‘I know.’
‘Does your Earl know, too? Or am I still the arch-villain in his eyes?’
‘There must be some reason why he has taken against you,’ said Chaloner, most of his attention still on the spectators. ‘Have you argued with him? Defied him? Done something to make him think you are corrupt or debauched?’
‘No! I cannot imagine why anyone should hate me. Or do you think your Earl is the killer, and I am just a convenient scapegoat? Perhaps Turner put the brandy-wine in my office, on his orders.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He is not that kind of man.’
Or was he? The Earl had changed since his political rivals had tried to impeach him that summer, and had become harder and more bitter. Chaloner was no longer sure to what lengths he might go to fight the people who were so determined to see him fall from grace.
Greene forced a smile, which served to make his gloomy face more morose than ever. ‘If you say so. But the afternoon is wearing on, and I have a lot to do — I take pride in my work, and want everything in order, so that if I am arrested, my successor will …’ He trailed off miserably.
‘You seem very certain this affair will end unhappily,’ observed Chaloner, regarding him curiously.
Greene’s expression was glum. ‘Of course it will end unhappily — for me, at least. I have never been blessed with good luck, but it is God’s will, so I shall not complain.’ He hesitated, then grabbed Chaloner’s hand, eyes glistening with tears. ‘But if by some remote chance you do prove my innocence, it would be rather nice. Please do not give up on me yet.’
Chaloner was moved by the clerk’s piteous entreaty, but there was no time to think about it, because something was happening on the court. Buckingham had taken a new ball from the box, and the spy could tell from the way he handled it that something was amiss. The Duke weighed it in his palm for a moment, then turned and lobbed it directly at the Earl, who shrieked in alarm. But Chaloner was ready. His sword was drawn and he used it like a racquet, to hit the missile as hard as he could. There was a dull clang as the two connected, and the ball shot back the way it had come.
It did not go far. It exploded mid-air with a sharp report, releasing a cloud of pink dust. It was coloured flour. Buckingham took another ball and hurled it, rather more playfully this time, at Bess. Her jaw was hanging open so far that Chaloner wondered whether she might catch it with her teeth. It dropped into her lap, where a second crack saw her enveloped in blue powder. Gold woke with a start, and people howled with laughter when they saw the old man’s shock at Bess’s azure appearance. More balls followed, and although Chaloner was ready to field any that came in the Earl’s direction, none did. Buckingham knew it would be a waste of a missile, and there were plenty more targets available.
‘Enough, friends, enough,’ said the King good-naturedly, when he felt the joke had run its course. ‘The Lord of Misrule has played a clever trick, but let us return to more serious matters. What will our guests think? We promised them tennis, not japes.’
Tryan and Hargrave were smiling, but their expressions were strained, while the other merchants were openly disapproving. The King sighed, but did not seem overly concerned that there would be more damaging rumours about his Court circulating by morning. He turned his attention to the game.
‘Good play, Your Majesty,’ called the Earl after the first serve. It was unfortunate timing, because the King had just made a mistake, and the remark made him sound facetious. His smile was fixed as he muttered to Chaloner, ‘I hate this game. It is all rushing about in sweaty shirts, like peasants.’
After a while, the Queen arrived, and her reception was almost as chilly as the one that had been afforded the Earl. She maintained her composure, though, nodding greetings to people, even when they barely acknowledged her. No one offered her a seat, and it was left to Barbara Chiffinch to scowl at her husband until he obliged; he did so with ill grace, and ignored the Queen’s shy murmur of thanks.
‘Why does the King permit such low manners, sir?’ asked Chaloner, itching to box a few ears.
‘I imagine because the Lady will make trouble for him if he complains,’ replied the Earl. ‘It is easier to pretend nothing is wrong, and he always was a man for choosing the least demanding option.’
‘She is the Queen,’ said Chaloner angrily. ‘They should pay her proper respect.’
‘Yes, they should,’ said the Earl, struggling to his gouty feet. ‘So I shall go and bid her good afternoon. I know what it is like to be shunned.’
He engaged the Queen in meaningless conversation, and Chaloner was sorry that even the prim, overly formal attentions of the Lord Chancellor brought a rush of gratitude to her wan face.
‘I want Bath,’ she said in her low, deep voice. ‘You help?’
The Earl blushed furiously. ‘I think your ladies-in-waiting are better equipped to assist you with your private ablutions, ma’am. And I am a married man.’
‘She wants to take the healing waters, sir,’ explained Chaloner. ‘In Bath. And she needs funds.’
‘Oh, I see,’ breathed the Earl, relieved. He smiled at her, then started speaking loudly, as if he thought her English might improve if the words were bellowed. ‘Unfortunately, there is no money left in your household account, ma’am. I have inspected the books, but cannot tell what happened to it — I can only assume it was diverted to some other account when you failed to use it. In other words, there is no money available for travelling.’
‘He speaks too fast!’ cried the Queen in Portuguese. Her eyes were full of anguished tears as she turned to Chaloner. ‘But tell him I must go. It is my only hope. People may not hate me so much when I have a son.’
The Earl waited until she had finished speaking, then immediately started to talk about the weather, unwilling to pursue a subject that might see him asked to pay for the venture himself. He did not let Chaloner translate what she had said, although the spy was sure he had understood the desperation in her voice well enough. The Queen listened intently to his monologue, but it was clear she understood little of it. There was hope in her eyes, though, suggesting she thought the Earl’s chatty, friendly tone meant he approved of her intention to visit a spa, and that he might help to facilitate the matter. Chaloner looked away, unable to watch.
Lady Castlemaine had arrived with the Queen’s party, but did not stay with them for long. She began to strut about, tossing glances at past, present and future lovers that told of all manner of shared secrets. Her presence was a distraction to both the King and Buckingham. They started to play poorly, and their game degenerated into chaos when she descended to the court and tried to catch the ball. Eager to be on her good side, others rushed to assist her. Lady Muskerry fell, and landed with her legs in the air. There was a cheer of manly appreciation, so Lady Castlemaine contrived to do the same. And then there was a forest of naked calves being waved this way and that.
‘I am not staying here to witness such an unedifying spectacle,’ announced the Earl, surveying the scene in open disgust. ‘Haddon’s dogs are better mannered than this rabble!’
It did seem unsuitable behaviour from people who were supposed to be running the country, and the merchants were aghast. Chaloner was relieved to leave the place, and escort his master home.
Haddon was waiting in Worcester House when the Earl and Chaloner arrived there, his dogs curled around his feet. There was to be a dinner for a few of the Earl’s closest friends that night, mostly pompous clergymen and high-ranking lawyers, and the steward wanted to check one or two last-minute details.
‘All is ready, sir,’ he said, almost falling into the Earl’s arms when one of his pooches tripped him. He made sure it was unharmed before he resumed his report. ‘I cancelled the viols, as you asked, and arranged for violins instead.’