Then he went back to the merchant. “Shall I help ye carry that, sir?” he asked politely, speaking as Southern as possible.
“Yes, yes…”
So he and the fat man in his breeks and shirt carefully carried the interestingly heavy locked box onto the landing, down the stairs crowded with other frightened customers, some of them in very fine velvets half put on.
He took the lead, elbowed through the throng, and helped carry the box out into the courtyard where there was a fine mizzle. It must have been dry recently for the thatch over his room was well alight now, billows of smoke going up and the rats coming out of the roof squeaking. The innkeeper was straining to open the big gates to let his neighbours in to help.
“Thank you, sir,” puffed the merchant, “If I may give you…”
“Nay sir, glad tae help, I must see after my horse now.”
Dodd slipped away from the man and went into the stables where a brave but stupid boy was trying to lead the horses out without blindfolding them first.
Dodd went to his own nag and put his hat across the beast’s eyes and put the bridle on. “See ye,” he said to the frightened boy struggling in the next stall with a rearing kicking mare, “Dinna let them see and they’ll let ye help them.”
The boy put his statute cap across the mare’s eyes and she started to calm down. Dodd got another bridle from the wall and put it over her head. He couldn’t bring himself to grab a different horse, seeing as how none of them was a patch on Whitesock. The boy had followed his advice and managed to bridle two more horses.
“Ah’ll take them out,” he said to the boy who was coughing hard and disappearing as the smoke filled the stable. “Just unhitch the others and drive ’em before ye, then stay out of the stables.”
The hayloft above was likely to catch soon and Dodd didn’t want the lad on his conscience as well. Then, slowly and gently, Dodd took four snorting horses through the door and out into the courtyard where he let all but Whitesock get away from him. They helpfully caused much more confusion there along with two hysterical dogs and an escaped pig, and disrupted the bucket chain. Bless the mare for her common sense; she headed straight for the open gate and he swung himself up on Whitesock shouting, “I’ll fetch her back!” and galloped straight out of the gate and up the road, leaving the other horses for dust and catching the mare’s reins as he passed her.
Two miles up the road in the darkness he could still see the glow of the fire and could hear no hooves behind him. He started to laugh then. Well, it was funny. Here in the South nobody seemed to have the least idea about anything. Imagine thinking that locking the door on him would stop him?
Saturday 16th September 1592, evening
Hughie’s ears were burning as Carey praised him for the work he’d done on that Court doublet. It had been a pleasure really; it was a lovely piece of work by a fine London tailor. It would be a pity to put a knife through it, and quite difficult as well because of the quadruple thickness, the heavy embroidery and pearls, the padding. So he wouldn’t do that.
Carey changed his shirt and left the other on the floor as he hopped about putting on his hose. Hughie helped him into the canions and trunkhose, held up by a waistcoat of damask. The doublet weighed many pounds, Carey went “ooff” and made a wry face as his shoulders took the weight, though he must be used to wearing a jack that weighed much more at about fifty pounds. Hughie then had to tie and retie the points at Carey’s back three or four times to get them at exactly the right length so that they held the doublet and trunkhose together but allowed him to dance. Carey took his long jewelled poinard, having left his workmanlike broadsword in the Cumberland armoury.
Hughie coughed. “Will Ah be attendin’ ye at the dancing, sir?” he asked. He had brushed his woollen doublet and cannions, just in case. Carey’s answer was a swift critical glance, sweeping Hughie head to toe and somehow making him blush again. There was a curt nod. It seemed Hughie passed muster.
They walked with a herd of other gallantly overdressed young men to the orchard which was now a glowing palace, the fruit still left on the trees making a sweet fresh scent to battle with the rose-scented candles and the raucous smell of men and wine.
The musicians sat and stood in a corner on the new boards of the dance floor. They were playing loudly-it would be a noisy night as the boards creaked and thundered under the boots and slippers of the Court.
Of course all the local gentlefolk were there with their unmarried daughters and sisters-the women tricked out in as much costly splendour as the men or indeed more, wearing tokens of their dowries. They gathered in shy drifts near the banquet tables and the high stands of candles.
The Queen wasn’t there yet, nor were the great lords of her Court-the Earls of Essex, Oxford, Cumberland. Carey hesitated as he looked at the groups of henchmen and courtiers and then made some kind of decision, took up a place near the Earl of Essex’s men. He started talking to a man with a sharp Welsh face.
Hughie stood behind him near the canvas wall, watching carefully, wishing his Edinburgh doublet was better fashion since all the other servingmen were very fine in good wool or even velvets with brocade trim.
Many of Essex’s henchmen were in tangerine and white which suited nobody except the ones who were rosily ginger, and not really even them, Hughie thought critically.
They all waited, talking quietly while the music tinkled in the background, conducted by a short round man. Every so often he would pick up and play a different instrument.
Hughie jumped. Trumpets had sounded, the short man stood up and waved his arms, there was a rustle of tension, the sound of boots on boards. Hughie craned to see the red and gold livery of the Gentlemen Pensioners of Her Majesty’s Guard. They fanned out and stood by the entrances and by the carved wooden seat with an awning of brocade lions set at the end of the dance floor.
Hughie was expecting the Queen next, but it was a herd of women, to the sound of pipes and viols. They were arm in arm, some of them older, eight of them juicy and pert in their teens and all wearing the Queen’s black and white colours, designed to their taste. It was a fine sight and interesting for the mixture of French and Spanish fashion, with the big wheel farthingales coming in now even in Scotland.
The music stopped. More trumpeting. Men were shouting “The Queen! The Queen!”
Hughie blinked. A broad long man in dazzling white with red hair and an impressive beard paced in slowly, leaning down to someone much shorter in black velvet and white damask blazing with jewels and pearls, who had her heavily ringed white hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
In a smooth sweeping motion, the whole mob of people in the tent went to both their knees. Nearly falling over, Hughie did the same, squinting to see the cause of it clearly.
Through the lanes of cramoisie, green, black, tawny, rose, and even daring sky blue, all the men with their hats off, went…
A smallish elderly woman entered wearing a bright red wig sparkled with diamonds and a small gold and pearl crown, different-coloured ribbons all over her black velvet gown with a huge Spanish farthingale under it. Her face was white with red cheekbones and her eyes snapping and sparkling black as they looked about around her people. Hughie’s blood went cold as he realised he still had his hat on and scrabbled it off before she could see, leaving his hair standing up on end. The penetrating gaze swept past and didn’t seem to have spotted him.
There was a loud shout of “God save the Queen!” and all the people shouted it three times.
The Queen walked to the chair under her cloth of estate, turned about as she let go of the big man’s arm, smiled down at her kneeling courtiers.