P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

The small round greasy creature Carey knew as the Carlisle cook was sitting on a stool watching stale bread being turned to crumbs by two kitchen girls. He was the idlest man Carey had ever met outside the Court, rarely out of his bed before eight, but it seemed Lady Widdrington had impressed him with the importance of the occasion…Terrorised was perhaps a better word to describe the way he looked at her.

Carey turned to go, but Elizabeth caught sight of him and came bustling over, wiping her hands on her clean white apron, and smiling.

“How are you, Sir Robert?” she asked. “Is Lady Scrope up yet?”

“I don’t know,” Carey admitted, “I can wake them if you like.”

She nodded. “Scrope’s body-servant has the new livery for the boy and a decent gown for Bell. Any luck with the wine?”

Carey shook his head. “If Barnabus can’t find any, nobody can. I expect Bothwell had all the good vintages in Carlisle.”

“Can’t be helped. I don’t suppose anybody will notice and there’s plenty of beer and ale. I’ll soon need two strong men to help me carry the raised pies into the hall.”

She gestured at the table along one wall where three enormous pies, complete with battlements, stood waiting.

“They’re a little greasy, so don’t send anyone who’s wearing his mourning livery.”

“What happened to the sweetmeats?”

“They’re in Philadelphia’s stillroom, drying out. They can wait though: the less time they spend in the open for flies and boys to get to them, the better. How are your ribs?”

“Well enough…” began Carey, but Goodwife Biltock came up to him with a mug of ale, looking stern.

“You’re as pale as a sheet,” she scolded, “and bags to hide a pig in under your eye. Drink that, it’s spiced and has medicine in it.”

“What sort of medicine?” Carey demanded suspiciously.

“Something to prevent a fever. Let me see your face.”

She reached up, took his face between her rough hands and turned it to the light from the fire.

“Jesus,” she said, “you look a sight. I wish I could have got to your face with a few leeches when that was done…”

“Goodwife…” began Carey.

“And an axe for the man that did it to you.”

“I don’t…”

“Drink your ale.”

He drank.

“What do you think, Lady Widdrington? Will Lady Scrope…?”

“I’m sure,” said Elizabeth, still smiling at him. “Anyway, it can’t be helped and most of Carlisle know what happened.”

“We don’t want anyone laughing.”

“They won’t.”

“When did you last wash behind your ears, Robin?”

For God’s sake, he didn’t have to take this any more. “Last night,” said Carey repressively, “with your verjuice. It’s the best I can do without lemons. I’ll go and wake the Scropes if they’re not up already, my lady.”

As he left Goodwife Biltock tutted and said “Temper! Temper!” but he pretended to be deaf and carried on out the door, up the stairs and through the hall where trestle tables were set up and Scrope’s steward was shouting at a girl who had dropped a large tablecloth in the rushes. She put her apron over her head and howled as Carey slid by, climbed the stairs to the Scrope private apartments. He hid a grin as he knocked: it seemed the preparations for elaborate ceremonial were identical wherever you went. He almost felt homesick for Westminster.

Scrope was already awake and Philadelphia was in her smock and fur-trimmed dressing gown with her hair full of curling papers, her back eloquently turned to her husband.

“Philadelphia, my dear,” said Scrope nervously. Philadelphia sniffed. Carey was irresistibly reminded of a kitten sulking at being refused a second helping of cream, or no, hardly that, perhaps at having her tail trodden on. “Your brother’s here.” Scrope rolled his eyes eloquently at Carey who tried to look sympathetic. Philadelphia came over and kissed him on his good cheek.

“Robin, you’re here, that’s splendid,” she said. “How is Elizabeth doing?”

“I wish we had her supplying the English troops in the Netherlands,” said Carey gallantly, and then balked because Philadelphia was leading him to her dressing table. “What…?”

“Now don’t fuss, didn’t Elizabeth say why I wanted you?”

“No, she…What the devil are you doing? No, I don’t want to sit there, I have seven men to…”

“Oh hush, Robin, this won’t take a moment.” Philadelphia pushed her stool up behind his knees so he sat automatically in front of the mirror. She chewed meditatively on her lip and then darted forward and picked up a little glass pot.

“What the blazes…”

She started dabbing the cream onto his bruised cheek. Carey caught her wrist.

“Philadelphia, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to cover up all the black bruising so you don’t look like a Court jester, now let go.”

“I’m not wearing bloody face-paint at a funeral…”

“Yes, you are. Come on, Robin, did you never wear anything at Court?”

“I most certainly did not, who do you think I am, the Earl of bloody Oxford? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my…Ouch!”

“Don’t move then. Honestly, I’ve seen horses easier to deal with than you. Nobody will know if you let me…”

“Goddamn it,” growled Carey, looking round for moral support. Scrope had disappeared into his little dressing room.

“There now. A bit of red lead, I think, just a bit…Your skin’s hard to match, Robin, it’s lucky you’re not a woman. At least you got most of the walnut juice off, what did you use?”

“Verjuice, but…”

“No wonder you smell like a meat pickle. Smear a bit of this on, it’s a musk perfume, might hide the worst of it. Now then, perhaps a little…Yes, that’s better. Hm. Much better. Look in the mirror.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t do it round your eye because it’ll get sore. We’d better set it…”

She picked up a feather pad and dabbed it in powder, brushed it over his face. He sneezed.

“Now,” said Philadelphia with satisfaction. “Don’t touch your face, don’t rub your eyes, and when Barnabus cuts your hair, put a towel round your head so you don’t get clippings on it, but I think you’ll do. And be careful if you change your shirt as well. There, lovely. You look as if you’ve been in a fight, but you don’t look as if you lost it any more.”

“Philly, I…”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to thank me. Now I expect you’ve got a great deal to do,” she added with emphasis, “I certainly have.”

Barnabus had the sense not to make any comments when Carey climbed back up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower to his room. Carey conscientiously protected his face with a towel while Barnabus snipped at his curls.

Once the sky began lightening he examined his face very carefully in the mirror while Barnabus was tying his doublet points and there was no denying the fact that he looked a great deal less like someone who had recently been given a kicking by an expert. His skin felt stiff and odd and he wondered how people like Oxford and even Essex stood it day after day. The Queen wore triple the thickness but women were used to it, he supposed, as he put on his rings.

He complimented Barnabus on his boots which were gleaming and slipped on a pair of wooden pattens to keep them decent until he could mount his horse. He had forgotten to give orders about his sword, but Barnabus had seen to it anyway, and it was glittering and polished. He left the lace-edged ruff off until after he had eaten the breakfast of bread and beer Simon brought him, knowing the magnetic attraction white linen had for crumbs and brown stains, and once that was on and his hat on his head, he was ready. Looking in the mirror again brought a private unadmitted lift to his heart. Not even the Queen could find fault with his elegance, though no doubt she would shriek and throw slippers at the smell of verjuice disguised with perfume. Otherwise he could have attended her in the Privy Chamber with no worries at all.