The words were English and didn’t quite fit…she didn’t understand them. Emilia closed her eyes. It had such a sound of the South, of the Mediterranean, you could almost smell the olive trees and dust in it, the hot dry sun in it. Ah, the sun.
Something made her look at one of the musicians at the back of the group. He seemed transfixed, a handsome greybeard, he had stopped playing his viol. A tear was tracking its way down his creased cheek.
Emilia turned away at once as the music casually knotted her throat. She had to catch a tear out of the corner of her eye with the corner of her handkerchief before it caused her kohl to smear. What had she seen there in that old man’s face? Shocked surprise, then something raw, something full of longing. Did the air remind him, too, of olive trees and sunlight like a golden knife? Or perhaps of something else, a lover? Her tear had come from her longing for her children, not any stupid man, of course. They were lost to her, locked in their convent, unless she could bring off the coup she needed. Bonnetti didn’t care because he was a man, he could get more. She would not.
Someone was singing solo now. The tune was complex but he had support from the pipes. Someone with a very fine strong voice, a clear tenor that allowed the notes to flow like water.
It was M. le depute again. There he stood, sight-singing the complex tenor line and the bassos coming in again now to wind about the stem of his voice like dark green snakes.
There was another damned tear in her eye. Again! Because his voice did bring the blue blue sky of the South with it, somehow, the vivid intense lapis lazuli that you never saw in the grey North and she missed it and she missed her children.…
She could not even cough. She had to stop breathing. She caught that tear, too, no more please, M. le depute, my heart will not stand it and in any case it’s all your fault that I’m still here in the Northern wastes.
Thank God the boys were singing now, one of them sharp from nerves, the men, too, weaving and parting and finally coming in sequence to an end against Carey’s sustained note.
Just a little silence afterward, that heartbeat of silence the people needed to bring themselves back from the land of music, the highest compliment any audience could give. Then ordinary applause, the Queen smiling and clapping her embroidered gloves as well.
The adult musicians were grudgingly approving, the boys staring up at the Courtier. The senior chapel man shook Carey’s hand. The Queen said something that sounded complimentary about her cousin at which Carey promptly stepped forward and went down on two knees to her, his lips moving although Emilia couldn’t hear what he said.
The Queen laughed and gave him her hand to kiss which he did and stayed on his knees. Again his lips moved and the Queen tapped his nose playfully-but possibly quite painfully-with her new Chinese fan. He rose, bowed, stepped back, bowed again as the Queen too turned aside to speak to another person on his knees, looked wry and rubbed his nose, sneezed.
The Queen was now talking to Essex again and the chapel men started singing once more to the chapel master’s nod, a song that only needed one tenor and was easy. Emilia started manoeuvring toward Carey through the crowds now sweating in the heat from the candles. Such a very fine piece of manflesh, she thought coldly, what a pity to kill him. But still, it had to be done. First Essex, though.
She barged neatly past two dowdy women making for the banquet table with jellies and creams. She got in front of Carey as he reached to take his goblet from his servingman. She made sure she was turned away from him so he would suspect nothing and he trod on the back of her gown as he was supposed to.
“Oh!” she squeaked as she heard the pop of one of her points. She turned and was surprised to see him, of course. “Monsieur le depute,” she trilled, “May I speak to you?”
She said it in Scotch, on the grounds that she spoke that language better and it might give them a little privacy while not excluding the young servingman whom she had suddenly, just that moment, recognised as her contact. More of the English Court would speak French than Scotch, that was sure. Also she wanted Carey to remember their affair and even feel guilty, if possible.
He bowed slightly, his eyes hooded. “I’m so sorry, have I torn your gown, Signora?” he asked. “You know how clumsy I am.” Like most men who called themselves clumsy, he wasn’t at all. And he had apologised for his clumsiness before, in Scotland. Ai, her stupid heart had started beating hard again.
“No, no,” she told him. “It was me, I was pushing in front of you because I want one of the rose almond creams that I love so much.”
He smiled, reached a long arm over the scrum of women and brought out a pretty little sugar paste bowl full of rose cream. Emilia took it quickly. It had a little carved sugar paste spoon sticking out of it and she started eating it immediately, very quickly and carefully. Actually it was wonderful, smooth and sweet and creamy with the scent of roses. The English were very good at this sort of delicacy thanks to their miserable cold climate.
She scraped up the last smears of cream and laughed. “Delicious! And quite unobtainable in Italy, where you would need to freeze it first with snow or it would go off in the heat.” This time she was speaking French which was so much easier.
Carey’s eyebrows went up; politely he responded in French.
“What a good idea, Signora,” he said, “frozen creams-perhaps the Queen would enjoy them?”
Emilia shook her head, making the feather bob and the ringlets fly. “Impossible, Monsieur, you must have high mountains that have snow in summer within one day’s running distance and very clever cooks.”
“The cooks we have, and the runners,” smiled Carey, his eyes intent and patient. “Alas, the snowy mountains, no.”
“Also to eat it you need good teeth or the cold makes them twinge.”
“Ah,” said Carey. “In that case, perhaps not a good idea for the Queen.”
Emilia giggled. Of course, the Queen, like most of the sugar-loving English, had terrible teeth. Now then. How could she find out his price? Well, she could ask him. That might even be the best way to go.
She twined her arm into his confidingly and put the sugar plate bowl and spoon down on the banquet table. Her own teeth would certainly no longer stand up to crunching sugar plate.
“Monsieur, let me be frank with you,” she said. “My husband and I have contacts and knowledge of sweet wines.” They were still speaking French because she wanted to be understood by any embassy listeners. “You are the Earl of Essex’s man, who has the farm for sweet wines?”
“More than that. He knighted me, Signora.”
Even Emilia knew how important that was, how difficult it was for a man to be knighted at this Queen’s Court, where the Queen was so stingy with honours and didn’t even sell them like a civilized person.
“I can help him with his farm of sweet wines,” said Emilia. “All I need is for you to introduce me to the Earl so I can introduce my husband to him. “
“Now? Tonight?” Like all courtiers he wanted to spin the negotiation out to get more than one bribe.
“Yes, or someone else will get it.” Suddenly there was sweat trickling down under her smock, it was hard to pretend indifference in this life-or-death matter.
“Do you want to buy the farm of sweet wines from him?”
Jesu, if only! “No,” Emilia admitted, “we want to manage it for him so he makes the most profit possible. We also want to import many very fine sweet wines from my country and sell them.” She left unmentioned how immensely valuable to many people might be information straight from the Queen’s favourite, just in case he hadn’t thought of that angle. “If milord Essex does sell the farm to someone else, we can still work with him because he will still need to import sweet wines to drink.”
“Hmm…”
“I know we can find good wines at such low prices everyone will still make so much money,” Emilia added, “perhaps a small commission for you…”