P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘On what grounds? Writing you untruthful sonnets?’ Hunsdon was still chuckling.

‘Plotting against the Queen.’

Hunsdon tutted. ‘No need to hang, draw and quarter the silly poet, my dear; it’ll only make him think he’s important. Sergeant, Sir Robert will tell you what he’s up to in his own good time, I’m sure. It boils down to finding another of my bloody sons who has succeeded in losing himself somewhere in London.’

‘Who’s that, my lord?’ Dodd was fighting the urge to groan with disappointment and frustration.

The eyes had gone cold. ‘Edmund. He’s Robin’s elder brother by two years but…well, I expect you’ll find out.’ Mistress Bassano had taken Hunsdon’s velvet hat off and was blowing on a bald spot in the rusty grey.

‘I cannot have Will serve me any more, my lord,’ she said. ‘He is impertinent.’

‘Oh clearly. Can’t have an ex-player making up to you, sweetheart. I’ll tell the steward to assign him somewhere else.’

‘Kick him out.’

‘Now, my darling, there’s no need to be vengeful. The poor chap only scribbled some verses for you-which poets do perpetually, my sweet, they can’t help it, it’s a kind of sickness. You should be kind to the afflicted, no matter how annoying they are.’

Mistress Bassano tossed her head. ‘You are such a generous lord,’ she said. ‘Are you not afraid sneaking little lechers like him will take advantage of your good nature?’

‘No, no,’ said Hunsdon, putting the pen back in the ink bottle and shaking sand inaccurately. Mistress Bassano had her arms around his waist and her chin on his shoulder and something she was doing was clearly distracting him. ‘Not while you are like a tigress in your loyalty, darling, that’s the important part. Mmmmm.’

Mistress Bassano glared at Dodd and jerked her head at the door. Dodd gave her stare for stare and stayed put. Lord Hunsdon hadn’t dismissed him yet. And besides, he thought, I know more about you than you think, missy. Loyal as a tigress, eh? As a she-cat, more like.

‘Oh ah, Dodd,’ said Hunsdon with his eyes half-shut. ‘Would you…ah…ask Mr Blaine my steward to attend on me here in about…ah…half an hour?’

‘Ay, my lord,’ said Dodd neutrally. He went to the door and made the best bow he could.

‘Make that an hour,’ Hunsdon called after him.

‘Ay, my lord.’ Dodd shut the door behind him and left them to it. Outside in the passageway he sighed wistfully, feeling that it was very unfair that he had to watch the Careys, father and son, being happily seduced by beautiful women at every turn. Was it wealth or looks, he wondered, and decided that it must be both. That Bassano woman was a peach, by God, and the scandalous way she had her smock pulled down meant that every time you looked at her there was the mesmerising possibility that one of her breasts would pop out of its prison and you would be able to see her nipple…Dodd liked breasts, he liked nipples, particularly pink and pointed ones, he liked the creamy softness of Mistress Bassano’s skin, he liked…Of course, he also liked counting his wife’s freckles. She would hardly ever let him do it because she hated them. Unaccountably she bleached the ones on her face with lemon juice. There were squeaks and deep-voiced chuckles coming through the door now, and an instantly recognisable rhythmic sound.

Dodd scowled. And none of the blasted courtiers had any shame either.

As he hurried off to find Sir Robert, he wondered what the famous London bawdyhouses might be like and how much they might cost. Janet would never hear of it if he paid one a visit, he was sure, there were hundreds of miles between him and her. And dear God, it would be worth it.

***

In the casual way of a man with a large staff, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon decided to give a little supper party that night for his son’s benefit. Servants were sent running with invitations, the steward hurried fretfully through the house carrying a sheaf of papers and the kitchens seemed to explode into activity.

Dodd took cover in the room he had been given, where Carey ran him to earth a little later, followed by a manservant carrying a bag containing a fine doublet and hose, a cramoisie marvel of fine wool trimmed with black velvet, padded doublet, padded sleeves and a pair of paned trunk hose. These he laid out on the bed.

‘Och,’ Dodd said, putting down the book he had been lent by the falconer and coming to his feet. ‘What’s that, sir? Are ye wearing it the night?’

‘No,’ said Carey, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘You are.’

‘What? Ah’m no’ a courtier, sir. I cannae wear fancy gear like that; forbye I’m wearin’ ma best suit the day an’ there’s nae reason tae…’

‘Dodd, shut up and listen to me. Nobody is impugning your wife’s honour or her skills at weaving and tailoring. Janet is a gem of a woman and your best suit is the dernier cri in Carlisle, I’m sure, but I cannot and will not have you sitting at my father’s supper table wearing homespun.’

‘That’s nae bother, sir. I’m not invited.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Och, sir, but I dinnae want…’

‘Who asked you what you wanted, Dodd? Not me. Now this is Anthony who is my father’s valet de chambre , and who has very kindly agreed to help you dress properly.’

‘Nay sir, I willna. It’s no’ fit.’

‘You will, Dodd,’ snapped Carey. ‘With or without a fight.’

Dodd started to lose his temper. ‘I dinna think ye mean that, sir,’ he said, trying to give the Courtier a chance to back out.

Carey drew a wound and loaded dag from under his arm and pointed it at Dodd.

‘I do. Now go quietly, will you, there’s a good fellow?’

Surely to God, Carey wouldn’t shoot him over clothes? Surely? Was it worth the risk? Dodd shut his mouth firmly and glared at Anthony who was looking down at the rushes.

After an awkward silence in which Carey sat down on the window seat, put his legs up onto a stool and cradled the gun on his arm so it could point at Dodd with the minimum of effort, the door opened and two more servants appeared carrying a large wooden bath tub. Dodd’s mouth dropped open again.

‘Get your clothes off, Sergeant. I’m afraid we haven’t time to go down to the stews and do the job properly, so this will have to suffice.’

The servants opened out a sheet and lined the bath with it. Then they went out again and reappeared staggering under enormous jugs of water.

Dodd was almost gobbling with rage. ‘Are ye saying I’m dirty?’

Carey rolled his eyes. ‘When was the last time you had a bath, Sergeant? I mean all over, not just a rinsing at a pump?’

‘I…I…’

‘Quite. Come on.’ Carey gestured lazily with the dag. ‘Clothes off.’

Anthony was arranging the fancy suit on the bed. Water poured and was mixed into the tub. The other two servants left the jugs behind and tiptoed out and Anthony took a dish of soap, a towel and a scrubbing brush and stood beside the tub with a completely blank face, like a statue.

Slowly, heart thumping with fury, Dodd undid his laces, hung his jerkin on a hook on the back of the door, and stripped off to his shirt.

‘All the way,’ Carey said.

‘But it’s no’ Christmas,’ Dodd pleaded. ‘Why would I need a bath in August? And I swam in the Esk in June.’

‘Humour me, Sergeant. Put it down to a chronic madness instilled by a Queen who bathes every single month, winter or summer.’

‘Every month? Ye dinnae do that, d’ye sir? It’s no’ healthy.’

‘No, of course I don’t, unless I’m actually at court. Nonetheless. Even when it’s not Christmas, if you are going to sit at my father’s supper table, you are going to do it in a civilised manner.’