Carey’s dad had the same capacity as his son for instantly radiating compressed fury. His grey eyes had gone cold as ice.
‘King James?’
‘I doubt it, seeing how much he likes the Cour…Sir Robert, and seeing he give us the guns back.’
‘Then Lord Spynie.’
‘Ay, my lord. And Sir Henry Widdrington.’
There was a short heavy silence. It was noticeable that Carey’s father did not ask why Widdrington should want to mistreat his son. Hunsdon was staring into space. Dodd kept his mouth shut because he recognised that look, and if Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon was meditating on ways and means for a startling piece of vengeance, it wasn’t Dodd’s place to interrupt him. Eventually Hunsdon looked shrewdly at Dodd.
‘My youngest son’s capacity for getting himself into trouble and then out again has never ceased to astound me,’ he said. ‘Is that it, the full tale?’
‘All I know, my lord.’
‘Barnabus claims to be even more ignorant. Is it true Robin left him in Carlisle when he went into Scotland?’
‘Ay, my lord. He was…ah…he was indisposed.’
Hunsdon grinned. ‘So I gathered, poor fellow. Clap’s the very devil, isn’t it?’
Dodd wasn’t at all sure how to answer this as he had no personal experience of clap at all, but was saved by the slam of a window being opened and an indistinct shrieking of a woman’s voice on the side of the house overlooking the Strand. Hunsdon opened the window of his office himself, and leaned out to look. Dodd peered over his shoulder.
Mistress Bassano was leaning out of an upstairs window, her magnificent hair flying in the breeze, her magnificent breasts bulging over the top of her pale green bodice and two high spots of colour pointing up the hectic flash of her eyes.
‘You pathetic bookworm, you pillock of a man, how dare you send this trash to me, how dare you!’
She was waving a couple of pieces of writing which had the painful regularity of something much laboured over.
‘You look at me with your stupid dog’s eyes and you whine of love, but do you see me? No. Look at this piece of drivel, you pox-blinded bald nincompoop!’
Mistress Bassano was screaming at Will Shakespeare, who stood in the street unaware of the way the passing throngs were pausing to turn and stare, his face full of misery.
With passionate ceremony Mistress Bassano tore up the papers, dug obscenely under her petticoats with them and then dropped them in a jordan held by her giggling maid. Hunsdon was leaning against the window-frame enjoying himself. Shakespeare stood with his mouth open and his hands out in desperation at this sacrilege. Mistress Bassano nodded to her maid who threw the contents of the jordan with deadly aim at his head. The other walkers in the street had scattered away from him as soon as they saw the jordan, but Shakespeare just stood there, with soiled sheets of paper fluttering around him and something horrible stuck to his doublet.
Lord Hunsdon cheered and applauded, his good-humour slightly edged with malice. Mistress Bassano dusted off her fingers fastidiously, turned a satin shoulder and disappeared from the window. The maid impudently added a finger at Will before the shutters banged closed again.
Suddenly Dodd felt very sorry for the little man. Hunsdon was coming away from the window still chuckling.
In case Carey’s father thought to ask how Mistress Bassano had come by Shakespeare’s letter, Dodd asked hurriedly, ‘My lord, when are we heading back to Carlisle?’
Hunsdon was sitting down, picking up a pen, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Splendid girl, Mistress Bassano, full of fun,’ he was saying contentedly. ‘You still there, Sergeant? No, you’re not going back yet. Robin’s got a job to do for me first.’
‘Och,’ said Dodd hollowly, suddenly realising how much he hated London town. ‘What’s that?’
The door opened and Mistress Bassano appeared alone in a rustle of pale green silk. Hunsdon smiled.
‘Stupid bastard,’ she was muttering. ‘My lord, you should have him arrested.’ She curtseyed and then glared at Dodd before emphatically ignoring him. Her back view was almost as delectable as the front, the way the gown was cut tight at the waist to flow over her bumroll, and of course that was how you could do it with a pregnant woman, like a horse, which was a wonderful thought and brought a whole new perspective to Dodd’s distracted mind.
‘On what grounds? Writing you untruthful sonnets?’ Hunsdon was still chuckling.
‘Plotting against the Queen.’
Hunsdon tutted. ‘No need to hang, draw and quarter the silly poet, my dear; it’ll only make him think he’s important. Sergeant, Sir Robert will tell you what he’s up to in his own good time, I’m sure. It boils down to finding another of my bloody sons who has succeeded in losing himself somewhere in London.’
‘Who’s that, my lord?’ Dodd was fighting the urge to groan with disappointment and frustration.
The eyes had gone cold. ‘Edmund. He’s Robin’s elder brother by two years but…well, I expect you’ll find out.’ Mistress Bassano had taken Hunsdon’s velvet hat off and was blowing on a bald spot in the rusty grey.
‘I cannot have Will serve me any more, my lord,’ she said. ‘He is impertinent.’
‘Oh clearly. Can’t have an ex-player making up to you, sweetheart. I’ll tell the steward to assign him somewhere else.’
‘Kick him out.’
‘Now, my darling, there’s no need to be vengeful. The poor chap only scribbled some verses for you-which poets do perpetually, my sweet, they can’t help it, it’s a kind of sickness. You should be kind to the afflicted, no matter how annoying they are.’
Mistress Bassano tossed her head. ‘You are such a generous lord,’ she said. ‘Are you not afraid sneaking little lechers like him will take advantage of your good nature?’
‘No, no,’ said Hunsdon, putting the pen back in the ink bottle and shaking sand inaccurately. Mistress Bassano had her arms around his waist and her chin on his shoulder and something she was doing was clearly distracting him. ‘Not while you are like a tigress in your loyalty, darling, that’s the important part. Mmmmm.’
Mistress Bassano glared at Dodd and jerked her head at the door. Dodd gave her stare for stare and stayed put. Lord Hunsdon hadn’t dismissed him yet. And besides, he thought, I know more about you than you think, missy. Loyal as a tigress, eh? As a she-cat, more like.
‘Oh ah, Dodd,’ said Hunsdon with his eyes half-shut. ‘Would you…ah…ask Mr Blaine my steward to attend on me here in about…ah…half an hour?’
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Dodd neutrally. He went to the door and made the best bow he could.
‘Make that an hour,’ Hunsdon called after him.
‘Ay, my lord.’ Dodd shut the door behind him and left them to it. Outside in the passageway he sighed wistfully, feeling that it was very unfair that he had to watch the Careys, father and son, being happily seduced by beautiful women at every turn. Was it wealth or looks, he wondered, and decided that it must be both. That Bassano woman was a peach, by God, and the scandalous way she had her smock pulled down meant that every time you looked at her there was the mesmerising possibility that one of her breasts would pop out of its prison and you would be able to see her nipple…Dodd liked breasts, he liked nipples, particularly pink and pointed ones, he liked the creamy softness of Mistress Bassano’s skin, he liked…Of course, he also liked counting his wife’s freckles. She would hardly ever let him do it because she hated them. Unaccountably she bleached the ones on her face with lemon juice. There were squeaks and deep-voiced chuckles coming through the door now, and an instantly recognisable rhythmic sound.
Dodd scowled. And none of the blasted courtiers had any shame either.
As he hurried off to find Sir Robert, he wondered what the famous London bawdyhouses might be like and how much they might cost. Janet would never hear of it if he paid one a visit, he was sure, there were hundreds of miles between him and her. And dear God, it would be worth it.