P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

“Impossible,” boomed Essex gallantly in French, accented but fluent, “No amount of tears could do that.” And, yes, he had swung from a stare at her cleavage to looking at Carey questioningly. Right. She had done all she could. Now he had to earn the necklace.

“Of course, my lord,” said Carey smoothly, already ahead of her. “May I present the brilliant and extraordinary Signora Emilia Bonnetti, wife to the merchant Giovanni Bonnetti, who was arranging the wholesale import of excellent sweet wines to the Scottish Court, last time I met them?”

Essex smiled and held out his hand. Emilia took it and curtsied low, her lashes modestly lowered and, she hoped, a fetching blush on her cheek.

“And where is your husband, Signora?”

Where was the little man now? Oh yes. “He is in Oxford, talking to the butlers of the colleges, I think.” They were all speaking French now. Most of the English were good linguists because who could possibly want to learn their awful ugly uncouth bastard tongue, the spawn of Dutch and French?

“He has reliable suppliers?”

“Of course, directly from Italy with no interference from the London vintners at all.” That interested the Earl-fewer middlemen meant cheaper wholesale prices, of course. And the London vintners were notoriously greedy in a land full of greedy men. “He is very experienced with all kinds of wine and importing and exporting all kinds of things.…You must talk to him, milord, because I am only a poor foolish woman.…”

“But you are interested in the farm of sweet wines?” Essex asked with typical English unsubtlety. “Which I hold?”

Emilia managed not to sigh. When in England…“Yes, milord,” she said, “of course. We are not wealthy enough to farm it directly for you, but we can manage the farm and bring in the very best wines from Italy.”

The price the Earl named was breathtaking and impossible. “Plus one barrel in every ten as a gift to me, directly,” he added.

Outrageous! God, how greedy the English were. But in fact, it could be done, because the English couldn’t grow drinkable wine in their horrible damp country but did drink wine, and in astonishing quantities. And there were things they made that you could send south-dull boring things like finished wool and iron guns and coal, that you could exchange for a lot of wine which the English wouldn’t know was cheap.

“Milorrd,” she giggled, curtsied again. “I would be honoured if I can speak to my husband about this matter and my husband, too, will be honoured but…”

They bargained carefully until the number of barrels they had to give the Earl was one in twenty. No matter. She had made the connection. Now she needed to strengthen it.

She offered her hand to the Earl, who gripped it with surprising strength, then turned it over and kissed the palm like a lover. He stood between her and the Queen so she couldn’t see, but the meaning was plain. She tingled all over, caught Carey’s cynical smile, also found herself smiling with pure delight. Hooked, by God, she could still hook them. She gave a little tremble as she curtseyed once more-ay, her poor knees and her pinched toes-fluttered her eyelids as she looked up at the towering gold and white of the favourite.

“Milord, I must not trouble you anymore with my foolishness,” she whispered.

He leaned in, gingery and pink under the white lead paste on his face. “Will you join us for the card game afterward, Signora?” he breathed.

“I am a terrible card-player,” she lied. “My poor woman’s brain cannot even remember the points.”

“Perhaps I can teach you,” smiled the Earl.

“That would be such an honour, milorrd,” she said in English. “Then yes, if you will ’elp me not lose too much and make my ’usband angrry. Thank you, thank you, milorrd.”

She stepped neatly away, retrieving her hand from the Earl’s grip, and dived into the group of women trying to get a drink of spiced wine from one of the silver mixing bowls. Emilia’s teeth were creaking with thirst in the heat, and as soon as she tasted the stuff they were drinking she knew she could make the sweet wine farm work for her, Signor Bonnetti, and even the Earl.

Carey stood behind her, blocking her escape from the group of women, so she finished the deal by handing him the black velvet bag with the necklace in it. His fingers explored it expertly to be sure she hadn’t coney-catched him, then he smiled down at her as she curtseyed to him with her best modest smile.

“Are you happy, Signora?” asked the chestnut-headed reiver. She had to curtsey again while she sorted her thoughts. Would he be jealous? That would be nice.

“Oh very happy, M. le depute, it is easy to see why the Queen loves milord of Essex. And you? Are you happy?”

He shook his head and put the bag containing fifty pounds’ worth of gold and garnets that might be rubies into his inside doublet pocket. “What is it that makes me fear we may never meet again?” he said with a creditable attempt at an abandoned lover’s face, so Emilia had to laugh at him. He was quite right. He had cheated her, sold her bad guns, caused a nightmare in horrible Ireland, made the Spanish keep her two surviving children in the Flemish convent and forget their Italian, become prim, prosy, boring little Flemings.…But still there was that thread of lust between them. Clearly they would not meet again-now that she had hooked the Queen’s favourite-no matter what her stupid body felt about it. And she would try and find a way for him to die because he clearly knew too much about her and her husband. She might even be able to get her necklace back.

Saturday 16th September 1592, night

Carey went outside the hot tent to blow his nose properly and rub it. The Queen had practically broken it with the end of her fan and meant to as well. He had naturally taken the opportunity when he knelt to her of reminding her of the warrant for his office at Carlisle and his fee. She had told him he already had a very good warrant and should use it.

“Without any money to pay my men…?” he had begun pathetically and that was when her fan clipped the end of his nose so painfully his eyes had watered.

“Do as I bid you,” she had said, steely-eyed.

At least I’ve made sure that it’s really the Queen who wants me to investigate the Amy Robsart death, he thought, trumpeting into his handkerchief again. And then along had come Emilia Bonnetti insisting on her introduction and even paying his fee with her necklace. He knew where she must have got it-perhaps Cumberland would be willing to buy it back? Perhaps not.

And Emilia had done it all very nicely, from the “accidental” bump at the banquet table to her conversation with the Earl who was, as always, clearly in desperate need of ready cash. Carey just hoped the Bonnettis could find a good financier to buy the farm and actually do what Emilia said they could. The fact that they were obviously spies mattered not at all, so long as Essex used them carefully, the way Walsingham would. It was Walsingham who had taught Carey that the way to deal with spies and informers was to know who they were and keep them close so you controlled what they found out and what they told their handlers. Spies were only dangerous if you didn’t know their identities and whereabouts. It was notorious that Essex was trying to take over Walsingham’s networks and the Bonnettis would probably lead him to some very juicy information. Perhaps Giovanni could be turned, the way his brother the sword master had been. He hoped in a detached way that they would survive somehow, for Emilia’s sake. What a woman!

When he went back in, he saw Hughie hanging around looking nervous and smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said. Hughie blushed and looked surprised.