P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

“Or do you think it was you he was after?” The Earl was already on the bank, rubbing himself down with a linen towel. Carey shrugged and followed him, hoping to use the towel as well since he hadn’t brought one.

“I don’t know, my lord,” he said, blinking at the tree where the crossbow bolt was buried.

“Well, it wasn’t an accident, that’s sure,” Cumberland said, handing him the dank towel. “With a bolt that size, whoever shot it wasn’t after duck.”

Carey shivered suddenly but only because he was wet and the sun was setting. He rubbed himself briskly, finished, and pulled his shirt back on. Typically the Earl was now chuckling and shaking his head so his earring flashed.

“By God, Carell’s done ye some good. That was fast. Do you find a lot people trying to kill you at the moment, eh?”

“Well yes, my lord, I understand the Grahams have my head priced at?10 in Dumfries.”

Cumberland hooted. “Not nearly enough, the skinflints. I’ll tell ’em to put it up to?50 at least.”

“Your lordship is too kind,” Carey said smiling, although he still felt cold. That was far away on the Borders where he rarely went anywhere without a padded jack reinforced with steel plates on his back, and Dodd behind him. For God’s sake, this was Oxfordshire in fat, soft southern England. It wasn’t supposed to happen, whoever the assassin had been aiming at. And who the hell had tried it?

***

Emilia Bonnetti was dousing herself in expensive rosewater to clean herself as there were no such things as proper baths in this peasant bog. She knew how persnickety the old English Queen was and had an intricately smocked fresh shift to wear under her stays. Her beautiful crimson silk gown had been left in Ireland, alas, that goddamned hellhole of a country. No doubt some uncouth chieftain’s wife was wearing it now. Dante Aligheri was completely wrong: Hell was a green boggy place where the air was constantly damp from the equally constant rain and the people were charming, intelligent, sometimes remarkably good-looking but lethally unpredictable. Only God knew how near a thing it had been for herself and her husband; only she knew how nearly they had died.

She had borrowed a dancing gown from the wife of one of the musicians who probably made a very good thing out of it, seeing what the woman charged. The gown was tawny, which did not suit her colouring at all but would have to do as there was no choice. Her slippers were also borrowed, a different shade of tawny, and didn’t fit properly.

She was in a peasant’s main room, getting dressed with the few other women at Court who were neither ladies-in-waiting nor maids of honour; they were wives of lesser courtiers mainly. Maids of honour, pfui. Dishonour, more like. Emilia had heard of Raleigh’s proceedings with Bess Throckmorton and was shocked. She had been a virgin when she married and it had taken some work to stay intact when her cousins came calling. However, once you were legally married and had given your man an heir, it didn’t matter in the least what you did, in her view. Bonnetti himself was well aware of what she did and they often planned one of her campaigns together over a jug of their wine. On her part, she ignored his activities with chambermaids. They were excellent business partners. The wine made good profits when everything went well and the customers actually paid up; much more profitable was the trade in information. The barrels of goods and gold that went back to the Hague to pay for the wine would often have secret compartments with coded news in them from Signor Bonnetti to keep the stupid English Customs and Excise men and the pursuivants happy. Her own methods were better.

Tonight she had two quarries: one she had taken before, the tall chestnut-headed, disgracefully handsome cousin of the Queen, with his piercing blue eyes and his (she had to admit) quite polished manners. The other…well, she would have to be very careful not to actually catch that one or the whole plan would be ruined. She had only to wing him slightly, as it were.

Once that had happened…She pulled the corner of her eyes and carefully brushed on kohl to make them seem even darker. She never used belladonna for that purpose as she liked to be able to see what she was doing.

A lady’s tiring maid was sewing in place the unfashionable square neck and small lawn ruff that stood up awkwardly behind her head. Even the woman’s small attendance had cost her tuppence, for God’s sake.

Emilia’s hair was in an artful chignon-that had taken her hours to achieve-partly covered by a lacy little cap and her jaunty hat with a pheasant feather in it.

She had no pattens to protect her slippers from the mud, but Oxford’s men had laid old rush mats on the path to the large tent that covered the orchard. The English were good at that kind of artifice because of their miserable climate. That whole part of the village was already filling with brightly dressed people, though the candles weren’t lit yet. The banquet wasn’t set either but you could hear the musicians tuning up.

It certainly wasn’t time to arrive, so she retreated again and watched from the open horn window as the activity gradually built to a crescendo. She was watching for one man in particular, that chestnut-headed son of a king’s bastard, an espionage plum she meant to pluck.

Emilia bit her bottom lip and frowned. Every time she thought of him, her stomach fizzed like a firework with anger and…well, yes, with desire. She was far too old and experienced to imagine that she was feeling love, but Jesu, her brain stopped working properly every time she looked at him.

No. She must concentrate. She had two aims. One was to be introduced to the Earl of Essex and begin the delicate process of impressing, attracting, and befriending him. She didn’t know how much M. le depute would want for that valuable connection-of course he hadn’t mentioned a price, was himself far too wily.

She had had to leave her best pearl necklace with the musician’s wife as a deposit and most of her bracelets and rings had been hocked either in Dublin or Oxford. At least she had her new gold and garnet necklace from George around her neck. Could she find something else Carey wanted? Perhaps? She hoped so.

Her fingers fumbled a little as she drew on her small kid gloves and pick up her fan. She had put extra red lead on her cheeks, knowing she would appear sallow in this goddamned tawny velvet that the pink and insipid Englishwomen liked so well. She had artless black ringlets escaping down her neck and a stylish hat…and she had herself.

And she would have Carey that night.

Henry Dodd rode Whitesock and the mare into the main inn-yard at Bicester on Saturday afternoon and hired the luxury of a whole room to himself. He saw to his animals, ate steak and kidney pudding in the common room, and had a mug of aqua vitae to settle him for bed.

Then the barman looked sideways at him and asked, “Where’s your warrant, then what gets you half-price for booze?”

“Ah…” said Dodd, this being the first he’d heard of a warrant.

“Your horse has the Queen’s brand on him,” said the barman, frowning. “Stands to reason you’ve got a warrant unless you’ve prinked the pony.”

That sounded like something that meant “steal.” Dodd frowned back. “No, I haven’t.” And in his view, he hadn’t. He’d received the horse quite rightfully in the course of settling a dispute with the horse’s previous owner, but they might not look at things sensibly down here in the mysterious South where nobody spoke properly or seemed to care what surname a man bore.

“Ay,” said Dodd, drinking his brandy, “Ah’m riding wi’ a message from ma Lady Hunsdon to her husband the Lord Chamberlain.”