Chaloner said nothing, but thought Lady Muskerry’s carriage and Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir were not places he would have gone to investigate the murders. Perhaps Turner did intend to take the easy way out, and have Greene blamed for the crimes.
‘I understand Bulteel has asked you to be his son’s godfather,’ said the Earl, breaking the silence that followed his remarks. ‘I confess I am astonished, because I assumed I would be his first choice.’
‘Perhaps he thought you would consider it beneath you,’ suggested Chaloner.
The Earl nodded. ‘Well, it would be, of course. But you should accept. You are unlikely to be in a position where you can help the brat with influence or money, but you are good with a sword.’
‘You mean I should teach him how to fight?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘I doubt that is what his father has in mind. I imagine he expects him to become a clerk or a secretary.’
‘Actually, I was thinking that you could use your skills to keep him alive. We shall be doing battle with the Dutch soon, while rebels and fanatics itch to overthrow the monarchy and plunge us into another civil war. You will be able to protect the boy in a way that I never could.’
Chaloner was unsettled, because he had never heard the Earl issue such a bleak forecast for their country’s future before. ‘You think Bulteel wants a bodyguard?’
The Earl shrugged. ‘I would, if I were a new father. But time is passing, and it is already noon. Come with me to the Tennis Court.’
‘The Tennis Court?’ echoed Chaloner. He had not imagined the Earl fit or lithe enough to engage in that sort of activity. Tennis was strenuous.
‘Not to play,’ explained the Earl testily, seeing what he was thinking. ‘The King has challenged Buckingham, and I should be there to cheer him on. Everyone else will be, and I cannot have him thinking I do not care.’
‘But I need to visit Symons,’ objected Chaloner, loath to waste time. ‘And your household guard-’
‘My household guard is away practising for the King’s Twelfth Night military parade,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘But Jones’s death makes the fourth in a week, and that is a lot, even for White Hall. I do not feel safe, so you will escort me.’
‘Now you want me for a bodyguard?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether his White Hall acquaintances thought he was good for nothing else.
The Earl nodded, unabashed. ‘If you would be so kind.’
Chaloner understood exactly why the Earl was keen to have a guardian when they entered the newly refurbished Tennis Court. Word had spread that His Majesty had challenged Buckingham, and all the Court sycophants were in attendance. They included a large number of people who disliked the Earl, and when he stepped into the spectators’ gallery, everyone stopped what they were doing to glare. The response was so unanimous that Chaloner half-expected the ball to freeze in mid-flight, too. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he glanced around apprehensively, alert for trouble.
‘Do not fret, Thomas,’ whispered the Earl, patting his arm. ‘I am used to icy atmospheres. It is when these stares turn to more naked hostility that I shall be worried.’
Chaloner thought the hostility was more than naked enough for him, and wondered why the Earl put himself through it, especially as it did not look as though the King cared whether he was there or not. Indeed, he had been distracted by the abrupt silence, and was scowling.
Buckingham, sulky and petulant because he was losing, mimicked the Earl’s waddling gait, and the tense hush among the spectators was shattered by a burst of spiteful laughter. The King’s frown deepened, but he made no attempt to defend his Lord Chancellor. He retrieved the ball and hit it, catching the Duke off-guard and forcing him to scramble.
The Earl sat on a bench, but the people nearby immediately moved away, leaving him isolated. Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable: so many enemies had crowded into the place that there would be little he could do, should they decide to attack en masse. He reminded himself that this was London, and that courtiers did not rush in shrieking mobs to murder their ministers. But then he remembered what had happened to the old king, and the bloody executions that had followed the new one’s coronation, and was not so sure.
‘I do not understand this game at all,’ declared the Earl, when Chaloner came to stand behind him; at least the spy could make sure that no one stabbed him in the back. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
The Earl swivelled around to give him a look. ‘And do you care to explain it to me, or shall we just leave it that you know the rules and I do not?’
‘Brodrick, Chiffinch and Jermyn are plotting something. They keep looking at you.’
‘And you do not wish to be distracted by chatting to me about sport. Very well. However, bear in mind that my cousin will not harm me, although I cannot say I approve of the company he keeps. Do you think Jermyn is the Lord of Misrule? Filling my office with women of ill repute is exactly the kind of low trick I would expect from that foul-minded villain.’
Chaloner did not reply. He watched the trio leave the gallery, and appear a few minutes later on the court itself. Brodrick had donned a suit designed to make him look like a chicken, and he strutted on to the playing field amid a chorus of laughter. The King pursed his lips, disliking his concentration broken by foolery, but Buckingham guffawed heartily. Chaloner, however, was more interested in Brodrick’s companions, who were doing something to the box of spare balls. Whatever it was did not take long, and, as soon as they had finished, Brodrick bowed and retired from the court to a standing ovation. Then the King and Buckingham resumed their game, and for a while nothing happened.
As Chaloner scanned the spectators, alert for any hint of mischief, he saw a number of familiar faces, some of which he would have expected to see at such an occasion, and some he would not. Gold was asleep on a bench at the back, while Neale sat closer than was decorous to Bess. Bess, however, was more interested in Turner, who was surrounded by so many ladies that all that could be seen of him was the top of his hat. They were all laughing merrily, paying no attention at all to the tennis.
Not far away, Symons’s ginger head could be seen with Hargrave’s bald one; they sat with Tryan, Greene and several merchants. When Chaloner asked the Earl why tradesmen should be present, he was told the King had invited them — his Majesty had heard what had happened when Jones had closed the New Exchange, and had been unsettled by the fact that so many Londoners had taken against him. So, he had decided to win back their affection by issuing the kind of invitation reserved for his intimates, to beguile them into thinking he considered them friends. Chaloner almost laughed: showing off the Court in all its unbridled, dissolute glory was unlikely to make anyone think restoring the monarchy was a good idea, or to make them eager to pay the taxes that funded it.
He narrowed his eyes when Greene slunk up to Symons and whispered in his ear. Symons nodded, but did not take his eyes off the game. His orange hair stood in unkempt spikes across his head, and his face was unnaturally pale; Chaloner wondered whether he was ill. Then Greene glanced up and saw the spy was watching them. The clerk immediately darted through the nearest door. Chaloner would have chased him, had he not been afraid to leave the Earl unattended. Therefore, he was surprised when Greene materialised breathlessly in the entrance behind him, and indicated that he wanted to speak.
‘I have just heard about Jones,’ Greene whispered, speaking softly so the Earl would not turn around and see him. ‘And I wanted to tell you that I was with Gold, Bess and Neale the night he went missing. I did not kill him.’