Saturday 16th September 1592, night
Carey went outside the hot tent to blow his nose properly and rub it. The Queen had practically broken it with the end of her fan and meant to as well. He had naturally taken the opportunity when he knelt to her of reminding her of the warrant for his office at Carlisle and his fee. She had told him he already had a very good warrant and should use it.
“Without any money to pay my men…?” he had begun pathetically and that was when her fan clipped the end of his nose so painfully his eyes had watered.
“Do as I bid you,” she had said, steely-eyed.
At least I’ve made sure that it’s really the Queen who wants me to investigate the Amy Robsart death, he thought, trumpeting into his handkerchief again. And then along had come Emilia Bonnetti insisting on her introduction and even paying his fee with her necklace. He knew where she must have got it-perhaps Cumberland would be willing to buy it back? Perhaps not.
And Emilia had done it all very nicely, from the “accidental” bump at the banquet table to her conversation with the Earl who was, as always, clearly in desperate need of ready cash. Carey just hoped the Bonnettis could find a good financier to buy the farm and actually do what Emilia said they could. The fact that they were obviously spies mattered not at all, so long as Essex used them carefully, the way Walsingham would. It was Walsingham who had taught Carey that the way to deal with spies and informers was to know who they were and keep them close so you controlled what they found out and what they told their handlers. Spies were only dangerous if you didn’t know their identities and whereabouts. It was notorious that Essex was trying to take over Walsingham’s networks and the Bonnettis would probably lead him to some very juicy information. Perhaps Giovanni could be turned, the way his brother the sword master had been. He hoped in a detached way that they would survive somehow, for Emilia’s sake. What a woman!
When he went back in, he saw Hughie hanging around looking nervous and smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said. Hughie blushed and looked surprised.
“Ehm…?”
“I like a henchman who sticks at my back despite opportunities to dance with pretty girls,” Carey explained, pointing to the girls whirling between the trees. Some of the servingmen were partnering them since this was a jig, a dance for the common people. The Queen was fanning herself and talking to Essex again as she watched, her face alight with laughter.
“Ay, sir?”
“Nobody’s trying to kill me around here,” Carey said, watching his face carefully. Had Hughie shot that crossbow? “In Carlisle, though, it might be a serious matter if you weren’t near me.”
Hughie looked distasteful. “Ay, sir, Carlisle’s all fu’ wi’ English Borderers.”
“Yes, true.”
Carey was very thirsty and knew the wine was too strong to do any good. What he needed was at least a quart of mild ale to wet his throat, but where could he find some?
“Hughie, go fetch me a flagon of spiced wine.” Hughie nodded and plunged toward the scrum around the wine and brandy barrels at the corner of the tent.
Carey left the marquee again and picked his way around the hedges to the musicians’ entrance, where he found Mr. Byrd drinking tobacco smoke from a clay pipe and looking very disgruntled.
“I don’t suppose you play the viol, too, Sir Robert?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Byrd, not at all. I was taught the lute but can’t say I learnt it, since my playing is painfully poor.”
“And yet your voice is excellent, sir.”
“Thank you, but I can’t take any credit for it. Simply a gift from God, for reasons that He no doubt understands.”
Byrd proffered the pipe, lifting his eyebrows, and Carey took it and drank some smoke. The tobacco was good although it had no Moroccan incense in it and it didn’t make him cough, just smoothed some of the edges. Byrd smiled in the darkness.
“Yes, indeed, there’s music for you. Who knows where it comes from or where it goes or why.” He sniffed and scowled heavily. “Or musicians either.”
“Oh?”
“I’m one viol down in any case because the players from London had plague and have been forbidden the Court. So I hired me a replacement and now he’s gone off somewhere, I don’t know where.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Byrd.”
“His face is annoying me now, I’m sure I’ve seen him before. So what did you want, sir?”
“Er…would you have any spare mild ale anywhere about you to wet my poor dry throat?”
Byrd smiled again. “We’ve got a proper Court ration, half a gallon apiece. You can have that damned viol player’s pottle, if you like.” The chapel master even ducked back into the tent to fetch it for him and Carey took the large heavy leather mug, toasted Byrd, and gulped a quarter of it in one. That was better. It was very good, the manor’s brewer had obviously taken care with it as the Queen herself was notorious for mainly drinking only mild ale. It was weak, refreshing, and slightly nutty.
“Did you know that Spanish air before you sang it?” Byrd asked. Carey shook his head.
“It was a pleasure to sing.”
Byrd bowed a little, looking thoughtful. “Funny thing that,” he said in an awkwardly casual voice. “The Queen asked for it particularly, but I didn’t make the tune. She played it for me herself.”
“Oh?” Carey didn’t say anything more, waited. Had Byrd been told to give him information?
“Yes, she picked it out on one of the lutes this afternoon and told me to set it at once so we could sing it this evening and then later in Oxford.”
“You did that in a couple of hours? I’m impressed, Mr. Chapel Master.”
Byrd smiled. “It wasn’t any trouble at all, just unrolled as easy as you like. Perhaps it could do with a little trimming, or perhaps more embellishment.”
“I wouldn’t touch it…I thought it was perfect as it was.”
Byrd wagged a finger at Carey. The pipe of tobacco was finished; he had knocked out the dottle and put it in his belt pouch, but was showing no sign of going into the tent again. “Only God is perfect, sir, that’s what the Moors say, isn’t it?”
Byrd was doing his best to look guileless so Carey resigned himself to having to probe. “So what made an old Spanish air so important to the Queen, I wonder?” he asked and then added on impulse, “She has asked me to look into an important but difficult matter for her and perhaps you can help me.”
Byrd nodded. “Sir Robert, I have a few moments before we must play again for the tumblers.” They drew aside, away from the tent and also clear of the hedge. “The air you sang was written on a piece of parchment, wrapped around something that looked like a piece of leather or a stick. I think it was found in the Queen’s privy baggage when we arrived here and it put Her Majesty out of countenance. It seems there was music written on it and that is what she had us sing.”
“What else was written on the parchment?”
Byrd shrugged. “I didn’t see that, Sir Robert, only the Queen saw it. I glimpsed the staves when she opened it out to pluck it on her lute for me to transcribe.” Byrd patted Carey’s arm. “I know Her Majesty ordered Mrs. de Paris to find you and set you on the scent. She said she had heard you were as fine a sleuth dog as Walsingham and thanked God you were here. But that’s all. She said nothing else about it, except that she has kept the parchment and bit of leather in a purse close under her stays.”