The Midsummer Crown by Kate Sedley

and find a quiet corner out of other folk’s way. There’s always somewhere, either in the kitchens or the stables where you can find a little privacy.’
    â€˜So you were on your own,’ I murmured thoughtfully.
    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?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 . . .
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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