Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) (9 page)

The barman was wiping the bar now, still not looking at him. Dodd smiled and lifted his mug to him, paid for his board and went upstairs. He was still dressed as a gentleman in a smart grey wool suit of Sir Robert Carey’s and he carried a sword, but nobody knew better than him that he was in fact, thank God, no kind of gentleman at all and never would be. He was a tenant farmer and Sergeant of Gilsland, in charge of one troop of the Carlisle guard, that was all.

By the South’s ridiculous way of looking at things, he had in fact stolen one of the Queen’s horses from the Queen’s vice chamberlain and he had no intention of explaining the circumstances to anyone at all until he had caught up with that bloody man Carey. He got into a bed that didn’t smell too bad and fell asleep instantly.

He woke in the darkest part of the night with the thought “Time to go,” ringing through his head.

He dressed quietly, getting better at putting on his complicated suit. Moonlight shone through the luxurious Southern panes of glass. Holding his boots, he went to the door, unbarred it, and found it had been locked on the outside.

“Och,” he said disgustedly and sat on the bed. No doubt there was someone sleeping on the other side of that door, waiting for him. Perhaps it was something to do with the damned warrant the barman had asked about. He went to the small glass window that opened onto the courtyard, which he knew had a gate that would also be locked at this time. The stables were directly below on this side of it, the kitchens on the other side. He needed at least one horse.

No help for it. Perhaps it was a pity to mess up the comfortable little room but there was really no help for it. From the moon’s position he thought he had a couple of hours until dawn so best to get started.

Softly he tapped the floorboards—too solid. Then he tapped the wall between him and the next room. Withies, lightly plastered. He hadn’t an axe but he did have a broadsword which he would now have to sharpen.

It took some strength and sweat to do it quietly, but he broke through the plaster low down behind the bed, smelling of where the bedbugs had their hiding places and then through the withies on his side, pulled them outward to a panicked exodus of creepy crawlies. The filling was only rubbish and then there were the withies for the wall on the other side. Working as quietly as he could, a giant rat up to no good, he weakened them with his sword and broke them, brought kindling over from beside the luxurious fireplace and built it up against them. Then he lit the tallow dip from the watchlight and lit the small bonfire. He had some aqua vitae left so he sprinkled it about around the fire to catch when it got hot enough.

He sat back on his haunches and watched the flames catch, enjoying the sight as always, the feeling of power as fire flowered where it shouldn’t, then caught himself and pulled on his boots, buckled his sadly blunted sword on his hip and picked up his hat.

The flames were climbing the wall and had gone partly through. He took the jack of ale left on the table and kicked through the wall bellowing “Fire! Fire!”

A fat man in his shirt and two boys sharing the trundle bed in the next room started up, all shouting with fright. Somebody further away took up the shout.

Dodd slung ale all around the fire, but not on it, kicked some more of the wall, put his hat on his head and ducked through the flaming hole he’d made into the next room where the fat man was desperately scrabbling on his breeches and trying to move his strong box. The two boys had already opened the door and run. Dodd went through onto the landing, found a big man lying across his door just waking up and kicked him twice in the cods.

Then he went back to the merchant. “Shall I help ye carry that, sir?” he asked politely, speaking as Southern as possible.

“Yes, yes…”

So he and the fat man in his breeks and shirt carefully carried the interestingly heavy locked box onto the landing, down the stairs crowded with other frightened customers, some of them in very fine velvets half put on.

He took the lead, elbowed through the throng, and helped carry the box out into the courtyard where there was a fine mizzle. It must have been dry recently for the thatch over his room was well alight now, billows of smoke going up and the rats coming out of the roof squeaking. The innkeeper was straining to open the big gates to let his neighbours in to help.

“Thank you, sir,” puffed the merchant, “If I may give you…”

“Nay sir, glad tae help, I must see after my horse now.”

Dodd slipped away from the man and went into the stables where a brave but stupid boy was trying to lead the horses out without blindfolding them first.

Dodd went to his own nag and put his hat across the beast’s eyes and put the bridle on. “See ye,” he said to the frightened boy struggling in the next stall with a rearing kicking mare, “Dinna let them see and they’ll let ye help them.”

The boy put his statute cap across the mare’s eyes and she started to calm down. Dodd got another bridle from the wall and put it over her head. He couldn’t bring himself to grab a different horse, seeing as how none of them was a patch on Whitesock. The boy had followed his advice and managed to bridle two more horses.

“Ah’ll take them out,” he said to the boy who was coughing hard and disappearing as the smoke filled the stable. “Just unhitch the others and drive ’em before ye, then stay out of the stables.”

The hayloft above was likely to catch soon and Dodd didn’t want the lad on his conscience as well. Then, slowly and gently, Dodd took four snorting horses through the door and out into the courtyard where he let all but Whitesock get away from him. They helpfully caused much more confusion there along with two hysterical dogs and an escaped pig, and disrupted the bucket chain. Bless the mare for her common sense; she headed straight for the open gate and he swung himself up on Whitesock shouting, “I’ll fetch her back!” and galloped straight out of the gate and up the road, leaving the other horses for dust and catching the mare’s reins as he passed her.

Two miles up the road in the darkness he could still see the glow of the fire and could hear no hooves behind him. He started to laugh then. Well, it was funny. Here in the South nobody seemed to have the least idea about anything. Imagine thinking that locking the door on him would stop him?

Saturday 16th September 1592, evening

Hughie’s ears were burning as Carey praised him for the work he’d done on that Court doublet. It had been a pleasure really; it was a lovely piece of work by a fine London tailor. It would be a pity to put a knife through it, and quite difficult as well because of the quadruple thickness, the heavy embroidery and pearls, the padding. So he wouldn’t do that.

Carey changed his shirt and left the other on the floor as he hopped about putting on his hose. Hughie helped him into the canions and trunkhose, held up by a waistcoat of damask. The doublet weighed many pounds, Carey went “ooff” and made a wry face as his shoulders took the weight, though he must be used to wearing a jack that weighed much more at about fifty pounds. Hughie then had to tie and retie the points at Carey’s back three or four times to get them at exactly the right length so that they held the doublet and trunkhose together but allowed him to dance. Carey took his long jewelled poinard, having left his workmanlike broadsword in the Cumberland armoury.

Hughie coughed. “Will Ah be attendin’ ye at the dancing, sir?” he asked. He had brushed his woollen doublet and cannions, just in case. Carey’s answer was a swift critical glance, sweeping Hughie head to toe and somehow making him blush again. There was a curt nod. It seemed Hughie passed muster.

They walked with a herd of other gallantly overdressed young men to the orchard which was now a glowing palace, the fruit still left on the trees making a sweet fresh scent to battle with the rose-scented candles and the raucous smell of men and wine.

The musicians sat and stood in a corner on the new boards of the dance floor. They were playing loudly—it would be a noisy night as the boards creaked and thundered under the boots and slippers of the Court.

Of course all the local gentlefolk were there with their unmarried daughters and sisters—the women tricked out in as much costly splendour as the men or indeed more, wearing tokens of their dowries. They gathered in shy drifts near the banquet tables and the high stands of candles.

The Queen wasn’t there yet, nor were the great lords of her Court—the Earls of Essex, Oxford, Cumberland. Carey hesitated as he looked at the groups of henchmen and courtiers and then made some kind of decision, took up a place near the Earl of Essex’s men. He started talking to a man with a sharp Welsh face.

Hughie stood behind him near the canvas wall, watching carefully, wishing his Edinburgh doublet was better fashion since all the other servingmen were very fine in good wool or even velvets with brocade trim.

Many of Essex’s henchmen were in tangerine and white which suited nobody except the ones who were rosily ginger, and not really even them, Hughie thought critically.

They all waited, talking quietly while the music tinkled in the background, conducted by a short round man. Every so often he would pick up and play a different instrument.

Hughie jumped. Trumpets had sounded, the short man stood up and waved his arms, there was a rustle of tension, the sound of boots on boards. Hughie craned to see the red and gold livery of the Gentlemen Pensioners of Her Majesty’s Guard. They fanned out and stood by the entrances and by the carved wooden seat with an awning of brocade lions set at the end of the dance floor.

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.