Mistress Bassano tossed her head haughtily. ‘And I would say you were lying to me.’
‘Well, I am,’ Carey admitted, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘My blasted father ordered me south.’ A worrying thought obviously struck him. ‘It isn’t…er…He hasn’t…er…?’
Mistress Bassano shook her head. ‘No, no. I’m sure he doesn’t know.’
Dodd caught the knowing glance from the maidservant to the servingman and felt his heart sink even further. What the hell was going on here?
‘His lordship was in Chelsea this afternoon,’ put in the manservant. ‘We expect him at any minute. He…er…didn’t leave any orders about you, sir.’
‘Mm,’ Carey smiled kindly on the man. ‘How is it with you, Will, any luck?’
Will shook his head, looking doleful. ‘No, sir. If it weren’t for your father giving me his livery, I’d be in the Fleet.’
‘Bit of a comedown, isn’t it, after this spring?’
Will shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped, sir.’
Mistress Bassano had swept a glance at Dodd which instantly dismissed him, moved to the virginals in the corner and lifted the cover. She sat down and pressed some of the notes, tilted her head consideringly and then leaned down to find the tuning key. Dodd tried to stop himself from staring at those milky plump breasts that seemed fashionably on the point of bursting out of the bodice. Would they? Could they?
She caught him at it and gave him a coldly knowing glare as she twiddled one of the pegs that was not to her satisfaction. Then she put the key back on its hook and placed her fingers to play.
Carey stood over her, no doubt getting a leisurely eyeful of the view and she smiled over her shoulder at the manservant.
‘Will,’ she said. ‘Would you fetch me the Italian songsheets?’
Will’s pointed face went pink. ‘Yes, mistress,’ he said and hurried over to delve in a chest by the wall, bringing out sheafs of paper dotted over with music. When he brought them to her, Dodd saw his hands shake as he arranged them on the music stand. He too seemed to be fighting the urge to stare and then Dodd was shocked to see one of Mistress Bassano’s slim hands lift from the keyboard and briefly brush his leg. Carey was craning over, ostensibly to read the music, and Mistress Bassano’s other hand went quietly out of sight somewhere in the vicinity of Carey’s trunkhose.
Dodd’s mouth had to be shut consciously. It turned down in stern disapproval of the whole proceedings.
‘Sir,’ said Mistress Bassano, turning from between her two admirers and finally favouring him with a dazzling smile that seemed to promise worlds of pleasure. ‘Robin has been very rude to you, not introducing you.’
Dodd coughed, pulled off his hat, did the best bow he could muster which he knew, to his despair, was a lumpen misshapen thing in comparison to Carey’s grace.
‘Sergeant Henry Dodd,’ he growled. ‘Land Sergeant of Gilsland.’
The pointed chin on its proudly held neck tilted a little in acknowledgement. ‘Can you sing, Sergeant Dodd?’
‘Ay I can, a bit,’ he allowed.
‘And what is your voice?’
Her own voice was deeper than most women’s but as velvet as the rest of her. Dodd’s mouth had gone dry as the old Adam in him went skipping off into sinful daydreams. He licked his lips.
‘Ah. I dinna ken. It’s just a voice.’
Carey was smiling knowingly at him, over the top of Mistress Bassano’s gleaming head. ‘I’ve never heard you sing, Dodd?’
You bastard, thought Dodd. ‘Ay, well, I wouldnae claim to be a gleeman, see,’ he said. ‘But I can hold ma own wi’ a lay.’
Delicate frown lines appeared on Mistress Bassano’s smooth forehead. ‘What is he saying, Robin?’ she asked. ‘Is he a northerner?’
Carey bent and whispered in her ear and her magnetic smile dimmed a little to become patronising. ‘Well, but I am disappointed. Robin and Will are both tenors, and it would be good if we had a basso. Do you have a deep voice, Sergeant?’
Dodd coughed again, suppressing the wistful wish that she would call him Henry. ‘Ay, I reckon. But I cannae read music, mistress. Words, ay, but not notes.’
The full pink lips pouted in disappointment as Carey whispered his translation. ‘Oh what a pity. Never mind. You can be our audience and make useful criticisms.’
I could criticise you, mistress, Dodd thought, as he watched a blush going all the way up into what was left of the manservant’s hair under his cap, I could criticise you with a will, ay, criticise you till ye squealed for more, but it doesnae suit me to take thirds. Mistress Bassano’s hands reappeared to place on the keyboards and she launched into the beginning of one of Carey’s favourite Court songs, a ditty that had all the pointless complexity of a lace ruff.
Carey’s voice rang out, taking the main part and Mistress Bassano’s voice rose with his. Somewhere in the background Will was adding his own voice, in a key that was awkward for him so he growled in the deeps.
It was very good. Even Dodd had to admit that Carey’s voice was far better than ordinary and Mistress Bassano’s was a marvel of poured cream, while the ruthlessly pre-empted Will still seemed to know what he was about. Personally, Dodd had no taste for foreign songs, preferring familiar tunes like the Ballad of Chevy Chase, but you could tell it was a clever thing they were doing even if you couldn’t understand a word of it and the shape of the music was strange.
They would sinuously to a halt, Mistress Bassano gazing full into Carey’s eyes while he smiled down at her, both mouths open, carolling like birds in spring. Will had been completely outbid, and he knew it, for once his part finished he moved away from the virginals to stand by the door with a face as miserable as a leaking roof.
A trumpet sounded from the water just as Carey bent to kiss Mistress Bassano’s mouth again. Jesus, did the man have no shame? But then Dodd was honest enough to admit to himself that if he had the chances Carey seemed to attract, he wouldn’t waste one of them either. What would it be like to kiss that curving mouth, Dodd wondered, could you get your hand between the bodice and the tit or would you have to mess about with her lacings first? Carey seemed to know the answers to these important questions. Over by the door, Will looked deliberately away from the scandalous sight, his mouth and nose pinched with distress.
The shouting and trumpets from the other side of the house grew louder. Dodd moved swiftly to the windows facing the noise and found himself looking out on a vast garden, as big as the Maxwells’ or bigger, where more men in yellow livery were hurrying up the paths from a gate in a wall. Doors crashed open, someone shouted something about my Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon and Mr Vice Chamberlain Thomas Heneage. At the last possible minute, Carey straightened up, moved smoothly away from Mistress Bassano and sat down at his ease on a bench again.
The doors to the parlour burst open.
Standing framed there was a broad elderly man in black velvet and gold brocade, his hair rusty grey, his face red, his eyes a shrewd dark grey. He was wearing a terrifying expression of disgust and rage. The sheer physical presence of the man almost blotted out the second richly-dressed courtier standing next to him, not as tall, not quite as broad in the shoulder, but a great deal more fleshy. That one had a round face and a prim mouth, though his face was presently decorated with a smile.
Carey leapt to his feet.
‘Robert!’ boomed Lord Hunsdon. ‘What the Devil are you doing here? God damn your eyes!’
Carey swept a bow to his father so poetical in its elaboration of courtesy that it came out the other side into insolence. Hunsdon glowered, swept forward to bring his white Chamberlain’s staff slamming down on a nearby table. ‘By Christ, Robert,’ he roared. ‘I’ve told Heneage here, if you’ve got yourself into trouble with Her Majesty again, I’ll disinherit you.’
Dodd, who had lost his own father to an Elliot polearm at the age of twelve, watched in fascination. Something shifted subtly inside Carey. He bowed again, including the other rich courtier this time.