***
In the casual way of a man with a large staff, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon decided to give a little supper party that night for his son’s benefit. Servants were sent running with invitations, the steward hurried fretfully through the house carrying a sheaf of papers and the kitchens seemed to explode into activity.
Dodd took cover in the room he had been given, where Carey ran him to earth a little later, followed by a manservant carrying a bag containing a fine doublet and hose, a cramoisie marvel of fine wool trimmed with black velvet, padded doublet, padded sleeves and a pair of paned trunk hose. These he laid out on the bed.
‘Och,’ Dodd said, putting down the book he had been lent by the falconer and coming to his feet. ‘What’s that, sir? Are ye wearing it the night?’
‘No,’ said Carey, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘You are.’
‘What? Ah’m no’ a courtier, sir. I cannae wear fancy gear like that; forbye I’m wearin’ ma best suit the day an’ there’s nae reason tae…’
‘Dodd, shut up and listen to me. Nobody is impugning your wife’s honour or her skills at weaving and tailoring. Janet is a gem of a woman and your best suit is the dernier cri in Carlisle, I’m sure, but I cannot and will not have you sitting at my father’s supper table wearing homespun.’
‘That’s nae bother, sir. I’m not invited.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Och, sir, but I dinnae want…’
‘Who asked you what you wanted, Dodd? Not me. Now this is Anthony who is my father’s valet de chambre, and who has very kindly agreed to help you dress properly.’
‘Nay sir, I willna. It’s no’ fit.’
‘You will, Dodd,’ snapped Carey. ‘With or without a fight.’
Dodd started to lose his temper. ‘I dinna think ye mean that, sir,’ he said, trying to give the Courtier a chance to back out.
Carey drew a wound and loaded dag from under his arm and pointed it at Dodd.
‘I do. Now go quietly, will you, there’s a good fellow?’
Surely to God, Carey wouldn’t shoot him over clothes? Surely? Was it worth the risk? Dodd shut his mouth firmly and glared at Anthony who was looking down at the rushes.
After an awkward silence in which Carey sat down on the window seat, put his legs up onto a stool and cradled the gun on his arm so it could point at Dodd with the minimum of effort, the door opened and two more servants appeared carrying a large wooden bath tub. Dodd’s mouth dropped open again.
‘Get your clothes off, Sergeant. I’m afraid we haven’t time to go down to the stews and do the job properly, so this will have to suffice.’
The servants opened out a sheet and lined the bath with it. Then they went out again and reappeared staggering under enormous jugs of water.
Dodd was almost gobbling with rage. ‘Are ye saying I’m dirty?’
Carey rolled his eyes. ‘When was the last time you had a bath, Sergeant? I mean all over, not just a rinsing at a pump?’
‘I…I…’
‘Quite. Come on.’ Carey gestured lazily with the dag. ‘Clothes off.’
Anthony was arranging the fancy suit on the bed. Water poured and was mixed into the tub. The other two servants left the jugs behind and tiptoed out and Anthony took a dish of soap, a towel and a scrubbing brush and stood beside the tub with a completely blank face, like a statue.
Slowly, heart thumping with fury, Dodd undid his laces, hung his jerkin on a hook on the back of the door, and stripped off to his shirt.
‘All the way,’ Carey said.
‘But it’s no’ Christmas,’ Dodd pleaded. ‘Why would I need a bath in August? And I swam in the Esk in June.’
‘Humour me, Sergeant. Put it down to a chronic madness instilled by a Queen who bathes every single month, winter or summer.’
‘Every month? Ye dinnae do that, d’ye sir? It’s no’ healthy.’
‘No, of course I don’t, unless I’m actually at court. Nonetheless. Even when it’s not Christmas, if you are going to sit at my father’s supper table, you are going to do it in a civilised manner.’
Mad. The Courtier and all his family were clearly as lunatic as they come. Carey in particular should be in Bedlam hospital, not casually pointing a dag at his Sergeant. Setting his jaw, Dodd pulled off his shirt and dipped a toe into the water, which had rosemary leaves in it, by Christ. What did they think he was, some kind of catamite? The water was hot but he decided not to complain about it as he got in and sat down cautiously, put his hand out for the soap.
Half an hour later, skin tingling from the soap and the scrubbing brush, Dodd got out again and resentfully allowed himself to be towelled dry by Anthony, who had also trimmed and nit-combed his hair while he was helpless in the bath.
‘Now what?’ he growled at Carey who was still sitting at ease by the window, dag beside him on a little table, reading the book about hunting. For answer Carey lifted his eyebrows at Anthony.
The shirt was of the finest linen Dodd had ever seen, and astonishingly clean, though at least it had no fancy embroidery on it. He pulled it on while Anthony carefully toed his own shirt and netherstocks into a pile by the door. The valet then began the ridiculously complicated business of dressing Dodd in a fashionable suit. He even used needle and thread to alter it on Dodd’s body, shortening and letting out the waist. The shoulders were tight but when Dodd mentioned it, Carey smiled.
‘They’re meant to be tight, it’s the padding. Now what are you going to wear on your neck? I’ve brought a ruff and a falling band.’
‘Not a ruff, please, sir,’ begged Dodd. ‘I cannae wear a ruff.’
‘Fair enough. The falling band it is, Anthony.’
How the Courtier could bear to wear such tight clothes all the time, Dodd had no idea. His chest felt imprisoned and his shoulders were firmly pulled back by the cut of the doublet. The servants who had brought the bathwater returned, wheeling a large mirror, and Dodd squinted at the stranger standing awkwardly in it, wearing his face.
‘There,’ said Carey with satisfaction. ‘That’s much better.’
‘Is it, sir?’ said Dodd hollowly. ‘Ah cannae see it maself.’
Carey stood up. He was already trimly turned out in brocade and tawny satin, Dodd noticed, the width of his ruff just this side of looking daft. But it suited him. Dodd felt he was a laughing stock, all dollied up in clothes he had no business wearing.
Anthony handed him his sword belt which he shrugged over his shoulder.
‘I’ve brought some jewels, if you care to wear them,’ offered Carey.
‘No, sir,’ said Dodd firmly.
‘Suit yourself. Now listen to me, Dodd. This is London. Nobody knows who you are or what a Land Sergeant of Gilsland might be, or who your family connections are or anything about you. That means that if you want to be treated right, you have to look the part. What you’re wearing is no fancier than what any middling London merchant would wear and that puts you at about the right level.’
‘I’m not a gentleman, thank God, sir.’
‘Nor is a middling London merchant. You’re not wearing anything approaching fashion; what you’re wearing is respectable, no more. It’s actually one of my own old suits, so please try not to drop anything on it. All right?’
Dodd growled inarticulately. Carey grinned.
‘It also ups your price if anyone wants to bribe you. Now if I discharge my dag out the window, will you promise not to hit me?’
Dodd scowled at him. ‘I’m no’ stupid, sir.’
‘No, of course not. You can hit me tomorrow, if you must, but just for tonight bear with me.’
Carey opened the window, peered out at the reddening sky, pointed the dag upwards and fired. ‘Come on. The guests are arriving.’
Dodd followed him awkwardly, suddenly understanding where some of Carey’s swagger came from-it was the only way you could walk if you were wearing great stupid padded hose round your thighs.