P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

She barged neatly past two dowdy women making for the banquet table with jellies and creams. She got in front of Carey as he reached to take his goblet from his servingman. She made sure she was turned away from him so he would suspect nothing and he trod on the back of her gown as he was supposed to.

“Oh!” she squeaked as she heard the pop of one of her points. She turned and was surprised to see him, of course. “Monsieur le depute,” she trilled, “May I speak to you?”

She said it in Scotch, on the grounds that she spoke that language better and it might give them a little privacy while not excluding the young servingman whom she had suddenly, just that moment, recognised as her contact. More of the English Court would speak French than Scotch, that was sure. Also she wanted Carey to remember their affair and even feel guilty, if possible.

He bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “I’m so sorry, have I torn your gown, Signora?” he asked. “You know how clumsy I am.” Like most men who called themselves clumsy, he wasn’t at all. And he had apologised for his clumsiness before, in Scotland. Ai, her stupid heart had started beating hard again.

“No, no,” she told him. “It was me, I was pushing in front of you because I want one of the rose almond creams that I love so much.”

He smiled, reached a long arm over the scrum of women and brought out a pretty little sugar paste bowl full of rose cream. Emilia took it quickly. It had a little carved sugar paste spoon sticking out of it and she started eating it immediately, very quickly and carefully. Actually it was wonderful, smooth and sweet and creamy with the scent of roses. The English were very good at this sort of delicacy thanks to their miserable cold climate.

She scraped up the last smears of cream and laughed. “Delicious! And quite unobtainable in Italy, where you would need to freeze it first with snow or it would go off in the heat.” This time she was speaking French which was so much easier.

Carey’s eyebrows went up; politely he responded in French.

“What a good idea, Signora,” he said, “frozen creams-perhaps the Queen would enjoy them?”

Emilia shook her head, making the feather bob and the ringlets fly. “Impossible, Monsieur, you must have high mountains that have snow in summer within one day’s running distance and very clever cooks.”

“The cooks we have, and the runners,” smiled Carey, his eyes intent and patient. “Alas, the snowy mountains, no.”

“Also to eat it you need good teeth or the cold makes them twinge.”

“Ah,” said Carey. “In that case, perhaps not a good idea for the Queen.”

Emilia giggled. Of course, the Queen, like most of the sugar-loving English, had terrible teeth. Now then. How could she find out his price? Well, she could ask him. That might even be the best way to go.

She twined her arm into his confidingly and put the sugar plate bowl and spoon down on the banquet table. Her own teeth would certainly no longer stand up to crunching sugar plate.

“Monsieur, let me be frank with you,” she said. “My husband and I have contacts and knowledge of sweet wines.” They were still speaking French because she wanted to be understood by any embassy listeners. “You are the Earl of Essex’s man, who has the farm for sweet wines?”

“More than that. He knighted me, Signora.”

Even Emilia knew how important that was, how difficult it was for a man to be knighted at this Queen’s Court, where the Queen was so stingy with honours and didn’t even sell them like a civilized person.

“I can help him with his farm of sweet wines,” said Emilia. “All I need is for you to introduce me to the Earl so I can introduce my husband to him. “

“Now? Tonight?” Like all courtiers he wanted to spin the negotiation out to get more than one bribe.

“Yes, or someone else will get it.” Suddenly there was sweat trickling down under her smock, it was hard to pretend indifference in this life-or-death matter.

“Do you want to buy the farm of sweet wines from him?”

Jesu, if only! “No,” Emilia admitted, “we want to manage it for him so he makes the most profit possible. We also want to import many very fine sweet wines from my country and sell them.” She left unmentioned how immensely valuable to many people might be information straight from the Queen’s favourite, just in case he hadn’t thought of that angle. “If milord Essex does sell the farm to someone else, we can still work with him because he will still need to import sweet wines to drink.”

“Hmm…”

“I know we can find good wines at such low prices everyone will still make so much money,” Emilia added, “perhaps a small commission for you…”

She let the sentence hang in the air and Carey didn’t so much as blink at it floating past. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off that way, it seemed.

“Fifty pounds cash,” said Carey, “or the equivalent in jewellery. Now.”

“Now? Jesu Maria…”

He shrugged, a very French gesture Englished. “You may be able to find someone else to make the introduction,” he said still in French. “They might even cost less. But this is your last chance until the Queen is back at Whitehall because after this, the Court will go to Woodstock and then to Oxford where there will be no women at the University entertainments. The Earl will be closeted with the Queen or attending on her and no one who isn’t already one of his own or the Queen’s will be able to meet with him.”

Oh God, he was right and he knew it. She bit her lip. He was right. How could she pay him if he was insisting on payment in cash down not in-kind? Which he was; she could see it in the cool set of his face.

She fumbled at her neck where gleamed the gold and ruby necklace Cumberland had given her-rightful plunder, he’d called it, from a Portuguese trader snapped up in the Bay of Biscay. She had a little velvet purse in her petticoat pocket, she took it out, put the gold necklace into it and waited. Carey must know exactly what the necklace was worth because that was the amount he had asked for, the greedy bastard.

She held the purse tightly, cocked her head a little against the uncomfortable standing ruff behind her head. In Ireland she had learned not to hand over the bribe before the paid-for favour had been done. Carey smiled, half bowed to her and headed across the dance floor, through a violent volta that was spinning and thundering on the boards. The musicians were sweating in the heat from the candles and the bodies as they played, but Emilia noticed that one of them was missing-the viol player who had wept at the Spanish air.

Mr. Byrd was looking very annoyed, speaking with the Earl of Essex. “…you can’t trust any of these yokels,” he was complaining. “He was only one of the Oxford waits but good enough to play for the Queen and this is how he repays me for the chance I gave him? Damn it, I was hoping to take him to London with us.…Ah yes, Sir Robert, thank you for singing with us earlier.”

“Yes, indeed,” added the Earl of Essex. “Her Majesty was very pleased with it, she told me so. Also she asked if your nose is better now?”

“It will be, my lord,” murmured Carey. “When she has given me my warrant as Deputy Warden and, of course, my fee.”

Essex laughed. “Good luck!” he shouted. “You’d do better to sing with the travelling gleemen and save up your fees.…”

Shut up about his goddamn voice, you stupid lout, Emilia thought, and smiled brilliantly at Carey.

“You nearly caused terrible damage to me, Sir Rrrobert,” she purred at him in English.

“I did?” said Carey, “How, Signora Bonnetti?”

“Why you made me cry, rremembering the South, and that would have made my face all swollen and ugly.”