Half an hour later he was wondering in despair where in God’s name the Londoners could hide a river. He had just passed the same overdecorated water conduit for the fourth time. Dodd used the little cup chained to it to take a drink, and leaned on the side to think for a bit.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a nasal drone beside him. ‘You serve my Lord Hunsdon’s son, don’t you?’
‘Who wants tae know?’ growled Dodd, glaring suspiciously at the man. By God, it was the bald-headed manservant that had been trying to sell papers to the printer in Paul’s Churchyard.
‘Och,’ he snarled. ‘Were ye following me? Whit the hell d’ye want?’
‘N…nothing. Nothing, sir. Only…er…I’ve seen you pass by here three times now and it occurred…er…it seemed to me you might…er…’
‘Spit it out, man.’
‘…be lost?’
Dodd decided to let the little man live, since what he said was true. ‘What of it?’
‘I…I could lead you back to Somerset House.’
Dodd wasn’t going to fall for any more scurvy southern tricks. ‘Ay, to be sure. If ye dinna take me down some foul wynd and slip a blade in me.’
The man looked shocked and offended. ‘Why would I do that? I’m no footpad.’
‘Ay, I mind ye. Ye’re Mistress Bassano’s singing servant, Will.’
He coughed and made a reasonably graceful bow. ‘Will Shakespeare, sir, at your service.’
Dodd thought it was a remarkably stupid name for a man with arms no thicker than twigs and sorrowful brown eyes like a spaniel, so he grunted.
‘Ay. I’m Sergeant Dodd. What’s the way back tae Somerset House, then?’
They walked in silence through dizzying alleys and passageways under houses that actually met over the pavements, until at last they came in sight of the great galleon of St Paul’s moored amongst its attendant houses.
‘What was it ye were trying to sell tae the bookseller?’ Dodd asked. Will flushed and looked even more miserable than usual.
‘Only some verses.’
‘Poetry, eh? Ballads?’
‘Er…no. A classical theme, the sorrowful tale of Pyramus and Thisbe.’
‘Och,’ said Dodd, who had never heard of the story but wasn’t inclined to admit it. ‘And did the man no’ like it?’
‘Seemingly not.’
‘But ye found someone else to buy it, did ye no’?’
‘No.’
‘Well, where are the papers then?’
‘I threw them in the Thames.’
‘What? That’s a powerful waste o’ paper.’
Will shrugged. ‘I was angry.’
‘What did he mean about ye should stick to playing?’
‘I am-or I was until I lost my job when the theatre was closed-a player.’
‘I thocht ye were Mistress Bassano’s servingman.’
Brown spaniel eyes stared into the distance and seemed to well with tears. ‘At the moment, sir, I am, yes. My Lord Hunsdon was kind enough to take me in when I…when everything went wrong.’
‘How did ye come to know the Lord Chamberlain?’
Something subtly out of place crossed the would-be poet’s expression. ‘He had seen me acting with my Lord Strange’s troop and he’s a good friend to poetry; he said he thought my version of Henry VI showed great promise and he would be happy to tide me over until…until, well, my problems were solved.’
The ugly flattened vowels had turned down at the end of the sentence, closing the door to more questions. Dodd thought it all sounded odd, a respectable lord like Hunsdon giving house space to a mere player, but then none of the Careys seemed to worry about things like scandal.
They had come down Ludgate Hill and over Fleet Bridge and Dodd was starting to recognise familiar buildings. He could even see the Thames, glinting tantalisingly between the houses.
‘I think I can find ma own way now,’ he said.
Will nodded, still lost in thought. As Dodd turned to take his leave, Will seemed to come to a decision. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Dodd.’
‘Ay.’
‘Would you…would you do me a favour?’
Dodd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Depends.’
Will smiled faintly. ‘I was only wondering if you would pass a letter to Mistress Bassano?’
‘Why can ye no’ do it yerself?’
Pink embarrassment was edging the player’s jaw. ‘It’s my day off, and, well…I think it would be better this way.’
‘What is it? The letter. And who’s it from?’
‘It’s…from me, but…er…well, really it’s only a few lines I’ve written in her honour.’
‘It’s nothing scandalous, is it? It willnae make the lady greet and get me intae trouble?’
Will shook his head. ‘I’m sure the poems will please her-she likes poetry. And I think these are…er…quite good. You’d only have to give them to her and…er…say they’re from an admirer too humble to offer them personally.’
Dodd frowned. ‘It all sounds verra strange.’
‘Oh, believe me, sir, ladies like that kind of thing. They like mystery.’
For a moment it was on the tip of Dodd’s tongue to ask if Will had any claim to the babe Mistress Bassano was carrying, but then he stopped himself. Really it was none of his business, fascinating though the doings in the Hunsdon household were.
Will was holding out his precious letter which he had taken out of the front of his doublet, good creamy paper, carefully folded and sealed. Dodd shrugged, took it and put it in the front of his leather jerkin.
At the gate of Somerset House Dodd was carefully inspected and then admitted without argument. Behind him on the Strand, the heavyset men in their buff coats leaned in doorways or stood in alleyways, waiting patiently for their quarry to reappear.
He asked in the yard where Sir Robert was and then headed where the manservant pointed, towards the stables that looked over the garden. Mistress Bassano was sitting under a cherry tree heavy with fruit, her two maidservants sitting prettily disposed around her, all three of them stitching busily at some large embroidery. Best get it over with, thought Dodd, and marched over to her, made the best bow of his life and stood before her with his cap off, trying to get his thoughts in order. The way she was sitting on cushions with her pale green silk skirts spread out around her, you only had to tilt your head to get a full view of those magnificently rich breasts, riding high over the fertile swell of her belly. Dodd had never bedded a pregnant woman, since Janet was yet to fall for a babe, alas. How did you do it? Could you do it? What would it be…
‘Why, Sergeant Dodd,’ said Mistress Bassano. ‘Can I help you?’
Dodd cleared his throat. ‘Ay. Ah…I was given a letter for ye by…eh…by an admirer.’
Full pink lips curled up in a slow smile, the ends tucking themselves into a pair of dimples, and the heavily-lashed lids came down a little. Dodd knew he was staring at the woman’s chest but couldn’t stop himself; he felt like a tranced chicken.
‘How romantic. And who is he?’
‘Ah…he asked me not to say on account of it…er…being better left a mystery.’
‘Oh.’ The maid on Mistress Bassano’s left giggled and Mistress Bassano pouted her maddening lips at the girl. ‘Now, be sensible. These are important matters.’
‘Ay,’ croaked Dodd, wanting a quart of beer and wishing the sun wasn’t so hot. ‘Ah…here it is.’
He clutched the letter from the inside pocket of his leather jerkin, and held it out to Mistress Bassano who reached up a hand to take it. Her fingers brushed the back of Dodd’s hand and made it tingle and prickle.
‘How charming to receive a billet doux from such an unexpected messenger,’ she said. And oh, the curve of her neck as she looked up at him, he could kiss his way all down the side of it, and…
Dodd found his breath was coming short. What did the woman do to radiate desire like that? Was she a witch? Had she laid some kind of spell on him? Ay, maybe that was it. God’s truth, he was beginning to hate the Courtier and his father both.