P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

The shouting and trumpets from the other side of the house grew louder. Dodd moved swiftly to the windows facing the noise and found himself looking out on a vast garden, as big as the Maxwells’ or bigger, where more men in yellow livery were hurrying up the paths from a gate in a wall. Doors crashed open, someone shouted something about my Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon and Mr Vice Chamberlain Thomas Heneage. At the last possible minute, Carey straightened up, moved smoothly away from Mistress Bassano and sat down at his ease on a bench again.

The doors to the parlour burst open.

Standing framed there was a broad elderly man in black velvet and gold brocade, his hair rusty grey, his face red, his eyes a shrewd dark grey. He was wearing a terrifying expression of disgust and rage. The sheer physical presence of the man almost blotted out the second richly-dressed courtier standing next to him, not as tall, not quite as broad in the shoulder, but a great deal more fleshy. That one had a round face and a prim mouth, though his face was presently decorated with a smile.

Carey leapt to his feet.

‘Robert!’ boomed Lord Hunsdon. ‘What the Devil are you doing here? God damn your eyes!’

Carey swept a bow to his father so poetical in its elaboration of courtesy that it came out the other side into insolence. Hunsdon glowered, swept forward to bring his white Chamberlain’s staff slamming down on a nearby table. ‘By Christ, Robert,’ he roared. ‘I’ve told Heneage here, if you’ve got yourself into trouble with Her Majesty again, I’ll disinherit you.’

Dodd, who had lost his own father to an Elliot polearm at the age of twelve, watched in fascination. Something shifted subtly inside Carey. He bowed again, including the other rich courtier this time.

‘My good lord and respected Father, and Mr Vice Chamberlain, may I present my most able second-in-command at Carlisle, Mr Henry Dodd, Land Sergeant of Gilsland.’

Not knowing what else to do with himself, Dodd managed a clutch at his cap and an ungainly bow. The small parlour was suddenly crowded with people. A liveryman bustling about behind him, lighting unnecessary candles, made him twitch. Another man brought up a carved armchair for his lord, yet another poured more wine. Plates of wafers and nuts appeared seemingly invisibly.

Hunsdon threw his bulk into the armchair which creaked under him. Mr Vice Chamberlain Heneage sat more circumspectly a little behind and to the right on a yellow padded stool. Hunsdon rapped his white staff on the floor.

‘Right,’ he growled. ‘Scotland.’

‘Most reverend sir,’ said Carey. ‘I would prefer to have cleaned off the dust of our rather hurried journey before I rendered my report to…’

‘Ay, no doubt. But we want to hear it now, since you’re here, you bloody idiot.’

The tips of Carey’s ears had gone red. He put his hat back on his head and sat himself back down on the bench very pointedly, without being asked. Dodd decided to stay standing.

‘Where should I start, my lord?’ Nobody smiled that sweetly without intending it as an insult. Hunsdon’s bushy eyebrows almost met over his nose.

‘How is His Majesty of Scotland?’ put in Heneage, mellifluously.

‘Very well indeed and received me most kindly on account of the love he bears Her Majesty the Queen.’

Hunsdon grunted. ‘And the business over the guns? Lowther sent some nonsensical tale that you had substituted them for scrap iron. Is that true?’

Carey waved gloved fingers airily. ‘A complete mare’s nest, sir. There was indeed an arrangement between His Majesty of Scotland and the Wardenry of Carlisle, as it turned out, only no one saw fit to inform me.’

‘I’d heard that some of the guns we sent were faulty,’ said Heneage with oily concern. ‘I do hope no one was hurt?’

‘One man lost his hand and died of it, but no other harm done,’ Carey told him callously. ‘Really, the guns were a side-issue. We rode to congratulate my Lord Maxwell on being made Warden and of course to learn what support the King might want when he harried Liddesdale…’

Dodd’s eyes were nearly popping out with shock. The tale Carey told his father…Improved was too mild. A tissue of lies spun convincingly from Carey’s smiling mouth. There had been no problems whatever at the Scottish Court. Lord Maxwell had been kindness itself and of course Sir John Carmichael sent his regards. The King had been at his most affable, only a little sad at the smallness of his bribe…er, pension. Spanish spies? What Spanish spies? Oh, those Spanish spies. Well, Carey had not suspected the Italian wine merchant and his charming wife, but he had heard that Lord Spynie was deep in dangerous business with the Papists, for what that was worth. These rumours will fly around, won’t they, Mr Vice Chamberlain, shocking really, what people will say in the hope of payment. Sir Henry Widdrington? Well, yes, admitted Carey, he had met the man. A little too warm to the Scots perhaps, and another one with Papist leanings, he was sure. My Lord Hunsdon might want to warn his Deputy Warden, brother John, up in Berwick, about the Widdringtons, seeing how powerful they were…

After a while Dodd stopped trying to follow exactly where Carey was sticking to the truth and where he was lying to his father, and sat back to admire the barefaced way he did it. Heneage and Hunsdon both asked pointed questions that sounded as if Lowther had been busy with his pen. Carey actually laughed when Heneage wanted to know if King James had given him a pension. No, said Carey, he had been lucky with some bets, that was all. And of course he had sold Thunder to the King.

‘Hmf,’ said Hunsdon. ‘Pity. Best piece of horseflesh you ever owned.’

‘I know sir,’ said Carey with genuine regret. ‘But what could I do? The King wanted him. I was quite pleased he paid for the nag, really.’

‘Hah!’ said his father, standing and striding out into the entrance hall while he shouted for the steward. Carey elaborately gave way to Heneage as they followed and then muttered quietly over his shoulder, ‘Back me up, Dodd.’

Before Dodd could answer, Carey had hurried after his father. Dodd was pressed to keep up, reflecting that the Carey family were very tiring people, the way they were always rushing about. Hunsdon had decided to take a turn in the garden while they waited for supper to be readied, which displeased Dodd who would have been perfectly happy with a hunk of bread and some cheese, so long as he could put something in his growling belly immediately. But no, it seemed courtiers did things differently.

Dodd had never seen the point of gardens really, except for herbs and salads and the like. Janet had a garden at their tower in Gilsland and Lord knows, she had given him grief when his favourite horse got out and ate all the pea plants. This was nothing like anything he had seen. In the pale blue dusk, the garden stretched itself down to the wall, everything in it shouting of wealth, from the rose bushes and the maze to the grass which was scythed short and green as velvet, to the trees which were politely trimmed. Dodd wandered across the grass and peeked out of the gate which gave onto the water. He saw a little landing with yellow boats drawn up and a man standing watching them. The man touched his cap to Dodd and Dodd nodded back in lordly fashion, thoroughly enjoying himself. There was an hysterical duck carved in the stone lintel of the watergate and another one on the boatman’s sleeve. Dodd wondered why Lord Hunsdon had chosen such a daft badge for himself. He was impressed with the Thames, though. It was wide and fast flowing and looked an unchancy water to cross even at low tide. Good thing there was the Bridge. Even Dodd had heard tell of the glories of London Bridge, though mostly from Barnabus who couldn’t really be trusted.