P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

After that there was another, more ancient dance than the volta, only marginally complicated by her farthingale and his padded hose, which ended inevitably with her sitting astride his lap giggling as he bucked and gasped into the white-hot little death and bit her quite carefully on her creamy shoulder, just below the line of her gown.

She squeaked, nibbled his ear and lifted the hand that was under his doublet and shirt to tweak his nipple. They stayed like that for a while.

“We should go back,” she whispered, and sighed.

“Just a minute, Emilia my heart,” he temporised, happier than he had been in months, sliding his hands under her thighs again. God, they were beautiful to feel; why did women hide their beautiful plump smooth arses under acres of silk and linen, it was a miraculous treasure that they kept there and he wanted more…

She squeaked again, differently, and laughed. “Mon Dieu,” she said flatteringly. “I had heard Englishmen were cold-hearted.”

“Not me,” he managed to pant, his heart building up to a gallop once more, Jesus God, it had been so long…“Kiss me.”

“Tut tut. At least it’s true that Englishmen are greedy…” She was thoughtful, or her top half was, while her rump rocked gently to and fro and made him feel he was going to burst again.

“I admit it,” he muttered. “I admit it, I’m greedy, only kiss me again.”

She slid her arms out of the front of his doublet and held him round the neck so he could do it more thoroughly. She twisted her fingers in his hair and grasped in a way that would normally have hurt him while he directed her honeypot and let himself quite slowly drown in it. This time both of them cried out dangerously in the empty rose garden, and Carey crushed her against his chest as her faced relaxed like a baby’s.

The night had darkened while they were dancing, and now the first few spots of rain began to fall. Emilia Bonnetti gasped with dismay as the specks of cold touched her neck and shoulders and lifted her head.

“Blessed Virgin, my gown will be ruined,” she cried in Italian, hopping off him to his own near ruin and rummaging under the silks to rearrange her underskirts. Carey thought wistfully about taking a nap, but he didn’t want his black velvet to spot and run either. He stood with a few creaks and winces as the hardness of the bench told on him at last, and made himself decent. She used the edge of a petticoat to wipe her facepaint off his face, an intimacy that made them both smile, and they trotted down the path back to the bowling alley and the torches.

A few steps from the door, Emilia began limping again.

“Am I respectable?” she asked, looking him over critically before they joined the surprising throng of dalliers in the garden.

Carey bowed with more than usual extravagance. “Positively virginal,” he said, naughtily. “But you were limping on the other foot before.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “ You have done your doublet buttons up unevenly,” she told him, turning to go in.

“Wait. When can we meet again?”

“I am lodging with my husband at the sign of the Thistle near the Fish Cross, very expensive and not at all clean. Will you come and attend me there tomorrow morning, Robin, and entertain me? I shall be very bored and in a bad mood, I’m afraid.”

“With the greatest possible pleasure, ma belle.”

She went in ahead of him, looking plump and pleased with herself, straightening her mask. He waited for a count of thirty and followed her, still happily glowing.

The King was on the point of going to bed, barely held up by Lord Spynie who was not much better off, hiccupping and laughing at the invisible jokes of alcohol. It was an odd thing to see a monarch so drunk he could hardly stand, Carey thought. The mere idea of the Queen of England so unguarded smacked of sacrilege. The company stood and bowed or curtseyed as the trumpets blew discordantly, while King James with his surrounding company withdrew to take horse back to the Mayor’s house.

The Signora went with the courtiers, studiously and cautiously ignoring him. He took care not to do more than glance at her, thinking fondly about stroking the secret places between her thighs and…

Elizabeth Widdrington was staring at him, looking as if she was reading his mind. Guilt and a schoolboy sullenness brought the blood into his face involuntarily. Black velvet masks made for an exciting and illusory anonymity, but it was also harder to read people’s expressions. He hoped she couldn’t see him flush, he couldn’t work out what she was thinking at all, if she could tell, if she minded (of course she minded). She linked hands distantly with her rightful husband, turned and left, young Henry yawning at her other shoulder.

Just for a moment he felt truculent. Am I supposed to spend my life yearning after her like some goddamned troubadour, he thought rebelliously. I’ll marry her the instant Sir Henry’s safely buried, but until then, what am I supposed to do? Live like a goddamned Papist monk? It didn’t matter. Sadness and weariness set in and more than ever he wished it had been Elizabeth straddling his crotch in the rose garden, Elizabeth moaning and collapsing against him at last, Elizabeth telling him to do his doublet buttons up straight…He sighed and went over to where Dodd was sitting on a bench near the curled-up and sleeping Hutchin, nibbling at some shards of sugar plate.

Dodd’s miserable face cheered him up a little, it was so full of the plainest envy.

“What now, sir?” asked Dodd, dolefully.

“Bed. Let’s wake the boy, I’m not carrying him up those stairs.”

Hutchin was not easy to wake and smelled of wine fumes. He was a fast learner, Carey thought with amusement; he had already learned the pageboy’s trick of toping a quick mouthful out of every drink he poured for his master. Carey himself was much less drunk than he had been earlier and Dodd looked exactly the same as always.

“Did you enjoy the feast, Sergeant?” he asked.

Dodd shook his head. “Is that what ye do at court, sir?” he asked. “All the time?”

“Pretty much.” Though it was interesting to contemplate what King James’s court at Westminster would be like if the King was habitually drunk in the evenings.

“It wouldna suit me, sir.”

“You can get used to it.”

“Ay, sir,” said Dodd, disapproving and noncommittal. “Nae doubt.”

Dodd was still in a bad mood the next morning, along with every single man in Maxwell’s entire cess. Finding the hall where he had slept before so packed with men rolled in their cloaks that it was hard to pick your way among them, he, his brother and Sim’s Will had dossed down in the stable next to Thunder. He neither knew nor cared where the Deputy Warden had slept since he thought the man deserved to sleep on the floor, and Young Hutchin had curled up by the hall fire in a pile of pageboys all sleeping like puppies. It was very different from what he had imagined about court life. And what were they doing, still there anyway?

Carey came striding into the stable the next morning, a whole hideous hour before sunrise, looking fresh and not at all hungover. He was wearing his jack and morion. Behind him was a red-eyed silent Hutchin and outside in the courtyard there was a brisk feeding and watering and saddling of horses.

“What now?” moaned Dodd, leaning up on his elbow and picking straw out of his hair. Beyond the stable door he could see that it was spitting a fine mizzle.

“My lord Maxwell is very anxious for us to ride out to Lochmaben and inspect his guns,” said Carey cheerfully. “Good God, what’s wrong with you, Dodd? You didn’t drink much yesterday.”