Viper Wine (28 page)

‘Honey bee venom is used cosmetically to fool skin into thinking it has been lightly stung with the toxin melittin . . . Experts collect bee venom by placing a pane of glass alongside a hive and running an electrical current through it which encourages the insects to sting the surface.

Because the bee’s lance remains in its body, it does not die. Tiny quantities of venom are so valuable that it costs up to £30,000 for one ounce . . . The Duchess of Cambridge and the Duchess of Cornwall are already fans.’

Daily Mail
newspaper, February 2013

Venetia was lying on her daybed, exhausted after her game of cards, and Chater was sitting at the other end, rubbing her feet.

She was teasing Chater, because she had discovered that his Christian name was Posthumous.

‘
Thomas
Posthumous, my lady.’

‘Why did a letter come for Posthumous Thomas Chater, then?’

‘My mother is old, she becomes confused, she has them the wrong way about.’ His eyes bulged when he became agitated, so Venetia made an effort to hide her hilarity. She perceived his name had been a trouble to him in the school-room.

‘I know the reason for your name is solemn, Chater.’

‘My mother would have done better not to compound for me the loss of my father with such a name.’

Chater kneaded the sole of her foot.

‘My lady seems so happy,’ he said reproachfully.

‘My Chater seems happy too,’ she parried.

He made an equivocating wiggle with his head.

She had no idea; she did not know what it was to behold an angel of love, bearded and strong like a prophet, and to talk soft words with him, and burn with feeling for him, and yet not to be able to hold him, or touch him, though the will to do so was as strong as Holy Fire, which raged over him and yet would not consume him, so he stayed blazing all the livelong day, like the priest in the temple at Jerusalem, because Chater was righteous, and would not touch Father Dell’Mascere. But her – she was married to her love. What a waste. Sir Kenelm would have made an excellent priest.

‘My lady is fortunate that she is not like the other ladies at court,’ he said.

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘Some of them wear their improvements so openly, it is hard to see the woman behind the handiwork. They are like St Paul’s – an old cathedral with a new frontage.’

Venetia laughed, but she knew he meant to disquiet her.

‘Oh, how lovely that you compare them to that holy place. It is true that some of the women at court are as celebrated as St Paul’s, and they have many devoted pilgrims, too . . .’ She laughed naughtily, thinking to make a bawdy joke about the ladies’ suitors going always in and out, but then she looked at Chater and decided that was going too far. He was become more pious since they came to town.

He was now reacquainted with his bearded friend Dell’Mascere, and this had brought him to a higher pitch of feeling, so his joy was spiced with pain. She knew Chater was chaste: she could tell by his tension and the bile in his voice, and his fastidious nature. But she guessed it cost him. She detected a struggle constantly taking place within him. Mortification was part of his Order, and she knew he whipped himself under his soutane. She hoped he was not spoiling the second best bedroom’s sheets.

Chater saw she was not going to give up without a fight, and rubbing her feet a little harder, he continued: ‘It is so sad, so very sad, to see a lady destroy her face by means of artifice. Have you noticed how those who do it are always those who were formerly the most beautiful?’

‘Aye,’ said Venetia, enjoying Chater’s ministrations to her feet. ‘But if they were already former beauties, then the artifice is simply a third thing, no worse than decay.’

‘No, my lady, I must disagree. It is a crime against your Maker to render your cheeks immovable with lead. Decay is holy, in its way.’

‘Oh come, Chater. It is not forbidden for a woman to improve her condition, is it? I remember no Commandment, thou shalt not paint.’

‘The Puritans will not have paint.’

‘The Puritans will not have anything.’

‘Paint is one thing. Irreversible embellishments are quite another matter. They are far worse. They might render a woman unrecognisable to God on Judgement Day. Think of that.’

‘Chater, have you been reading Savonarola again?’

He put his weight into twisting her foot, so she gasped. She would not show it was painful.

‘Excellent footwork, Chater.’

He looked serious. ‘There is something Florentine about the King’s court here, yes. Now, take my Lady Porter, what has she attempted?’

‘Many things in her life, I should say.’

Exasperated, Chater cracked the joint of her big toe, and worked his way down to its fellows.

‘Has she taken Dr Scoderu’s Virginal Milk perhaps, of sorrel and fucus? I have heard that is quite a puissant mixture. Except it would not make her face to blister . . .’

‘I know it not,’ said Venetia, twisting as he pinched her little toe.

‘Or perhaps that ghastly Alexis of Piedmont’s recipe is still in vogue, the one that calls for a young raven from the nest, fed for forty days with hard eggs only, and then distilled with myrtle . . .’

‘Are you interested, Chater? Do you wish for my recommendations? But your brow is still smooth. You have a few pretty greys, mingling with the dark . . .’

Chater involuntarily raised his hand to the back of his head, and stroked downwards with aghast tenderness, but in no other way did he give Venetia the benefit of a reaction. Seamlessly, he went back to massaging her feet.

‘My lady, I am responsible for the conduct of your soul. I cannot let you abuse your beauty without speaking out.’

‘What do you mean, Chater?’

‘My lady understands me well enough.’

‘You are full of insinuation, Chater,’ she said, stressing the ‘sin’ with a sibilant ‘S’.

He was afraid to call her on it. He needed her friendship so deeply, he did not dare to ask her outright if she was taking any medicine for her skin. And yet he had been bold enough to come this far. Poor Chater. She felt quite certain of it, now, looking at his face contorting as he manipulated her feet, that he knew she was beautiful again, and that she was restored to Sir Kenelm’s love, and she was regaining her old place at court, and that he did not like these changes, because he did not understand them, and he felt redundant, and rejected, because he had no power over her now. Before she drank her potion, they were two broken, clever creatures together, both surplus to requirements, somehow, and complicit in their loneliness and their little games of Scripture. Now she was a juicy plum again, but he seemed sadder than ever.

‘Sometimes I worry you mortify yourself too much, Chater. I went into the laundry once and I saw a bloodied undershirt they said was yours.’

‘It is the duty of true believers to mortify sin all their days,’ said Chater. ‘Mortify, make it your daily work; be always at it while you live; cease not a day from this work, be killing sin or it will be killing you.’

‘John?’ said Venetia, weakly.

‘Galileans. Should I need to remind you?’ He exhaled, and gripped her ankle with his hand. His fingers could almost close around her ankle now; she was become so slender of late, the bitch. She used to be his plump darling but now she had no use for her Chater.

Venetia looked at his long face and realised that he was angry with her. She had expected him to love her more because she was beautiful again, and to follow her around adoringly, because everyone loves a beauty, do they not? Apart from those who prefer to keep you in your place, where you were less powerful, because they need you for themselves, and do not want to share you.

‘I hope you have not been listening to idle chatter, Chater.’

‘I hope you have not been visiting any meddling herbalist no better than a quack.’

‘No, i’faith,’ said Venetia with honest indignation. ‘If I were to go to anyone, I would go to the best.’

Chater realised: she was trying to tell him that Sir Kenelm gave her a potion. It was what he had long suspected.

In fact, she was on the cliff’s edge of telling him about Lancelot Choice and his blood-red decoction. It would lighten her secret to share it, and renew her friendship with Chater besides. It would be entertaining to see his eyes pop when she told him. But Chater was embarrassed because he thought he was trampling upon Sir Kenelm’s business, and he did not let her speak, interrupting her angrily: ‘My lady must resist the vain society here. It is not wise, nor fruitful to be afflicted by fashion.’

‘Is Chater now so wise he would have me in a nunnery?’ She laughed, relieved to find that her urge to confide in him had gone as quickly as it had come.

‘Chater! That hurts!’

He laid down her feet and rubbed them soothingly back and forth, with the flat of his hand.

M
ARY
T
REE: 170
M
ILES
T
RAVELLED

WHEN I ARRIVED
in London, I was lucky to meet Bess Bottomly almost at once. She hath but one hand, but she is so quick with it, you barely notice. She came up to me as I was praying beside the fine Cheapside Cross (three storeys tall with a great golden cross and a dove on top!), thanking the Lord for my delivery from the bone-shake of the coach, and praying for Richard Pickett. When Bess Bottomly saw I was at prayer she kept back until I had finished. Then she asked if I wanted to stay at her house until I found lodgings of my own. I knew she would want paying for this – I did not think her a saint – but I was grateful nevertheless. There were many other girls staying with her, and often they have visits from gentlemen who are their suitors for marriage, so Bess told me.

I was so pleased to be safe and warm and in the company of women, all of them merry enough, as far as I could tell. Bess’s lieutenant, so-called, is one Anna Trapper, who sits and minds the door of Bess’s lodging-house. Last night I sat with her, talking.

‘An Abraham man came this way today,’ she said, ‘and then changed his mind and became a Ruffler.’

This is a test, to see if I have conned her correctly.

‘An Abraham man begs by feigning to have been mad,’ I said. ‘And a Ruffler pretends he has been in service in the wars.’

‘Also known as?’

‘An Uprightman.’

‘Good. And what do those beggars who pretend they cannot speak be called?’

‘Dummerers!’ I crowed, for I like to get my answers right as much as the next good girl.

‘More Rome-booze, my darling,’ she said, meaning ‘More wine’, so I filled her up.

‘Who demands for glimmer?’

‘Those who pretend to have lost all their belongings in a fire.’

‘And what do I mean by a Counterfeit Crank?’

‘One who dissembles falling sickness and so beg for alms.’

‘For alms? For alms? No, no, no, doll. No! No Abraham man, no Counterfeit Crank, no Ruffler, no Dummerer, no none of them wants alms. They wants money. Brass. Gilt. Dust. Counter. The old cross-n-pile. Right, let’s see. A Prigger steals . . .?’

‘Prancers.’

‘Prancers being?’

‘Horses.’

‘Foisters, Nippers, Lifters . . .?’

‘Are common pickpockets.’

‘And Churbers?’

‘Are burglars who use long hooks to steal by.’

I was doing well, and I was frequently told by Anna that I needed to learn all this, for my own safety. By the way she looked at me and my Mark – once she licked her thumb and drew it across my cheek, as if she were trying to remove it – I could see she knew I would never find the protection of any man. So I was grateful for the education she was giving me. And yet in my heart I knew I was becoming versed in the muck of the mire, and as much as I wanted to make my way in the city, for Richard’s sake, I also wished to shut my ears and go home to Endcote Early.

Many gentlemen suitors came offering marriage that night – some of them half-drunk, I believe. One gent came in to Bess Bottomly’s discreetly hooded but with long, yellow-gartered legs on show.
I know those knees
, I thought. His face confirmed what his legs suggested – this was none other than my friend Mungo Stump. He was not so pleased to see me as I expected. He looked aghast, in truth. By his face I began to see for certain I was not in a place of good repute. I told him I had not yet found Sir Keyholme Digbin, although I went out marching the streets enquiring after him every day. He coloured bright red under his flaxen hair.