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  LET SLIP THE DOGS

  A Francis Bacon Mystery — Book 5

  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

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY ANNA CASTLE

  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, accommodant, a un bon naturel?”

  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 s
teady 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.