Dodd told him, or at least all of it that he knew. At the end of his story, Hunsdon passed his palm across his eyes.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘And his hands?’
‘What he said to me was they got caught in a door.’
‘Oh really?’
‘But considering two fingers was broken—which are fine now, my lord, his grip’s good enough to fire a dag—and he’s lost four fingernails which arenae grown back yet, my guess is someone had at him wi’ the pinniwinks.’ Hunsdon raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, thumbscrews, sir.’
Carey’s dad had the same capacity as his son for instantly radiating compressed fury. His grey eyes had gone cold as ice.
‘King James?’
‘I doubt it, seeing how much he likes the Cour…Sir Robert, and seeing he give us the guns back.’
‘Then Lord Spynie.’
‘Ay, my lord. And Sir Henry Widdrington.’
There was a short heavy silence. It was noticeable that Carey’s father did not ask why Widdrington should want to mistreat his son. Hunsdon was staring into space. Dodd kept his mouth shut because he recognised that look, and if Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon was meditating on ways and means for a startling piece of vengeance, it wasn’t Dodd’s place to interrupt him. Eventually Hunsdon looked shrewdly at Dodd.
‘My youngest son’s capacity for getting himself into trouble and then out again has never ceased to astound me,’ he said. ‘Is that it, the full tale?’
‘All I know, my lord.’
‘Barnabus claims to be even more ignorant. Is it true Robin left him in Carlisle when he went into Scotland?’
‘Ay, my lord. He was…ah…he was indisposed.’
Hunsdon grinned. ‘So I gathered, poor fellow. Clap’s the very devil, isn’t it?’
Dodd wasn’t at all sure how to answer this as he had no personal experience of clap at all, but was saved by the slam of a window being opened and an indistinct shrieking of a woman’s voice on the side of the house overlooking the Strand. Hunsdon opened the window of his office himself, and leaned out to look. Dodd peered over his shoulder.
Mistress Bassano was leaning out of an upstairs window, her magnificent hair flying in the breeze, her magnificent breasts bulging over the top of her pale green bodice and two high spots of colour pointing up the hectic flash of her eyes.
‘You pathetic bookworm, you pillock of a man, how dare you send this trash to me, how dare you!’
She was waving a couple of pieces of writing which had the painful regularity of something much laboured over.
‘You look at me with your stupid dog’s eyes and you whine of love, but do you see me? No. Look at this piece of drivel, you pox-blinded bald nincompoop!’
Mistress Bassano was screaming at Will Shakespeare, who stood in the street unaware of the way the passing throngs were pausing to turn and stare, his face full of misery.
With passionate ceremony Mistress Bassano tore up the papers, dug obscenely under her petticoats with them and then dropped them in a jordan held by her giggling maid. Hunsdon was leaning against the window-frame enjoying himself. Shakespeare stood with his mouth open and his hands out in desperation at this sacrilege. Mistress Bassano nodded to her maid who threw the contents of the jordan with deadly aim at his head. The other walkers in the street had scattered away from him as soon as they saw the jordan, but Shakespeare just stood there, with soiled sheets of paper fluttering around him and something horrible stuck to his doublet.
Lord Hunsdon cheered and applauded, his good-humour slightly edged with malice. Mistress Bassano dusted off her fingers fastidiously, turned a satin shoulder and disappeared from the window. The maid impudently added a finger at Will before the shutters banged closed again.
Suddenly Dodd felt very sorry for the little man. Hunsdon was coming away from the window still chuckling.
In case Carey’s father thought to ask how Mistress Bassano had come by Shakespeare’s letter, Dodd asked hurriedly, ‘My lord, when are we heading back to Carlisle?’
Hunsdon was sitting down, picking up a pen, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Splendid girl, Mistress Bassano, full of fun,’ he was saying contentedly. ‘You still there, Sergeant? No, you’re not going back yet. Robin’s got a job to do for me first.’
‘Och,’ said Dodd hollowly, suddenly realising how much he hated London town. ‘What’s that?’
The door opened and Mistress Bassano appeared alone in a rustle of pale green silk. Hunsdon smiled.
‘Stupid bastard,’ she was muttering. ‘My lord, you should have him arrested.’ She curtseyed and then glared at Dodd before emphatically ignoring him. Her back view was almost as delectable as the front, the way the gown was cut tight at the waist to flow over her bumroll, and of course that was how you could do it with a pregnant woman, like a horse, which was a wonderful thought and brought a whole new perspective to Dodd’s distracted mind.
‘On what grounds? Writing you untruthful sonnets?’ Hunsdon was still chuckling.
‘Plotting against the Queen.’
Hunsdon tutted. ‘No need to hang, draw and quarter the silly poet, my dear; it’ll only make him think he’s important. Sergeant, Sir Robert will tell you what he’s up to in his own good time, I’m sure. It boils down to finding another of my bloody sons who has succeeded in losing himself somewhere in London.’
‘Who’s that, my lord?’ Dodd was fighting the urge to groan with disappointment and frustration.
The eyes had gone cold. ‘Edmund. He’s Robin’s elder brother by two years but…well, I expect you’ll find out.’ Mistress Bassano had taken Hunsdon’s velvet hat off and was blowing on a bald spot in the rusty grey.
‘I cannot have Will serve me any more, my lord,’ she said. ‘He is impertinent.’
‘Oh clearly. Can’t have an ex-player making up to you, sweetheart. I’ll tell the steward to assign him somewhere else.’
‘Kick him out.’
‘Now, my darling, there’s no need to be vengeful. The poor chap only scribbled some verses for you—which poets do perpetually, my sweet, they can’t help it, it’s a kind of sickness. You should be kind to the afflicted, no matter how annoying they are.’
Mistress Bassano tossed her head. ‘You are such a generous lord,’ she said. ‘Are you not afraid sneaking little lechers like him will take advantage of your good nature?’
‘No, no,’ said Hunsdon, putting the pen back in the ink bottle and shaking sand inaccurately. Mistress Bassano had her arms around his waist and her chin on his shoulder and something she was doing was clearly distracting him. ‘Not while you are like a tigress in your loyalty, darling, that’s the important part. Mmmmm.’
Mistress Bassano glared at Dodd and jerked her head at the door. Dodd gave her stare for stare and stayed put. Lord Hunsdon hadn’t dismissed him yet. And besides, he thought, I know more about you than you think, missy. Loyal as a tigress, eh? As a she-cat, more like.
‘Oh ah, Dodd,’ said Hunsdon with his eyes half-shut. ‘Would you…ah…ask Mr Blaine my steward to attend on me here in about…ah…half an hour?’
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Dodd neutrally. He went to the door and made the best bow he could.
‘Make that an hour,’ Hunsdon called after him.
‘Ay, my lord.’ Dodd shut the door behind him and left them to it. Outside in the passageway he sighed wistfully, feeling that it was very unfair that he had to watch the Careys, father and son, being happily seduced by beautiful women at every turn. Was it wealth or looks, he wondered, and decided that it must be both. That Bassano woman was a peach, by God, and the scandalous way she had her smock pulled down meant that every time you looked at her there was the mesmerising possibility that one of her breasts would pop out of its prison and you would be able to see her nipple…Dodd liked breasts, he liked nipples, particularly pink and pointed ones, he liked the creamy softness of Mistress Bassano’s skin, he liked…Of course, he also liked counting his wife’s freckles. She would hardly ever let him do it becau
se she hated them. Unaccountably she bleached the ones on her face with lemon juice. There were squeaks and deep-voiced chuckles coming through the door now, and an instantly recognisable rhythmic sound.
Dodd scowled. And none of the blasted courtiers had any shame either.
As he hurried off to find Sir Robert, he wondered what the famous London bawdyhouses might be like and how much they might cost. Janet would never hear of it if he paid one a visit, he was sure, there were hundreds of miles between him and her. And dear God, it would be worth it.
***
In the casual way of a man with a large staff, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon decided to give a little supper party that night for his son’s benefit. Servants were sent running with invitations, the steward hurried fretfully through the house carrying a sheaf of papers and the kitchens seemed to explode into activity.
Dodd took cover in the room he had been given, where Carey ran him to earth a little later, followed by a manservant carrying a bag containing a fine doublet and hose, a cramoisie marvel of fine wool trimmed with black velvet, padded doublet, padded sleeves and a pair of paned trunk hose. These he laid out on the bed.
‘Och,’ Dodd said, putting down the book he had been lent by the falconer and coming to his feet. ‘What’s that, sir? Are ye wearing it the night?’
‘No,’ said Carey, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘You are.’
‘What? Ah’m no’ a courtier, sir. I cannae wear fancy gear like that; forbye I’m wearin’ ma best suit the day an’ there’s nae reason tae…’
‘Dodd, shut up and listen to me. Nobody is impugning your wife’s honour or her skills at weaving and tailoring. Janet is a gem of a woman and your best suit is the dernier cri in Carlisle, I’m sure, but I cannot and will not have you sitting at my father’s supper table wearing homespun.’
‘That’s nae bother, sir. I’m not invited.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Och, sir, but I dinnae want…’
‘Who asked you what you wanted, Dodd? Not me. Now this is Anthony who is my father’s valet de chambre, and who has very kindly agreed to help you dress properly.’
‘Nay sir, I willna. It’s no’ fit.’
‘You will, Dodd,’ snapped Carey. ‘With or without a fight.’
Dodd started to lose his temper. ‘I dinna think ye mean that, sir,’ he said, trying to give the Courtier a chance to back out.
Carey drew a wound and loaded dag from under his arm and pointed it at Dodd.
‘I do. Now go quietly, will you, there’s a good fellow?’
Surely to God, Carey wouldn’t shoot him over clothes? Surely? Was it worth the risk? Dodd shut his mouth firmly and glared at Anthony who was looking down at the rushes.
After an awkward silence in which Carey sat down on the window seat, put his legs up onto a stool and cradled the gun on his arm so it could point at Dodd with the minimum of effort, the door opened and two more servants appeared carrying a large wooden bath tub. Dodd’s mouth dropped open again.
‘Get your clothes off, Sergeant. I’m afraid we haven’t time to go down to the stews and do the job properly, so this will have to suffice.’
The servants opened out a sheet and lined the bath with it. Then they went out again and reappeared staggering under enormous jugs of water.
Dodd was almost gobbling with rage. ‘Are ye saying I’m dirty?’
Carey rolled his eyes. ‘When was the last time you had a bath, Sergeant? I mean all over, not just a rinsing at a pump?’
‘I…I…’
‘Quite. Come on.’ Carey gestured lazily with the dag. ‘Clothes off.’
Anthony was arranging the fancy suit on the bed. Water poured and was mixed into the tub. The other two servants left the jugs behind and tiptoed out and Anthony took a dish of soap, a towel and a scrubbing brush and stood beside the tub with a completely blank face, like a statue.
Slowly, heart thumping with fury, Dodd undid his laces, hung his jerkin on a hook on the back of the door, and stripped off to his shirt.
‘All the way,’ Carey said.
‘But it’s no’ Christmas,’ Dodd pleaded. ‘Why would I need a bath in August? And I swam in the Esk in June.’
‘Humour me, Sergeant. Put it down to a chronic madness instilled by a Queen who bathes every single month, winter or summer.’
‘Every month? Ye dinnae do that, d’ye sir? It’s no’ healthy.’
‘No, of course I don’t, unless I’m actually at court. Nonetheless. Even when it’s not Christmas, if you are going to sit at my father’s supper table, you are going to do it in a civilised manner.’
Mad. The Courtier and all his family were clearly as lunatic as they come. Carey in particular should be in Bedlam hospital, not casually pointing a dag at his Sergeant. Setting his jaw, Dodd pulled off his shirt and dipped a toe into the water, which had rosemary leaves in it, by Christ. What did they think he was, some kind of catamite? The water was hot but he decided not to complain about it as he got in and sat down cautiously, put his hand out for the soap.
Half an hour later, skin tingling from the soap and the scrubbing brush, Dodd got out again and resentfully allowed himself to be towelled dry by Anthony, who had also trimmed and nit-combed his hair while he was helpless in the bath.
‘Now what?’ he growled at Carey who was still sitting at ease by the window, dag beside him on a little table, reading the book about hunting. For answer Carey lifted his eyebrows at Anthony.
The shirt was of the finest linen Dodd had ever seen, and astonishingly clean, though at least it had no fancy embroidery on it. He pulled it on while Anthony carefully toed his own shirt and netherstocks into a pile by the door. The valet then began the ridiculously complicated business of dressing Dodd in a fashionable suit. He even used needle and thread to alter it on Dodd’s body, shortening and letting out the waist. The shoulders were tight but when Dodd mentioned it, Carey smiled.
‘They’re meant to be tight, it’s the padding. Now what are you going to wear on your neck? I’ve brought a ruff and a falling band.’
‘Not a ruff, please, sir,’ begged Dodd. ‘I cannae wear a ruff.’
‘Fair enough. The falling band it is, Anthony.’
How the Courtier could bear to wear such tight clothes all the time, Dodd had no idea. His chest felt imprisoned and his shoulders were firmly pulled back by the cut of the doublet. The servants who had brought the bathwater returned, wheeling a large mirror, and Dodd squinted at the stranger standing awkwardly in it, wearing his face.
‘There,’ said Carey with satisfaction. ‘That’s much better.’
‘Is it, sir?’ said Dodd hollowly. ‘Ah cannae see it maself.’
Carey stood up. He was already trimly turned out in brocade and tawny satin, Dodd noticed, the width of his ruff just this side of looking daft. But it suited him. Dodd felt he was a laughing stock, all dollied up in clothes he had no business wearing.
Anthony handed him his sword belt which he shrugged over his shoulder.
‘I’ve brought some jewels, if you care to wear them,’ offered Carey.
‘No, sir,’ said Dodd firmly.
‘Suit yourself. Now listen to me, Dodd. This is London. Nobody knows who you are or what a Land Sergeant of Gilsland might be, or who your family connections are or anything about you. That means that if you want to be treated right, you have to look the part. What you’re wearing is no fancier than what any middling London merchant would wear and that puts you at about the right level.’
‘I’m not a gentleman, thank God, sir.’
‘Nor is a middling London merchant. You’re not wearing anything approaching fashion; what you’re wearing is respectable, no more. It’s actually one of my own old suits, so please try not to drop anything on it. All right?’
Dodd growled inarticulately. Carey grinned.
‘It also ups your price if anyone wants to bribe you. Now if I discharge my dag out the window, will you promise not to hit me?’
Dodd scow
led at him. ‘I’m no’ stupid, sir.’
‘No, of course not. You can hit me tomorrow, if you must, but just for tonight bear with me.’
Carey opened the window, peered out at the reddening sky, pointed the dag upwards and fired. ‘Come on. The guests are arriving.’
Dodd followed him awkwardly, suddenly understanding where some of Carey’s swagger came from—it was the only way you could walk if you were wearing great stupid padded hose round your thighs.
***
Afterwards, when Dodd tried with all his might to remember the details of that long summer evening, he found it had disintegrated in his mind to a whirl of brilliantly dressed ladies and gentlemen who greeted him politely enough, addressed a few words to him and then slipped away to laugh and talk with Carey.
The Courtier was clearly in his element, flirting extravagantly with all the women, gossiping delightedly with the men about the doings of Sir Walter Raleigh, regretting that the South Bank theatre was shut as punishment for a riot over a glover, and, with total disregard for truth, reprising events at the King of Scotland’s court. They sat down to more unrecognisable food, including a swan dressed in a full suit of white feathers and stuffed with a pheasant, and finished playing primero at separate tables under blazing banks of wax candles until the sweat ran down Dodd’s back in rivulets.
Will was there, serving at table with the other liverymen, standing with his back to the wall next to the sideboard loaded with a glittering display of Hunsdon’s plate, dividing his time between glowering at his shoes and staring like a motherless calf at Mistress Bassano.
She was radiant in black velvet and grass green silk, her neck milky with pearls, her hands dancing on the virginals’ keys while the wealthy Londoners played at cards.
Dodd spent most of the evening watching, since he simply could not bring himself to play for entire shillings at a time. Eventually he tired of the heat, noise and sense of being completely out of place and chokingly wrapped in finery that suited neither his body nor his mind. He put down his cards, bowed to Lord Hunsdon who was roaring ‘eighty-four’ at the other end of the room, and went blindly out into the garden, where the summer air was a strange tapestry of flat salt and dirt from the Thames, overlaid with roses and herbs, and a familiar whiff of horses and dogs from the stables.
4 A Plague of Angels Page 8