Hughie was expecting the Queen next, but it was a herd of women, to the sound of pipes and viols. They were arm in arm, some of them older, eight of them juicy and pert in their teens and all wearing the Queen’s black and white colours, designed to their taste. It was a fine sight and interesting for the mixture of French and Spanish fashion, with the big wheel farthingales coming in now even in Scotland.
The music stopped. More trumpeting. Men were shouting “The Queen! The Queen!”
Hughie blinked. A broad long man in dazzling white with red hair and an impressive beard paced in slowly, leaning down to someone much shorter in black velvet and white damask blazing with jewels and pearls, who had her heavily ringed white hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
In a smooth sweeping motion, the whole mob of people in the tent went to both their knees. Nearly falling over, Hughie did the same, squinting to see the cause of it clearly.
Through the lanes of cramoisie, green, black, tawny, rose, and even daring sky blue, all the men with their hats off, went…
A smallish elderly woman entered wearing a bright red wig sparkled with diamonds and a small gold and pearl crown, different-coloured ribbons all over her black velvet gown with a huge Spanish farthingale under it. Her face was white with red cheekbones and her eyes snapping and sparkling black as they looked about around her people. Hughie’s blood went cold as he realised he still had his hat on and scrabbled it off before she could see, leaving his hair standing up on end. The penetrating gaze swept past and didn’t seem to have spotted him.
There was a loud shout of “God save the Queen!” and all the people shouted it three times.
The Queen walked to the chair under her cloth of estate, turned about as she let go of the big man’s arm, smiled down at her kneeling courtiers.
“My lords, ladies, gentlemen, and goodmen,” she said in a penetrating contralto voice. “We thank you for your loving greeting and attendance upon us and hereby order you all to your feet in our presence, so we may enjoy the dancing arranged for our entertainment by our well-loved Lord Norris and Earl of Cumberland.” A round-faced man with a worried look stood up and bowed low to her. The Queen clapped her hands.
“Up, up, on your feet, all of you, never mind your knees,” she said with a magical smile. “What shall we have first, Mr. Byrd? A coranto?”
The short fat man bowed and pointed two fingers. The musicians started up the dance-measure as the lines of courtiers quickly sorted themselves.
Hughie had no idea how to dance Court dances, though he could give a good account of himself at the Edinburgh fair day, which put him in mind of something he had done for Lord Spynie once at a Court dance and that had worked very nicely. Everybody had thought that the fat burgher, whose daughter Spynie had taken a fancy to, had gone outside for air and then died suddenly of a fit sent by God in punishment for his avarice.
Hughie watched as Carey joined the lines of dancers, smiling and talking to the small dark Welshman on his left. Hughie sidled along the wall to be nearer the musicians. He wanted a metal harp or lute string, that was all. You never knew when you might get the opportunity to earn your gold.
Saturday 16th September 1592, evening
Emilia watched Sir Robert Carey and calculated where she stood among the other women so she would be his partner for the measures halfway through the country dance that was next. Oddly enough, her prey seemed not to have noticed her yet. Perhaps he was being coy.
She fluttered her fan across her face, the last crimson remnant of what had worked for him in Scotland and smiled to him under her lashes. He acknowledged her with a polite tilt of his head but that was all. Had he been gelded by the Scots then?
She took hands with the provincial English girls on either side of her in their ugly provincial English gowns, stepped forward, stepped back, her borrowed velvet rocking around her hips with the other women’s careful farthingales, stepped sideways, stepped back, such a boring dance, thank God she had a mind that learned such things easily, stepped forward, take hands with a spotty boy that had used far too much white lead on the spots, spin, dance a measure with him, spin again and back to the women’s line, and so along by two partners.
At the far end she knew the Queen was in the line of women and at the other end was the ginger man, Essex, her mignon and no doubt her paramour, the wicked old bitch.
And step forward and back and sideways again. That bad man Cumberland was giving one of the prettier provincial girls the kind of smile he had given her across a hall in Dublin, and that was unfair, the use of a culverin to sink a rowing boat, for the girl was stricken by it like a rabbit at a fox. Perhaps she would be well-guarded by her menfolk.
Emilia sighed, spun, danced, stepped forward and back and then, quite unexpectedly, there was M. le deputé who had so helpfully and expensively sold her guns for Ireland. Well, he had sold them to her stupid husband who had been too excited at the thought of blackmailing the Queen’s nephew to check them properly and so nearly brought about not just their deaths, which Emilia could perhaps have forgiven from Purgatory, but much worse, their ruin.
She smiled at him and wished for a feathered mask. He looked down at her gravely, spun her, danced, spun her again and all with the most depressing propriety.
Damn, damn, damn him, he was playing hard to get because there was a clear admission of guilt in his humorously raised eyebrow and the sparkle in his so-blue eyes.
Jesu, what an annoying man. Her stomach was fizzing again; she was lusting after him like one of the stupid provincial girls. That was not at all the way to do it. He was supposed to be hot for her, not the other way around. However there was no question that she wanted more of what he had so scandalously and lustily given her in Scotland. She definitely wanted him. When they danced, her whole body had risen to him, trout to a lure. Goddamn him.
She smiled again with particular lasciviousness at the next man to spin her round, a willowy youth in pearl-grey satin. And then she quite consciously stopped herself. She had to bank her fires so they could work where they were really needed. But she still needed that valuable introduction to the Earl of Essex. Her satisfaction for the guns would have to wait. It was lucky she had a secret contact here.
She paced forward and back and sideways again and found herself dancing with the Earl of Essex himself, now in white satin and white velvet, sparked with diamonds, trimmed in gold. He blanked her completely. Should she dare to ask? No, the music was too loud and the Queen would see. She had to take the normal route, through Carey or another follower of the Earl. Damn. Of course, that was why Carey was playing hard to get, he had been ten years a courtier. He knew his worth.
She let the moment pass. At the last measure, cleverly timed, the Queen and Essex danced together. The Queen was a good dancer, light and brisk on her feet. Then Essex expertly played the part of a man in love and leaned solicitously over a woman at least thirty years senior to him, who giggled and flirted and Holy Madonna, had her stays scandalously low and her hair uncovered by a cap, as if a maid of fourteen. Disgusting!
The two bowed and curtseyed to each other—the Queen not very much and the Earl a great deal from his great height and the other dancers all clapped.
Emilia’s feet were already sore and pinched in their borrowed dancing slippers and much-darned silk stockings. What could she bribe the Deputy with if not herself? She had only received one good necklace so far from Cumberland and it looked as if she would have to say goodbye to it now.
Hmm. She moved toward the broad-shouldered lad whom Carey had had at his back when he came in, instead of the lanky dour-faced man he had in Scotland. This one had a square raw-boned face and seemed only quarter-witted, but was wearing an Edinburgh cut doublet. He had been hanging around near the musicians, who weren’t bad at all, considering. Now the youth was at the back, near the bowls of wine and mead, watching for the signal from his master.
It came—Carey caught his eye and made a move with his hand. The youth bowed sli
ghtly, turned and poured wine into a plain silver goblet he was holding. He took a quick mouthful, surprisingly well-trained to Court ways, then brought it over to his master, a small towel on his arm and offered it with a bow. Carey drank it off.
Then he turned to bow to the Queen, who said something to him that made him tense. Emilia was getting used to English after becoming quite proficient at the barbaric tongue of Scotch—the two languages were brothers after all. She was sure the Queen had said something about singing. Carey bowed again and moved through the crowds to the musicians where the men of the chapel were lining up to sing. Carey stood at the end of the row, took a sheet of music and squinted at it. He looked very odd there, gaudy in his pearls next to the plain chapel men with their black robes and white collars.
The fat music master was explaining the music, Emilia thought, saying something about writing it that very afternoon and would Her Majesty care to hear his poor rough first attempt sung for the very first time? The Queen inclined her head, said something which caused sycophantic titters of laughter among the courtiers.
Carey smiled like a man accepting a challenge to duel, opened his mouth, waited for the beat, and sang the opening, perfectly on the note. The boy-sopranos speared their way into his line and the bassos, other tenors, and altos came in. It was a Spanish air, newly set in the modern Italian way, but she hadn’t heard it before. It was somehow both sprightly and wistful.
The words were English and didn’t quite fit…she didn’t understand them. Emilia closed her eyes. It had such a sound of the South, of the Mediterranean, you could almost smell the olive trees and dust in it, the hot dry sun in it. Ah, the sun.
Something made her look at one of the musicians at the back of the group. He seemed transfixed, a handsome greybeard, he had stopped playing his viol. A tear was tracking its way down his creased cheek.
Emilia turned away at once as the music casually knotted her throat. She had to catch a tear out of the corner of her eye with the corner of her handkerchief before it caused her kohl to smear. What had she seen there in that old man’s face? Shocked surprise, then something raw, something full of longing. Did the air remind him, too, of olive trees and sunlight like a golden knife? Or perhaps of something else, a lover? Her tear had come from her longing for her children, not any stupid man, of course. They were lost to her, locked in their convent, unless she could bring off the coup she needed. Bonnetti didn’t care because he was a man, he could get more. She would not.
Someone was singing solo now. The tune was complex but he had support from the pipes. Someone with a very fine strong voice, a clear tenor that allowed the notes to flow like water.
It was M. le deputé again. There he stood, sight-singing the complex tenor line and the bassos coming in again now to wind about the stem of his voice like dark green snakes.
There was another damned tear in her eye. Again! Because his voice did bring the blue blue sky of the South with it, somehow, the vivid intense lapis lazuli that you never saw in the grey North and she missed it and she missed her children.…
She could not even cough. She had to stop breathing. She caught that tear, too, no more please, M. le deputé, my heart will not stand it and in any case it’s all your fault that I’m still here in the Northern wastes.
Thank God the boys were singing now, one of them sharp from nerves, the men, too, weaving and parting and finally coming in sequence to an end against Carey’s sustained note.
Just a little silence afterward, that heartbeat of silence the people needed to bring themselves back from the land of music, the highest compliment any audience could give. Then ordinary applause, the Queen smiling and clapping her embroidered gloves as well.
The adult musicians were grudgingly approving, the boys staring up at the Courtier. The senior chapel man shook Carey’s hand. The Queen said something that sounded complimentary about her cousin at which Carey promptly stepped forward and went down on two knees to her, his lips moving although Emilia couldn’t hear what he said.
The Queen laughed and gave him her hand to kiss which he did and stayed on his knees. Again his lips moved and the Queen tapped his nose playfully—but possibly quite painfully—with her new Chinese fan. He rose, bowed, stepped back, bowed again as the Queen too turned aside to speak to another person on his knees, looked wry and rubbed his nose, sneezed.
The Queen was now talking to Essex again and the chapel men started singing once more to the chapel master’s nod, a song that only needed one tenor and was easy. Emilia started manoeuvring toward Carey through the crowds now sweating in the heat from the candles. Such a very fine piece of manflesh, she thought coldly, what a pity to kill him. But still, it had to be done. First Essex, though.
She barged neatly past two dowdy women making for the banquet table with jellies and creams. She got in front of Carey as he reached to take his goblet from his servingman. She made sure she was turned away from him so he would suspect nothing and he trod on the back of her gown as he was supposed to.
“Oh!” she squeaked as she heard the pop of one of her points. She turned and was surprised to see him, of course. “Monsieur le deputé,” she trilled, “May I speak to you?”
She said it in Scotch, on the grounds that she spoke that language better and it might give them a little privacy while not excluding the young servingman whom she had suddenly, just that moment, recognised as her contact. More of the English Court would speak French than Scotch, that was sure. Also she wanted Carey to remember their affair and even feel guilty, if possible.
He bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “I’m so sorry, have I torn your gown, Signora?” he asked. “You know how clumsy I am.” Like most men who called themselves clumsy, he wasn’t at all. And he had apologised for his clumsiness before, in Scotland. Ai, her stupid heart had started beating hard again.
“No, no,” she told him. “It was me, I was pushing in front of you because I want one of the rose almond creams that I love so much.”
He smiled, reached a long arm over the scrum of women and brought out a pretty little sugar paste bowl full of rose cream. Emilia took it quickly. It had a little carved sugar paste spoon sticking out of it and she started eating it immediately, very quickly and carefully. Actually it was wonderful, smooth and sweet and creamy with the scent of roses. The English were very good at this sort of delicacy thanks to their miserable cold climate.
She scraped up the last smears of cream and laughed. “Delicious! And quite unobtainable in Italy, where you would need to freeze it first with snow or it would go off in the heat.” This time she was speaking French which was so much easier.
Carey’s eyebrows went up; politely he responded in French.
“What a good idea, Signora,” he said, “frozen creams—perhaps the Queen would enjoy them?”
Emilia shook her head, making the feather bob and the ringlets fly. “Impossible, Monsieur, you must have high mountains that have snow in summer within one day’s running distance and very clever cooks.”
“The cooks we have, and the runners,” smiled Carey, his eyes intent and patient. “Alas, the snowy mountains, no.”
“Also to eat it you need good teeth or the cold makes them twinge.”
“Ah,” said Carey. “In that case, perhaps not a good idea for the Queen.”
Emilia giggled. Of course, the Queen, like most of the sugar-loving English, had terrible teeth. Now then. How could she find out his price? Well, she could ask him. That might even be the best way to go.
She twined her arm into his confidingly and put the sugar plate bowl and spoon down on the banquet table. Her own teeth would certainly no longer stand up to crunching sugar plate.
“Monsieur, let me be frank with you,” she said. “My husband and I have contacts and knowledge of sweet wines.” They were still speaking French because she wanted to be understood by any embassy listeners. “You are the Earl of Essex’s man, who has the farm for sweet wines?”
“More than that. He knighted me, Si
gnora.”
Even Emilia knew how important that was, how difficult it was for a man to be knighted at this Queen’s Court, where the Queen was so stingy with honours and didn’t even sell them like a civilized person.
“I can help him with his farm of sweet wines,” said Emilia. “All I need is for you to introduce me to the Earl so I can introduce my husband to him. “
“Now? Tonight?” Like all courtiers he wanted to spin the negotiation out to get more than one bribe.
“Yes, or someone else will get it.” Suddenly there was sweat trickling down under her smock, it was hard to pretend indifference in this life-or-death matter.
“Do you want to buy the farm of sweet wines from him?”
Jesu, if only! “No,” Emilia admitted, “we want to manage it for him so he makes the most profit possible. We also want to import many very fine sweet wines from my country and sell them.” She left unmentioned how immensely valuable to many people might be information straight from the Queen’s favourite, just in case he hadn’t thought of that angle. “If milord Essex does sell the farm to someone else, we can still work with him because he will still need to import sweet wines to drink.”
“Hmm…”
“I know we can find good wines at such low prices everyone will still make so much money,” Emilia added, “perhaps a small commission for you…”
She let the sentence hang in the air and Carey didn’t so much as blink at it floating past. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off that way, it seemed.
“Fifty pounds cash,” said Carey, “or the equivalent in jewellery. Now.”
“Now? Jesu Maria…”
He shrugged, a very French gesture Englished. “You may be able to find someone else to make the introduction,” he said still in French. “They might even cost less. But this is your last chance until the Queen is back at Whitehall because after this, the Court will go to Woodstock and then to Oxford where there will be no women at the University entertainments. The Earl will be closeted with the Queen or attending on her and no one who isn’t already one of his own or the Queen’s will be able to meet with him.”
Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) Page 8