Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) (8 page)

Back in the little tiring room, Carey waited until Mr. Simmonds had come out, clad in a smartly brushed buffcoat with his cloak over his arm, ready to attend Cumberland at the dance. His Court suit was hanging up ready, smelling of rose petal powder with the clean shirt he had managed to pack in his hunting satchel when he left Somerset House the day before. He had kept it carefully for exactly this chance. He sniffed his armpits and frowned. Could he wash anywhere? Riding forty miles in a day was a sweaty business and he’d ridden in from Oxford in the morning as well.

There would be stews in Oxford for the naughty students, but none here in the little village. There would be hip baths in Norris’ manor house which the Queen and her ladies would use. No doubt Essex was stepping into something organised for him right now. Where was Cumberland? A small pack of boys ran past him downhill, shouting in excitement about something going on in the duck pond.

He shucked his hunting doublet and hose, left them hanging on another peg. Scratching fleabites from the last night at the inn, Carey ambled barefoot in his shirt down toward the village duck pond, singing the tune he’d just learnt.

A grey-bearded man in a sober black doublet and gown suddenly turned and stared at him as if he had spoken, then hurried after him.

“Sir,” he said, “that tune. Did Heron Nimmo teach it to you?”

“Eh?” said Carey, irritated at being interrupted in his thoughts, “No, the Queen’s chapel master. Why?”

The man flushed and bowed. “My apologies, sir, I mistook you for a friend.”

“I don’t know anybody called Heron Nimmo. You should enquire of Mr. Byrd, perhaps. The Lord Chamberlain, my father, might know him if he’s a musician?”

The man bowed again, muttered to himself, hurried away. Carey sauntered on down to the duck pond. He found Cumberland and half the Court there, busily wading into the pond and the stream feeding it and washing as best they could.

Villagers were lining the banks and watching with gaping mouths. Some of them were women, peeking round hedges and clutching each other and giggling. Grinning at the sight of the richest and most powerful men in the country splashing about naked in cold water for fear of a fussy woman of fifty-nine, Carey stripped off his own shirt, hung it on a post, and waded in.

The water made him gasp but it was quite refreshing. You had to be careful because the stones on the bottom were covered in weed and very slippery. Cumberland saw him and whistled.

“Christ, Sir Robert, who tried to slit your ribs?”

Carey looked down at the purple scar he had collected in the summer and completely forgotten about.

“A Scotsman with a knife. Cost me £20 to get my black velvet doublet mended afterward.”

Cumberland laughed. “Where is he now?”

“In Hell, my lord, where do you think?” Carey answered coolly, since he had in fact killed his man to the great approval of the assembled Carlislers. The inquest on that death had taken twenty minutes and found it lawful killing in self-defence.

Cumberland slapped him on the back and offered him soap, which Carey took. Just in that moment, as he bent to wash his armpits in the water, he half-heard a familiar sound and his body instinctively clenched and ducked, well before his mind could tell him what it was.

His foot caught on a slippery stone and he went over sideways with a splash, swamping Cumberland and two other Court sprigs, one of whom had been silly enough to put his clean shirt back on before he was well away from the water. Pure reflex made him grab the nearest thing from underwater, which unfortunately happened to be the Earl of Cumberland’s leg. That took the Earl over as well.

Cumberland came up again, blowing water with weeds on his head, the light of battle in his eyes. Carey had to dive sideways to avoid a very accomplished wrestling grab by the Earl, which meant his shoulder went into the legs of somebody else and took him down as well.

The whole scene degenerated into a wrestling free-for-all. Carey climbed out of the shouting, splashing, yelling clump of nobility as soon as he could, quickly soaped his armpits and then was well-rinsed by the Earl of Cumberland pulling him back into the pond and dunking him. It took a very nice break-free taught him by Dodd to get out of the Earl’s expert grip so he could use a willow branch to haul himself up and cough water.

The entire village was now gathered to watch the fun, including the quoits players, vigorous betting going on and the boys cheering on their favourites while the village dogs barked their heads off. The noise was amazing which meant Carey could speak quietly to get under the sound and penetrate to the Earl of Cumberland before he could be thrown again.

“Look there,” he said, pointing.

Cumberland stopped laughing suddenly, frowned. They waded across, shoving wrestlers out of their way to a willow root on the far side where some highly offended ducks were hiding as far up the tree as they could get in their webbed feet.

A crossbow bolt was buried deep in the wood, the notch bright and new.

That was the sound he’d heard. The snick of a crossbow trigger being released. He and Cumberland looked at each other. The bolt was an ordinary one from a hunting bow. Not one for small game, but for deer. The bolt was a good six inches long, heavy and sharp. If it had hit him it would probably have killed him.

“I was wondering what you thought you were doing,” said Cumberland thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sir Robert.”

True, it could have been aimed at the Earl and not at him; they had been close enough together. And Cumberland too had enemies, notably the Spanish and the French and probably some inherited Border feuds as well. But when Carey felt which way the bolt’s tail was pointing and traced the line of its flight across the stream, he thought it was at chest height where he had been standing in the moment he heard the trigger. Behind him had been a low wall and some bushes. Carey waded back across the pond as the wrestlers calmed themselves and started climbing out and drying themselves. Bets were being settled. He peered over the wall. The ground was soft but well printed with many feet and no way of telling among them.

“Or do you think it was you he was after?” The Earl was already on the bank, rubbing himself down with a linen towel. Carey shrugged and followed him, hoping to use the towel as well since he hadn’t brought one.

“I don’t know, my lord,” he said, blinking at the tree where the crossbow bolt was buried.

“Well, it wasn’t an accident, that’s sure,” Cumberland said, handing him the dank towel. “With a bolt that size, whoever shot it wasn’t after duck.”

Carey shivered suddenly but only because he was wet and the sun was setting. He rubbed himself briskly, finished, and pulled his shirt back on. Typically the Earl was now chuckling and shaking his head so his earring flashed.

“By God, Carell’s done ye some good. That was fast. Do you find a lot people trying to kill you at the moment, eh?”

“Well yes, my lord, I understand the Grahams have my head priced at £10 in Dumfries.”

Cumberland hooted. “Not nearly enough, the skinflints. I’ll tell ’em to put it up to £50 at least.”

“Your lordship is too kind,” Carey said smiling, although he still felt cold. That was far away on the Borders where he rarely went anywhere without a padded jack reinforced with steel plates on his back, and Dodd behind him. For God’s sake, this was Oxfordshire in fat, soft southern England. It wasn’t supposed to happen, whoever the assassin had been aiming at. And who the hell had tried it?

***

Emilia Bonnetti was dousing herself in expensive rosewater to clean herself as there were no such things as proper baths in this peasant bog. She knew how persnickety the old English Queen was and had an intricately smocked fresh shift to wear under her stays. Her beautiful crimson silk gown had been left in Ireland, alas, that goddamned hellhole of a country. No doubt some uncouth chieftain’s wife was wearing it now. Dante Aligheri was completely wrong: Hell was a green boggy place where the air was constantly damp from the equally constant rain and the people were charming, intelligent, sometimes remarkably good-looking but lethally unpredictable. Only God knew how near a thing it had been for herself and her husband; only she knew how nearly they had died.

She had borrowed a dancing gown from the wife of one of the musicians who probably made a very good thing out of it, seeing what the woman charged. The gown was tawny, which did not suit her colouring at all but would have to do as there was no choice. Her slippers were also borrowed, a different shade of tawny, and didn’t fit properly.

She was in a peasant’s main room, getting dressed with the few other women at Court who were neither ladies-in-waiting nor maids of honour; they were wives of lesser courtiers mainly. Maids of honour, pfui. Dishonour, more like. Emilia had heard of Raleigh’s proceedings with Bess Throckmorton and was shocked. She had been a virgin when she married and it had taken some work to stay intact when her cousins came calling. However, once you were legally married and had given your man an heir, it didn’t matter in the least what you did, in her view. Bonnetti himself was well aware of what she did and they often planned one of her campaigns together over a jug of their wine. On her part, she ignored his activities with chambermaids. They were excellent business partners. The wine made good profits when everything went well and the customers actually paid up; much more profitable was the trade in information. The barrels of goods and gold that went back to the Hague to pay for the wine would often have secret compartments with coded news in them from Signor Bonnetti to keep the stupid English Customs and Excise men and the pursuivants happy. Her own methods were better.

Tonight she had two quarries: one she had taken before, the tall chestnut-headed, disgracefully handsome cousin of the Queen, with his piercing blue eyes and his (she had to admit) quite polished manners. The other…well, she would have to be very careful not to actually catch that one or the whole plan would be ruined. She had only to wing him slightly, as it were.

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 deputé 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.”