He eyed me uneasily, as though trying to interpret my words. ‘I was in the stable loft, if you must know. There were a couple of stable boys up there with me. Does it matter?’
‘It might do. Or it might not.’ I shrugged. ‘I can’t say at this stage what is important and what isn’t. Anyway — ’ I got to my feet — ‘we’d better be getting into supper.’
Timothy rose with alacrity, but Piers hesitated a moment longer. ‘I must return to London,’ he said, ‘so will you and Master Plummer take me with you tomorrow?’
‘We’ll have to spend tomorrow night on the road, you know.’ I laughed. ‘But we won’t force you to share a bed with either of us.’
‘We’ll most likely be forced to share a bed with one another,’ Timothy grunted, obviously none too pleased at the prospect. ‘People are crowding into London from all quarters of the country at present. We’ll be lucky if we’re not sleeping under a hedgerow or in a barn somewhere.’
‘Oh, not with you in the Protector’s livery, surely!’ I mocked him. ‘Someone will be kicked out to make room for us.’
What he might have said as a rejoinder, I don’t know. What he did say, barely moving his lips, was: ‘Stand perfectly still, Chapman.’ He himself, I noted, had gone rigid as had Piers, still seated on the bench.
For a fleeting moment I wondered if they were trying to make a fool of me. But then I heard it: a vicious, blood-curdling growl just behind me.
‘It’s Beelzebub,’ the lad whispered, his face chalk-white. ‘And he isn’t wearing a muzzle.’
I felt the hairs rise on the nape of my neck as an enormous mastiff, a veritable brute of a dog, circled into my line of vision, positioning itself halfway between Timothy and me, its evil, yellow gaze flicking from one to the other of us, saliva dripping from the corners of its mouth. I could smell its breath, stinking of raw meat, from where I was standing. The situation had a strangely familiar feel to it, as though I had experienced something similar, and that very recently — something ‘already seen’ as the French would say — but I was too paralysed with fear to remember where and when. Timothy stood like a statue.
There was another growl, followed by a snarl and the sudden snapping of jaws. I saw the spymaster close his eyes, evidently anticipating the worst. Piers gave a choking sob. I sent up an incoherent prayer. .
‘Here, Beelzebub, here!’ yelled a voice, and the animal turned, fangs bared, ready to deal with this latest enemy. While his attention was thus distracted, I allowed myself to swivel slightly to my right to see who was foolhardy enough to risk the creature’s anger. William Blancheflower was a few yards away, holding out an enormous hambone which he waved enticingly from side to side, retreating slowly step by step as he engaged the dog’s interest. Then, as Beelzebub sprang forward, he dropped the bone and, as it was seized and savagely shaken, moved swiftly behind the animal, jerked its head back with his left hand and clapped on a muzzle with his right. One of the three kennel-boys, trembling with fright, fastened the straps, jumping quickly out of the way as William grappled with the by now enraged beast and forced it back inside its kennel, slamming and bolting the door after it. He then vented his wrath on his trio of subordinates.
‘Which of you cross-eyed little numbskulls left that fucking kennel door open?’ he screamed. He strode towards them and knocked their heads together with a ferocity that made me wince. ‘You know how dangerous that bastard is! Now, which one was it, eh?’
Of course, they vociferously denied responsibility, each one blaming the other two, with a wide-eyed innocence that made it impossible to tell who was lying and who was not. In the end, the kennel master gave it up, but threatened them all with instant dismissal if such a thing ever happened again.
‘My abject apologies, masters,’ he said, turning to Timothy, Piers and myself, the three of us fast regaining our courage now that the danger was past.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Timothy assured him grandly. ‘I daresay the dog would have done us no harm.’
‘If you believe that, you’re a fool,’ was the curt reply. ‘Forgive me, sir, for speaking so bluntly, but that animal is one of the most dangerous creatures it has ever been my lot to encounter. By rights he should be put down before he does someone a serious mischief, but Sir Francis won’t hear of it. Says the place is completely safe from marauders as long as Beelzebub is allowed to roam free at nights.’ He laughed at what must have been the look of consternation on our faces. ‘Oh, don’t worry, masters. He’s only allowed to roam around the outer walls. The courtyard gate is shut and locked at sundown. The dog can’t get inside. And I’m out to muzzle and return him to his kennel at daybreak. You can sleep sound.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m bolting my chamber door tonight,’ I remarked quietly to Timothy as we returned to the inner courtyard and so into the house for supper.
He nodded in agreement, but Piers Daubenay, who had the excellent hearing of the young, assured us blithely, ‘You’ve no need to be afraid, you know. Kennel master Blancheflower is quite right when he says Beelzebub can’t get in. The gate between the inner courtyard and the outer compound is always securely locked at sunset every night. And there’s a small side door, also bolted from within, which William can slip through each morning without any danger that the dog can push past him and come inside.’
‘And in the evening?’ I was still worried.
‘In the evening?’ Piers frowned, then smiled. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. William gives Beelzebub his meal last thing, and, while the dog’s sniffing at his food, he removes his muzzle, then quickly enters by the side door and bolts it top and bottom. You’ll be perfectly safe, you know.’
‘I never thought otherwise,’ Timothy replied with a nonchalance that did him credit. But I guessed that he intended to lock his chamber door just the same.
Supper in the airy servants’ hall had been a pleasant meal. The spymaster and I had been given seats of honour, one on either side of the steward, and the food had been worth waiting for: an oyster soup followed by roast mutton in onion sauce, with beef patties and mustard curd as a remove, the whole being rounded off with a pear syllabub garnished with crystallized rose petals. Both ale and wine had been served, and I had partaken liberally of both. I remember wondering at the time if I had been wise to do so.
The conversation, on the high table at least, had been subdued, all of us thinking of the missing Gideon Fitzalan, wondering if he had yet been found and, if not, what could possibly have become of him. This latter consideration had troubled me, perhaps, more than the others, the discovery of his whereabouts having been laid squarely on my reluctant shoulders. I had listened enviously to the careless hum of talk and the occasional shout of laughter from the lower tables and resentfully wondered, not for the first time in the past couple of days, how it was that I found myself mixed up in the Duke of Gloucester’s affairs yet again.
Now, lying naked on top of my mattress — for the little guest chamber, though comfortable, was hot and airless and I had pushed the coverings on to the floor — I felt that resentment forming itself into a great knot inside my belly, churning away as though it were a live thing. After a while, however, I realized that it wasn’t rancour that was causing my discomfort, but something far more physical. The wine and ale were at war with one another, and a third helping of syllabub was also putting up a fight of its own. As always where food and drink were concerned, my eyes had proved to be too big for my innards. I could feel the sweat pouring off me and knew that I was about to throw up. I slid off the bed, wrapping the discarded sheet around me as I did so, unbolted my door and stepped out into the passageway. Timothy’s drunken snores sounded clearly from the room next to mine.
I recalled that the door at that end of the corridor gave on to the courtyard, and was relieved to see that, although locked, the key hung on a nail beside it A second or two later, I was breathing in the cool midsummer night air, and the threat of immediate sickness had receded. Everything was silent except for the hoot of an owl somewhere amongst the trees bordering the estate, their heads nodding above the roofs of the various outbuildings. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the heavens, bringing the shadows moving stealthily out of their corners to creep across the courtyard floor and give everything a somewhat sinister aspect.