P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

“But why?” he burst out. “The woman has been in the ground for thirty-two years and…”

“In Gloucester Hall chapel in Oxford, in fact,” Thomasina corrected him.

“In Oxford and…Why now?”

“The last time she came to Oxford was in 1566,” said Thomasina, seemingly at random.

“Yes?”

“She’s very clear, Sir Robert. She wants the death investigated and she wants you to do it, but she will not tell you why. She shouted at me when I pressed her about it.”

“But, mistress,” said Carey carefully, “the Queen must know she is by far the most…er…the one most likely to be suspected as the murderer now as well as then. What were the words she used to you exactly?”

“You do it as you see fit, and you report to her through me-directly to her if necessary.”

“She knows that this is a very ugly swamp and she may not like the smells that come up if I stir the mud?”

Thomasina smiled shortly. “She wants it done and she will have you do it.”

“And if I find irrefutable proof that she was the murderer?”

The midget’s eyes were cold. “She didn’t tell me, but no doubt she would expect you to keep it quiet.”

He could do that, of course, he wasn’t a fool, but God, he hoped he wouldn’t have to. “And what if it is simply that the evidence I find points to her?”

Thomasina shrugged which made her look both worldly wise and girlish. “She didn’t say. But how could it have been her, Sir Robert? Surely she would simply have married Leicester anyway once the wife was dead and gone, no matter what the scandal? If she’d done it? Once she had damned her soul that way, where was the problem damning herself again? You can only hang once.”

Clearly Thomasina had been worrying about it, too. She sounded reasonable, but…the Queen was a woman and therefore by nature unreasonable.

“I’ll need to see the report by the coroner and the inquest jury’s verdict and any witness statements,” he said, hoping to play for time while the documents were searched for and copied.

Thomasina reached into a box beside her and brought out a sheaf of papers which she handed to him. They were all certified copies, written in the cramped secretary script of one of the older Exchequer clerks.

“I have to say what I’m investigating when I ask questions. I can’t possibly keep it secret.” Thomasina shrugged again. This was an impossible task, Carey thought with a sigh. “Does Her Majesty know I haven’t yet been paid my wardenry fee?”

Thomasina looked blank. “You had two chests of coin from her…”

“They were free loans. This is my fee of?400 which I was also promised. Separate and different.” Nothing. “Mention it to my loving aunt, will you, Mrs. Thomasina? Try and get it into her head that soldiers need to be paid or they won’t fight, that’s all I ask. And by the way…I wanted to ask your…advice on the Bonnettis.”

“The Italian spies?”

“Especially Signora Bonnetti.” He looked carefully into space. “I am hoping to introduce her to my lord of Essex to help him with his farm of sweet wines. I want to be sure that the Queen has no objection.” Yes, by God. He’d learned a lesson in Dumfries.

Thomasina tilted her head. “I will send you a message if there is a problem, Sir Robert. In the meantime…you’ll do it?”

“I shall think about it,” said Carey, “and then I shall give her an answer.”

This was the Queen’s invariable answer to anyone who wanted her to do anything at all, in particular marry. Thomasina knew that, too, and smiled briefly. He was joking. He had absolutely no choice in the matter.

He stood and bowed to the Queen’s Fool.

When he and the page boy had put back the ladder and climbed carefully down, he was nearly knocked over by two swordsmen hacking at each other with theatrical gusto. He circled the fight, saw it was simply the first veney against the second veney, and slipped out of the tithe barn where he found Hughie waiting for him.

They walked back to Cumberland’s camp. On the way, Carey spotted an elderly laundress with a big basket of shirts and bought a new shirt for Hughie from her on the spot, had him change into it, and gave her the old one to try and clean. It cost the same as fine linen would in London but was clearly some kind of hemp. Hughie seemed pleased. They walked on, Hughie admiring the whiteness of the shirtsleeves.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that the Queen canna stand a man wi’ a dirty shirt in her presence?”

“Very true,” said Carey. “She’s notorious for it.” Hughie was chuckling. “What?”

“Ah wis just wondering if she’d ever met the King of Scotland?” Hughie sniggered and Carey had to laugh as well. In the unlikely event of Her Majesty the Queen ever being in the same room as the young King, who rarely even wiped his face, let alone washed his body or shifted his shirt, a hail of slippers and fans would be the least His Majesty of Scotland could expect. For certain his subsidy from the English Treasury would suddenly dry up.

Hughie carried on, shaking his head, to the tiring room while Carey went in search of somewhere relatively peaceful with good light so he could read the inquest papers.

Carey was impressed when he looked at the work young Hughie had done on his doublet shoulders. The young man had unpicked the lining, taken out just enough of the padding and rearranged the rest to make room for Carey’s extra sword muscles and then sewn it all up again as neat as you like. It seemed to be true he had been prenticed to a tailor.

“Well done, Hughie.” He put the watch candle down and felt for his purse. There was still a bit of money in it so he gave Hughie sixpence for the job. The amount of money he had seemed to be going down with its usual alarming speed. He wasn’t yet ready to encase himself in Court armour of velvet and pearls so he wandered out into the crowded afternoon.

The Earl of Cumberland’s men had finished enclosing the whole orchard in a large marquee, laying boards between the trees. Some of the later-fruiting trees still had apples, pears, and golden quinces hanging on them which scented the whole tent. The ones that had already been picked were being decorated with hanging pomanders and little silk bags of comfits. The banquet tables were against the further wall of the tent and the more open part of the orchard had been completely boarded over, with the raspberry and blackcurrant canes taken out, to make a dance floor. Her Majesty would dance that evening in the light of the banks of candles being carefully set up in readiness, but only a couple of them were lit so far.

Meanwhile in the other corner the musicians were tuning up and arguing over the playlist while the men of the chapel were still practising. Carey stopped and listened-Thomasina was right, there were only two tenors and one of them clearly had a bad sore throat and a head cold.

He was just thinking he should go back to the cottage tiring room and shift his shirt and change to his Court suit, when Thomasina swept in, followed by her two women who towered over her.

She stood on a stool and bade the choirmaster have his men sing an air for her, a piece of music which was ruined by the tenors any time they had a line to sing above doh . Carey was shaking his head at his cousin’s likely reaction to the singing and wondering why the chapel master didn’t simply change the air for something in a lower key, when suddenly Thomasina skewered him with a look.

“Could you sing that line, Sir Robert?” she snapped.

Carey remembered too late that she’d said something about his voice, bowed and smiled. “I’m no great musician, mistress, and I’m sure the chapel master could find a much better…”