him.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Um … may I … ?”

“What?” She was starting to sound seriously annoyed now, but I knew she was about to meet the Scottish and French Ambassadors and I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting about on a cushion with incomprehensible French and Scotch whizzing about my head.