P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

Mad. The Courtier and all his family were clearly as lunatic as they come. Carey in particular should be in Bedlam hospital, not casually pointing a dag at his Sergeant. Setting his jaw, Dodd pulled off his shirt and dipped a toe into the water, which had rosemary leaves in it, by Christ. What did they think he was, some kind of catamite? The water was hot but he decided not to complain about it as he got in and sat down cautiously, put his hand out for the soap.

Half an hour later, skin tingling from the soap and the scrubbing brush, Dodd got out again and resentfully allowed himself to be towelled dry by Anthony, who had also trimmed and nit-combed his hair while he was helpless in the bath.

‘Now what?’ he growled at Carey who was still sitting at ease by the window, dag beside him on a little table, reading the book about hunting. For answer Carey lifted his eyebrows at Anthony.

The shirt was of the finest linen Dodd had ever seen, and astonishingly clean, though at least it had no fancy embroidery on it. He pulled it on while Anthony carefully toed his own shirt and netherstocks into a pile by the door. The valet then began the ridiculously complicated business of dressing Dodd in a fashionable suit. He even used needle and thread to alter it on Dodd’s body, shortening and letting out the waist. The shoulders were tight but when Dodd mentioned it, Carey smiled.

‘They’re meant to be tight, it’s the padding. Now what are you going to wear on your neck? I’ve brought a ruff and a falling band.’

‘Not a ruff, please, sir,’ begged Dodd. ‘I cannae wear a ruff.’

‘Fair enough. The falling band it is, Anthony.’

How the Courtier could bear to wear such tight clothes all the time, Dodd had no idea. His chest felt imprisoned and his shoulders were firmly pulled back by the cut of the doublet. The servants who had brought the bathwater returned, wheeling a large mirror, and Dodd squinted at the stranger standing awkwardly in it, wearing his face.

‘There,’ said Carey with satisfaction. ‘That’s much better.’

‘Is it, sir?’ said Dodd hollowly. ‘Ah cannae see it maself.’

Carey stood up. He was already trimly turned out in brocade and tawny satin, Dodd noticed, the width of his ruff just this side of looking daft. But it suited him. Dodd felt he was a laughing stock, all dollied up in clothes he had no business wearing.

Anthony handed him his sword belt which he shrugged over his shoulder.

‘I’ve brought some jewels, if you care to wear them,’ offered Carey.

‘No, sir,’ said Dodd firmly.

‘Suit yourself. Now listen to me, Dodd. This is London. Nobody knows who you are or what a Land Sergeant of Gilsland might be, or who your family connections are or anything about you. That means that if you want to be treated right, you have to look the part. What you’re wearing is no fancier than what any middling London merchant would wear and that puts you at about the right level.’

‘I’m not a gentleman, thank God, sir.’

‘Nor is a middling London merchant. You’re not wearing anything approaching fashion; what you’re wearing is respectable, no more. It’s actually one of my own old suits, so please try not to drop anything on it. All right?’

Dodd growled inarticulately. Carey grinned.

‘It also ups your price if anyone wants to bribe you. Now if I discharge my dag out the window, will you promise not to hit me?’

Dodd scowled at him. ‘I’m no’ stupid, sir.’

‘No, of course not. You can hit me tomorrow, if you must, but just for tonight bear with me.’

Carey opened the window, peered out at the reddening sky, pointed the dag upwards and fired. ‘Come on. The guests are arriving.’

Dodd followed him awkwardly, suddenly understanding where some of Carey’s swagger came from-it was the only way you could walk if you were wearing great stupid padded hose round your thighs.

***

Afterwards, when Dodd tried with all his might to remember the details of that long summer evening, he found it had disintegrated in his mind to a whirl of brilliantly dressed ladies and gentlemen who greeted him politely enough, addressed a few words to him and then slipped away to laugh and talk with Carey.

The Courtier was clearly in his element, flirting extravagantly with all the women, gossiping delightedly with the men about the doings of Sir Walter Raleigh, regretting that the South Bank theatre was shut as punishment for a riot over a glover, and, with total disregard for truth, reprising events at the King of Scotland’s court. They sat down to more unrecognisable food, including a swan dressed in a full suit of white feathers and stuffed with a pheasant, and finished playing primero at separate tables under blazing banks of wax candles until the sweat ran down Dodd’s back in rivulets.

Will was there, serving at table with the other liverymen, standing with his back to the wall next to the sideboard loaded with a glittering display of Hunsdon’s plate, dividing his time between glowering at his shoes and staring like a motherless calf at Mistress Bassano.

She was radiant in black velvet and grass green silk, her neck milky with pearls, her hands dancing on the virginals’ keys while the wealthy Londoners played at cards.

Dodd spent most of the evening watching, since he simply could not bring himself to play for entire shillings at a time. Eventually he tired of the heat, noise and sense of being completely out of place and chokingly wrapped in finery that suited neither his body nor his mind. He put down his cards, bowed to Lord Hunsdon who was roaring ‘eighty-four’ at the other end of the room, and went blindly out into the garden, where the summer air was a strange tapestry of flat salt and dirt from the Thames, overlaid with roses and herbs, and a familiar whiff of horses and dogs from the stables.

He stood on the grass, blinking up at the stars. Though it was a balmy summer night not all of them were visible, but he could make out the North Star right enough and he looked at it with longing. That was the way home. That was where there would be doings tonight; on such a clear night, the reivers’ trails would be busy with soft-footed horses and their bridles padded with cloth to stop any jingling. He sighed.

‘Mr Dodd,’ came a voice in the darkness, and Dodd tensed, dropped his hand to his sword.

‘Ay,’ he said, noncommittally, taking a quick glance over his shoulder in case anybody was coming up behind him.

‘I have a message for you from Mr Heneage.’

Dodd squinted, saw somebody wrapped in a cloak who didn’t look very large, and was talking in a hoarse muffled whisper.

‘Ay?’

‘Please, Mr Dodd, put your hand out.’

Dodd drew his sword. ‘Why?’

‘I want to put something in it.’

‘A dagger-blade?’

‘No, no. A purse.’

Carey had said he should accept any bribes from Heneage. ‘Hmf,’ he said, and did as he was asked.

The purse was soft leather, bulging and heavy.

‘I’ve been bidden to tell you to think about it,’ said the whisper. ‘That’s all.’

Dodd whirled around, sword at the ready, looking for anyone intending to enforce the warning, and when he looked back at where the cloaked man had been, there was nobody there except a bush. Dodd hurried after him, following the traces in the dew-soaked grass and the movement of leaves. The figure whisked in at the kitchen door where the storehouses were and by the time he reached it, all he could see were scullery boys clearing up, scrubbing tables and washing floors, and liverymen whisking past the hatch picking up more plates of Seville orange suckets and rose-water jellies.

‘Did ye see a mon wi’ a cloak come through?’ Dodd asked.

The scullery boys were staring in fright at his sword. Dodd put it away hastily. ‘Did ye?’