The falcon looked down at Maggie with keen black eyes. He made a high-pitched “key-key-key-key!” cry, which floated up into the cold air and hung there. Then he flew off.
Frain said the Germans were planning on kidnapping Princess Elizabeth, not assassinating her. But he could be wrong. Had someone intended to kill the Princess? Had Lily Howell just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Chapter Nine
As Maggie approached the castle, her ears were assaulted by the barking of a pack of corgis. Back at No. 10, she’d liked having Mr. and Mrs. Churchill’s pets around, even if some of the other staff members complained. But compared to the corgis, Rufus and Nelson and the rest of the Churchill menagerie were downright civilized.
These dogs, with their big pointed ears, large, sleek bodies, and tiny legs, swarmed around her, yapping, jumping, and pulling at the hem of her coat. With all the teeth and fur and noise, Maggie didn’t even see Princess Elizabeth walking behind them.
“Dookie!” the Princess called, her sweet childish voice ringing out. “Dookie! And the rest of you! Leave poor Maggie alone!”
Poor Maggie had a sudden urge to turn and run, but instead knelt down, putting out a hand for the dogs to sniff. “There, now,” she said in gentle tones. “It’s all right. See? I’m perfectly friendly.”
Without warning, one of the corgis bit her hand, teeth sinking into the tender flesh.
“Ow!” Maggie cried. “Ow, ow, ow!” she said, shaking her hand, wishing she could say so much more.
“Dookie!” the Princess admonished. “Bad dog! Very bad dog!”
She ran over to Maggie, with the grave air of one who was used to looking after canine injuries. “Let me see.”
Maggie gingerly took off her glove and stuck out her hand. The dog’s fangs had torn through the leather and lining but hadn’t broken the skin. Still, her hand bore the imprint of red, angry tooth marks.
“Oh, it’s not so bad, really,” the Princess said, inspecting it.
Maggie gritted her teeth. Easy for you to say.
“You should have seen Lord Livingston!” the Princess said. “Dookie bit him and there was just blood everywhere. They can’t help it,” she continued earnestly. “None of them can. It’s how they’re bred. They’re hunters, after all. It’s just their nature to bite.”
“Really,” Maggie managed. “And his name is Dookie?”
“His full and formal name is really Rozavel Golden Eagle. But yes, he’s called Dookie, because he was supposed to go to my father, who was the Duke of York at the time. That’s what the breeders called him when he was born, and the name just stuck.”
“I see,” Maggie said through tight lips.
“You aren’t going to tell Crawfie, are you? Or Alah? Or Mummy and Daddy?”
Maggie saw an opening to win the girl’s trust. “No, I won’t. I promise. You’re right—Dookie’s only doing what’s in his nature.”
“Oh, thank you.” The Princess brightened. “I can fetch you an ice bag, if you’d like.”
“That’s all right. But I wouldn’t mind an escort back to Victoria Tower. The castle’s rather confusing.” She smiled. “I might have to start dropping bread crumbs. Although then I’d probably be fined by the ARP Warden.”
“You would,” the Princess said. “But I must insist that first I take you to the kitchen, so Cook can give you some ice for your hand.”
Maggie smiled at the young girl’s motherly tones, especially after the morning she’d already been through. Score one for the British stiff upper lip, she thought. “Of course, Your Highness. Thank you.” Then, “By the way, should you be wandering around by yourself, especially after what happened to Lady Lily?”
Lilibet had the grace to blush. “I am in the habit of sneaking out a lot,” she confided. “It gets so dull inside, with all the knitting.”
“I know, but you probably should be with someone.” Maggie made a mental note to talk to Alah about it.
“Yes, Maggie.” As they strolled, Maggie looked at the Princess in profile. She was fourteen, but she seemed younger. Her neck looked so slim and vulnerable. How close had she come to dying today?
“I met with Crawfie this morning,” Maggie began. “She showed me your schedule. You and your sister are very busy girls.”
“Oh, and you don’t know the half of it. They make us knit too. For the soldiers, of course. I’m terrible at it, especially socks. Can’t turn a heel. I pity the men who get my socks, they’re all so lumpy and bumpy.”