‘It is of a … personal and delicate nature. I need … an appendage resembling …’ Kit mentally rejected all the shipboard vocabulary she had learned for the male member. ‘A man’s parts.’
Maria van Lommen nodded, her face impassive, as if Kit had asked for a silver spoon. ‘Come into the back. Gennaro!’ she called, and the giant stooped to enter the shop. ‘Guarda qui.’
The treasure guarded, Maria swiped back a heavy blood-velvet curtain with one green hand, and led Kit into a little atrium. ‘Is this what you are looking for?’
Ranged around the wall were raked shelves, lined with the same crimson velvet, displaying the strangest objects and contraptions Kit had ever seen.
‘You see anything you like? I got more in the drawers, different sizes, different attachments. You just say, I make bespoke.’
‘May I?’ Kit picked up one of the objects, astonished. As she turned the thing over in her hand seeing her face reflected crazily in its contours, she was flabbergasted. The thing was almost exactly what she’d imagined she needed. It was a long silver tube enclosed at one end and rounded like a male member. Below the tube hung two globes, and complicated soft leather straps were threaded through silver eyelets to attach the thing to the lower body. But surely she must be mistaken – no one could need what she had in mind. ‘What is it?’
‘Here they call it a Venetian finger.’
‘A what?’
‘A staff of love,’ said Maria. ‘A quillety, a faucetin, a dandilolly. It has many names for many nations. It straps on, so you can pleasure your man. That is what you meant, is it not? That is what you came for?’
‘No. That is … No. That is not what I wanted at all.’
‘See here,’ said Maria van Lommen, pressing her green hands together as if in prayer. ‘I am not your priest. I am not here to take your confession. You can dress as a soldier-boy and play your bed-games, whatever pleases you. I sell you anything, no judgement. It is good disguise, I grant you. But let us not waste time. I knew you for a woman as soon as you walked through my door.’
Kit smiled shakily at the silversmith. The discovery she most feared had come, and not at all from the quarter she’d imagined.
‘Be at your ease,’ said Maria. ‘I am not going to give you away. Why would I? Come though to the workshop, and explain to me exactly what you need.’
The workshop was a well-lit room with a long workbench littered with alien tools and compounds in small copper dishes. Crucibles and limbecs suspended above the bench connected by crazy pipes, and half-finished lumps of silver twisted into miraculous shapes, as if they were being birthed from the metal. The whole room had an odd, tangy smell, despite the casements being thrust fully open in the warm evening.
Kit talked as Maria drew on some parchment with a piece of charcoal. ‘I need an appendage that gives me the male appearance through my clothes, but I need to piss through it convincingly – as a foot soldier I will be on the road with three score men for a time, with no privacy whatsoever, and must not reveal myself. That is …’ A thought stopped her tongue.
‘That is …?’ prompted Maria gently.
‘That is if I have not revealed myself already.’
‘How could you have?’
‘Well, you knew me at once.’
Maria spread her strange hands. ‘But I am a woman. Believe me, for most men, once a person’s sex is established, that is the end of the matter. Generals of armies, admirals of navies, prime ministers and kings, priests and bishops they may be, but few of them are as perceptive as you might think. Most of them see the moon and call it a shilling.’ She rooted in a little drawer and brought out a handful of silver beads, then turned back to Kit.
‘None of my current models will fit your purpose,’ mused Maria, a pinprick of unquiet, excited fire igniting her tranquil grey eyes for the first time. ‘This will truly be a challenge. For unlike my pleasure pricks you will need a hollow member with a hole in the tip. The thing should have a pipe inside, so your urine can flow, and the pipe should turn up at the tip so that the piss arcs convincingly. But the whole apparatus must be as wide as the span of a hand, to catch your flow like a funnel.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Yes,’ said Maria without hesitation. ‘Get undressed. There are certain measurements which must be taken. You permit me?’
Kit swallowed. ‘Yes.’
She removed her breeches fully for the first time in two weeks, conscious of the spicy smell of body odour. But Maria seemed unconcerned as she measured the distance between the top of Kit’s thighs and the distance from her buttocks to the front of her treasure pouch. ‘In the normal way the fit is not important, for the woman wears a Venetian finger for the act itself, and then takes it off and lays it by until next time. But in your case you will be wearing it all day, every day. So it must be light and serviceable and comfortable, and must not dig your flesh nor tarnish.’ Then Maria used her fingers, speaking more to herself than Kit. ‘The stream comes from here at the front … Venus hole farther back … anus farther back still.’ Kit, whose anatomy was largely a mystery to her, began to be acquainted with her own body. It seemed a woman had as many holes as a cheesecloth – three to contend with in this design alone.
Maria straightened and stood. ‘Cover yourself,’ she said. She rang a small silver bell and gave an incomprehensible command to the swarthy girl who appeared. The girl brought a jug of ale, which she handed to Kit, and a chamber pot which she placed on the floor by the legs of her chair. ‘Drink,’ said Maria. ‘For we must test the design.’
Kit drank thirstily – for she had had no refreshment since shipboard – while Maria worked with sticky white plaster and silver wire, shaping and moulding with her discoloured fingers. The silversmith talked as she worked. ‘We must consider how this will look in your clothes. We must consider the length and thrust of the thing – for men have two states as you must know.’ Of all the information Maria had imparted this at least she did understand, for in the short sweet months of marriage to Richard she had come to understand both states. ‘Obviously you cannot stand stiff as a poker. But there should be some protrusion in your breeches to make your disguise authentic.’
Maria made a model out of plaster, and Kit drunk quart after quart of ale to fill her bladder. Tipsy enough not to mind removing her breeches, she fitted the funnel between her thighs, and let go into a chamber pot Maria had placed for the purpose. After leaks and dribblings and alterations to the design, Maria had a model she was happy with. ‘I will now cast the real one,’ she said, lighting a blue flame and setting a crucible of silver beads upon it. In the growing dark the flame bleached Maria’s hair to silver too. ‘Can you wait?’
‘The muster is tomorrow at dawn,’ said Kit, watching, fascinated, as the silver beads became a bright puddle in the dun-grey crucible.
‘That will be time enough,’ said Maria to the crucible, not looking up. ‘You can stay here the night.’
Kit looked unsure – ‘We were directed to stay at the palace by the cathedral.’
Maria looked almost as if she could smile. ‘Your fellows of the regiment will all be in the cathouses by the harbour for the night. I’ll wager my whole shop that not one of them will stay in the palazzo. After a fortnight at sea they’ll be as sharp set as a man in a desert. And that,’ she said, looking up at Kit, ‘is how you may be quiet in your mind that none of them knows you for a woman.’
‘How may I be sure?’
‘Did anyone touch you on the ship?’
‘Two braggards pushed me over.’ Then she understood. ‘No.’
‘Then they don’t know. If they’d known, every one of them would have had you. You make such a pretty boy that I am surprised that they did not try you anyway.’
Kit was taken aback by such frankness, but saw an opportunity to further educate herself. ‘Then men do lie together like man and wife?’
‘Since time began. You know your own anatomy now; there is one hole we all sha
re.’ Kit considered this, horrified and fascinated, while Maria dropped some more silver beads in a crucible, hesitated, then added a couple more. ‘Of course it happens. Confined space, long voyages, no women. And of course, for some men it is their preference.’
‘They prefer that? Men to women?’
‘Some do, yes. Just as some women prefer women.’
Kit looked sharply at Maria. The words seemed to have some weight, but the silversmith was concentrating on poking in a tiny drawer in her apothecary chest with one green finger. ‘I will mix an alloy in with the silver. Else it will tarnish and your women’s parts will turn as green as my fingers.’
And … she thought of her nights in the hammock, hearing those rhythmic rubbings and groans. ‘Can a man do it … by himself?’
‘Not the act, of course. A man is not made to twist like a serpent and reach his own hole, though some would if they could. No; when there aren’t any holes to be had, or a mouth, a clasped hand will do.’
Kit digested this. ‘But if men lie with men, then why wasn’t I … molested on board ship?’
‘Because of the consequences. The English Navy has regulations against sodomy. If two men are found bedding together, they are lashed together and thrown overboard.’
Kit swallowed.
‘Would you like a bath?’ asked Maria, as if they’d just been talking of the weather. ‘I’ll get the servants to fill you a bath.’
Kit forgot the ways of men. ‘You have a bath?’
Kit luxuriated upstairs in a small square chamber hung with green damask, and lit by a constellation of candles. She lowered herself into a large silver bathtub with animal’s feet. It was full to the brim with warm milky water and floating with lavender heads. She scrubbed every inch of herself, removing two weeks of grime. She had never appreciated before the sheer simple pleasure of being clean. She washed her hair with the lavender, and soaked until she dozed. The bliss, the utter bliss of being immersed and caressed by the warm water, of being naked for the first time in two weeks, of being free from the prison of the greasy and besmattered uniform she’d come to detest. She must have stayed there for hours dozing and drifting, till the water was no more than tepid. When the door opened Kit instinctively covered her breasts, but it was only Maria bearing a covered jug – Maria, who had not only seen, but measured, her most intimate parts. She lowered her hands and smiled.
‘It is done,’ said the silversmith, ‘but the metal must cool slowly so the alloy does not crack. Take your leisure.’ Maria poured the contents of the jug into the bath and the hot water refreshed the bath once more. Then she knelt, took a linen cloth, dipped it in the bath and began to rub Kit’s shoulders. The moon watched at the window. ‘That is the same moon that bade me farewell in Dublin.’ Kit spoke almost to herself, dreamily, not expecting Maria to understand, too sleepy to explain. ‘The moon watches over all women,’ said Maria. ‘She controls the tides and so the cycles of our own bleedings. And silver is the moon’s metal,’ she went on, washing Kit’s shoulders rhythmically. ‘The emblem of my house is the silver arrows, the arrows of Diana, the huntress. Silver is a woman’s metal too. Mirrors, picture frames, arrows, daggers, jewellery. Reliquaries for the Virgin.’ The cloth made soothing circles on Kit’s flesh. ‘These are female things. That is why we use silver for those love toys for women such as I showed you. I do not make mail or swords or helms; the steelmakers cast the rings for armour or the blades for battle. Silver understands us; our femininity, our vanity, our changeability, our dreams and desires.’ Maria’s voice, sing-song and sibilant and soft, was making Kit sleepy, and the motion of the cloth on her shoulders made her shiver with pleasure though the water was so warm. Dreamily, she watched the moon fracture and ripple on the surface of the water through half-closed eyes, but she knew she must break the spell and ask a dangerous question. ‘When you spoke of women loving women, were you talking of yourself?’
The cloth stopped in its progress. Started again. ‘Yes.’
Kit steeled herself. ‘Just how much will this silver prick you are making cost me?’
Maria’s lips pursed a little, and she almost, almost smiled. She wrung out the cloth with her discoloured hands and laid it neatly on the side of the bath. ‘There is no price. Unlike most men I’ve no interest in seducing women who do not want to be seduced.’
Kit relaxed back against the curve of the silver bath.
Maria stood. ‘I will leave you. Come and see me in the morning – your disguise should be cool enough to try.’
Kit was asleep as soon as her head touched the feather pillow of her bed, and slept the blank dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted.
In the morning she rose before the sun, at the gentle knock of a servant, but felt more refreshed than she’d done since Richard left. The silver prick lay on top of the folded clothes, and she tied it on first before donning her breeches. She would never have dreamed that something wrought of metal could be so comfortable – the thing was light and discreet, and its moulded seams sat smoothly against her tender parts with no chafing. But she almost cried when she had to don her uniform, stiff with sweat and seawater and greasy with stains. Now she must remove her treasure pouch from between her legs; instead she tied the heavy pad of coins around her waist, thickening it and giving her a cleaner male line from shoulder to hip.
She went downstairs to find Maria at breakfast, at a table set with silver platters and spoons, and lit with candles anticipating daylight.
‘How is your prick?’ asked Maria with no preamble.
‘It feels like a part of me.’
Maria inclined her head, taking this strange statement as the compliment it was. ‘Gennaro will guide you to the Piazza Reale.’ She called for her giant, and he appeared with a noiselessness that belied his size. ‘We don’t open till sunup, so I don’t need him till then.’
Kit felt for her purse. ‘First I must pay the reckoning.’
Maria shook her head, and her pale hair flew about her face. ‘I told you there would be no price. Your problem challenged me. If you are satisfied, then I am too.’
‘I will always be in your debt.’
And slowly, deliberately, Kit placed her hands on the table among all the silver plate and the candles, bent down and kissed Maria van Lommen chastely, but firmly, on the lips.
Chapter 6
And we met Sergeant Knacker and Captain Vamp …
‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)
The shady square before the pied cathedral was coloured with redcoats, ranked in approximate positions, under the haughty eye of the Marquis de Pisare. Kit hurried along the lines, noting the shadowed eyes, yawning mouths and rank breaths smoking in the foredawn, and knew Maria had been right – they had all of them spent the night at some tavern or molly house. At last she recognised some faces from The Truth and Daylight and pushed into the lines alongside them.
Of all people, the recruit she’d rebuked at the shrine joshed her as she fell in. ‘Didn’t see you at the tavern, you sly fox. Been a-burrowing in some trugging place?’
Kit smiled and winked broadly. ‘I spent the night with a woman, yes.’ She leant close to his greasy ear. ‘As I do every night.’
He shouted with laughter and clapped Kit on the back between the shoulder blades. It was working.
Lieutenant Gardiner paced before them, as correct and chilly as ever. ‘If I call your name, step forth.’ Kit half-listened to the names, mostly good Irish names from Mayo, from Cork, from Waterford. Then she saw the marquis murmur in Gardiner’s ear and point at her. ‘Christian Walsh.’
She stepped forward, the blood thrumming in her ears. Had she been discovered? She looked about her; she was in company with a row of ten or more strong men, all of whom she recognised as the ones who had been practising manoeuvres on the ship.
‘You dozen will report to Captain Ross at the lighthouse. You’re to be enrolled in the dragoons.’
The lighthouse stood on a pretty rocky cape on a peninsula reaching out
into the blue sea. The tower was constructed in two square portions, each one capped by a crenellated terrace crowned by a lantern. The lower prism was painted with a red cross on a white ground, and Kit recognised the symbol from the ship – the first sign she’d seen of Genova.
Kit followed the dozen down to the shingle, and saw ahead, standing on the promontory, a tall figure, entirely in shadow against the bright background. He had one foot on a rock, a hand on his knee, and was shielding his eyes to look out to sea. A tall ship grazed the horizon, and Kit wondered whether the figure watched The Truth and Daylight, forging a path home to Dublin. The sun sparkled on the water and as the small band approached the figure turned and stood at attention while the dozen formed a semicircle around him. He was clearly not the captain they sought, for he was no older than Richard; but while he waited for them to order themselves she had a little time to study him: this then, was a dragoon.
He was immaculate from crown to toe; an ideal soldier. His appearance put the shabby dozen to shame. You may aspire to be me, he seemed to say, you may become like me in time, if you work hard. He was at least a head taller than any of them; broad of shoulder and lean of hip. He had glossy black hair, brushed forward over his forehead and above his ears in the latest style, but his eyes were such a bright blue in contrast to the blackness of his hair that Kit thought at once that he must be Irish. His uniform fitted him like a skin and was pristine; he wore a red coat with a dozen buttons of sparkling gilt. His jacket had royal blue facings and the peeping cuffs and collars of his shirt were starched and bright. His breeches, tightly fitted, tucked into long black riding boots as polished as any dandy’s and one arm cradled a beautifully brushed tricorn with white piping and the badge of the dragoons.
This vision looked them up and down with a sardonic twist of his handsome mouth. ‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘You all stink like a Monday fish market.’ Then, before Kit realised what was happening, he calmly went down the line and pushed them in turn off the promontory into the sea.
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