Once that had happened…She pulled the corner of her eyes and carefully brushed on kohl to make them seem even darker. She never used belladonna for that purpose as she liked to be able to see what she was doing.
A lady’s tiring maid was sewing in place the unfashionable square neck and small lawn ruff that stood up awkwardly behind her head. Even the woman’s small attendance had cost her tuppence, for God’s sake.
Emilia’s hair was in an artful chignon-that had taken her hours to achieve-partly covered by a lacy little cap and her jaunty hat with a pheasant feather in it.
She had no pattens to protect her slippers from the mud, but Oxford’s men had laid old rush mats on the path to the large tent that covered the orchard. The English were good at that kind of artifice because of their miserable climate. That whole part of the village was already filling with brightly dressed people, though the candles weren’t lit yet. The banquet wasn’t set either but you could hear the musicians tuning up.
It certainly wasn’t time to arrive, so she retreated again and watched from the open horn window as the activity gradually built to a crescendo. She was watching for one man in particular, that chestnut-headed son of a king’s bastard, an espionage plum she meant to pluck.
Emilia bit her bottom lip and frowned. Every time she thought of him, her stomach fizzed like a firework with anger and…well, yes, with desire. She was far too old and experienced to imagine that she was feeling love, but Jesu, her brain stopped working properly every time she looked at him.
No. She must concentrate. She had two aims. One was to be introduced to the Earl of Essex and begin the delicate process of impressing, attracting, and befriending him. She didn’t know how much M. le depute would want for that valuable connection-of course he hadn’t mentioned a price, was himself far too wily.
She had had to leave her best pearl necklace with the musician’s wife as a deposit and most of her bracelets and rings had been hocked either in Dublin or Oxford. At least she had her new gold and garnet necklace from George around her neck. Could she find something else Carey wanted? Perhaps? She hoped so.
Her fingers fumbled a little as she drew on her small kid gloves and pick up her fan. She had put extra red lead on her cheeks, knowing she would appear sallow in this goddamned tawny velvet that the pink and insipid Englishwomen liked so well. She had artless black ringlets escaping down her neck and a stylish hat…and she had herself.
And she would have Carey that night.
Saturday 16th September 1592, afternoon
Henry Dodd rode Whitesock and the mare into the main inn-yard at Bicester on Saturday afternoon and hired the luxury of a whole room to himself. He saw to his animals, ate steak and kidney pudding in the common room, and had a mug of aqua vitae to settle him for bed.
Then the barman looked sideways at him and asked, “Where’s your warrant, then what gets you half-price for booze?”
“Ah…” said Dodd, this being the first he’d heard of a warrant.
“Your horse has the Queen’s brand on him,” said the barman, frowning. “Stands to reason you’ve got a warrant unless you’ve prinked the pony.”
That sounded like something that meant “steal.” Dodd frowned back. “No, I haven’t.” And in his view, he hadn’t. He’d received the horse quite rightfully in the course of settling a dispute with the horse’s previous owner, but they might not look at things sensibly down here in the mysterious South where nobody spoke properly or seemed to care what surname a man bore.
“Ay,” said Dodd, drinking his brandy, “Ah’m riding wi’ a message from ma Lady Hunsdon to her husband the Lord Chamberlain.”
Later he would remember the man sitting by the fire with a gaunt hawklike face and a wide-brimmed hat who looked up at that. At the time he didn’t properly notice.
“Hmm. Where are you from anyway?”
“Berwick,” lied Dodd on general principles. None of the soft Southrons had heard of Carlisle and there was nothing wrong with a little misdirection. Especially as he didn’t of course have any kind of warrant with him at all. For good measure he added, “I serve the Lord Chamberlain’s son, Sir Robert Carey.”
The barman was wiping the bar now, still not looking at him. Dodd smiled and lifted his mug to him, paid for his board and went upstairs. He was still dressed as a gentleman in a smart grey wool suit of Sir Robert Carey’s and he carried a sword, but nobody knew better than him that he was in fact, thank God, no kind of gentleman at all and never would be. He was a tenant farmer and Sergeant of Gilsland, in charge of one troop of the Carlisle guard, that was all.
By the South’s ridiculous way of looking at things, he had in fact stolen one of the Queen’s horses from the Queen’s vice chamberlain and he had no intention of explaining the circumstances to anyone at all until he had caught up with that bloody man Carey. He got into a bed that didn’t smell too bad and fell asleep instantly.
He woke in the darkest part of the night with the thought “Time to go,” ringing through his head.
He dressed quietly, getting better at putting on his complicated suit. Moonlight shone through the luxurious Southern panes of glass. Holding his boots, he went to the door, unbarred it, and found it had been locked on the outside.
“Och,” he said disgustedly and sat on the bed. No doubt there was someone sleeping on the other side of that door, waiting for him. Perhaps it was something to do with the damned warrant the barman had asked about. He went to the small glass window that opened onto the courtyard, which he knew had a gate that would also be locked at this time. The stables were directly below on this side of it, the kitchens on the other side. He needed at least one horse.
No help for it. Perhaps it was a pity to mess up the comfortable little room but there was really no help for it. From the moon’s position he thought he had a couple of hours until dawn so best to get started.
Softly he tapped the floorboards-too solid. Then he tapped the wall between him and the next room. Withies, lightly plastered. He hadn’t an axe but he did have a broadsword which he would now have to sharpen.
It took some strength and sweat to do it quietly, but he broke through the plaster low down behind the bed, smelling of where the bedbugs had their hiding places and then through the withies on his side, pulled them outward to a panicked exodus of creepy crawlies. The filling was only rubbish and then there were the withies for the wall on the other side. Working as quietly as he could, a giant rat up to no good, he weakened them with his sword and broke them, brought kindling over from beside the luxurious fireplace and built it up against them. Then he lit the tallow dip from the watchlight and lit the small bonfire. He had some aqua vitae left so he sprinkled it about around the fire to catch when it got hot enough.
He sat back on his haunches and watched the flames catch, enjoying the sight as always, the feeling of power as fire flowered where it shouldn’t, then caught himself and pulled on his boots, buckled his sadly blunted sword on his hip and picked up his hat.
The flames were climbing the wall and had gone partly through. He took the jack of ale left on the table and kicked through the wall bellowing “Fire! Fire!”
A fat man in his shirt and two boys sharing the trundle bed in the next room started up, all shouting with fright. Somebody further away took up the shout.
Dodd slung ale all around the fire, but not on it, kicked some more of the wall, put his hat on his head and ducked through the flaming hole he’d made into the next room where the fat man was desperately scrabbling on his breeches and trying to move his strong box. The two boys had already opened the door and run. Dodd went through onto the landing, found a big man lying across his door just waking up and kicked him twice in the cods.