As Meat Loves Salt. Maria McCann

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      With the day scarce begun, we had all of us drunk too deep. Sir John was singing, in a voice like boiling jam, about a wencb who had two – his wife here put her hand over his mouth. Something dropping down my shirt, I felt inside and found a tiny heart of scarlet marchpane entangled in my chest hair.

      ‘They get everywhere,’ said Peter, giving me a lewd wink from across the table.

      O could I but run away with her! I had now the right to take her openly to my bed, yet I must go instead through all the merriments of the day, which rightly seen were nothing more than tortures. That was fine sport, I guessed, baiting the eager bridegroom with dances and toasts until he was near crazy. I had never before tasted the cruelty of it. The winks, the looks, the jests all assuming me to be on fire – which I was – the constant fanning of my heat by dangling before me the delights I should come to soon, soon, soon, but not yet—

      Caro frowned. ‘Look here, my love.’ She held out a finger: a pretty scarlet globe of liquid swelled from the pad, ran over and trickled down her palm. Exasperated, she put the finger to her mouth.

      ‘What’s amiss?’

      ‘The rose chaplet,’ she mumbled. ‘The gardener left some thorns in.’

      ‘Hold your hand up,’ suggested My Lady.

      Caro did so, but the stream of red continued. ‘Fingers are nasty for bleeding,’ she lamented, and put it back in her mouth before it could stain the gown.

      ‘We will tie it up,’ I said. ‘Are there fresh bandages in the stillroom?’

      Caro stopped sucking just long enough to say, ‘Aye.’

      ‘Come on then.’ I rose. There was a general catcalling and cries of, ‘Hot!’ and ‘Caro, beware!’

      ‘You will excuse us a few minutes, Madam,’ I said.

      The Mistress nodded. Caro followed me out of the maze with her hand poised above her head as if to give a signal.

      The stillroom smelt sweet. I put my mouth in hers and we kissed very slow and deep, my love holding the injured hand away from our finery. Profiting by her lack of defences, I held her close to me and crushed the gown.

      Caro drew back her head. ‘Wait. Here’s the stuff,’ and she pulled away from my embrace to open a drawer full of torn linen. I recognised an old shirt of Sir Bastard’s. Taking one of the finer strips, I tore it in two and bound up the finger, pausing frequently to kiss.

      ‘The blood’s almost stopped,’ she remarked in a brisk voice which did not fool me, for I had felt her breathe hard against my mouth.

      ‘Stopped? Mine is rising,’ I murmured. ‘Let us go upstairs and look at the chamber. Say yes, Caro,’ and I bit her ear.

      She closed her eyes. ‘We are not to see it yet.’

      ‘None will know. We can seek out the traps,’ I coaxed, knowing she had a horror of spiders in the bed and was mightily afraid the menservants would put some in.

      Caro frowned. ‘Well – if we do not stay long—’

      The scent of dust and emptiness was gone, the room now fragrant with roses and pot-pourri. Anne had looped ropes of flowers over the bed and walls, and doubtless managed it better than Patience could ever have done. The floor was strewn thick with rosemary. There was a nonsuch chest for our clothes – that had not been there before – and on it a great bunch of lavender. I dearly loved the perfume of this herb and went up to the chest to smell it.

      ‘Izzy,’ said Caro. ‘He knows you like lavender.’

      She was gazing at the tester bed. New hangings of saye had been fitted, and tied back to show the linen all clean and fair over three good mattresses. The hangings were flesh colour and yellow, signifying desire and joy.

      ‘Did you choose the colours?’ I asked.

      Caro smiled and shook her head. ‘I was told it would be blue.’

      I stroked the bolsters with my hand and looked beneath them. On top of the cover lay an embroidered nightgown for Caro and a plainer, but still beautifully worked, one for me. Mine was very large and I knew my wife had made it specially, as a wedding gift.

      ‘No spiders or hedgehogs,’ I said, passing my hand between the sheets. I took hold of her again, and we pressed close. Her mouth was sweet as crushed strawberries.

      ‘Enough.’ Caro ducked out of my arms. I thought of grappling her to me directly, and the guests be damned. She went on, ‘For every minute we stay, there will be a jest at us. It might be they are in the stillroom already.’

      Reluctantly, I straightened my garments.

      ‘Giving of gifts comes next.’ Caro examined the bandaged finger. ‘See, the blood is—O, what’s that?’

      She was staring out of the window. I went to it and saw a dustcloud moving towards Beaurepair, along the hill road which led to the village and further on, to Champains.

      ‘Jacob, what is it?’ Her voice trembled. ‘You look—’

      I punched the windowsill, making her jump. ‘It is Patience. And Biggin. And Tom Cornish.’

      ‘Patience!’ Caro’s smile flared an instant and died. ‘With Cornish? That man who – spies?’

      I nodded, trying to make out the faces of their companions.

      Caro tugged at my sleeve. ‘What should she do with him?’

      ‘Quiet.’ I watched the distant woman’s skirts rise and fall with the horse. Zeb had been right, then, and it struck me that they were hoping to catch all of us at a swoop. This was why they had lain so quiet: Patience had told them of my betrothal day and they had waited, knowing that on this day, of all others, we would not be away from home.

      I turned to Caro. ‘Listen, wife. There is not time to explain. These people mean us harm. We must leave.’

      ‘What – what harm?’ she stuttered. ‘How can we leave – the gifts—’

      ‘Run away.’

      Caro gaped, then laughed. ‘You’ll not make a fool of me. You can’t see them from here.’

      I took her by the shoulders and spoke into her face. ‘It may be that you cannot, but I can. Go get all the money and jewels there are, put them under your gown.’

      ‘I have none but—’

      ‘Hers, get hers,’ I cried. ‘These men are come for me. Then go the long way round to the stable, and wait.’

      ‘But they are not – how are they come for you?’

      ‘Come to hang me. Shape yourself! Stand here losing time, and you’ll see me kicking my heels.’

      ‘That can’t be. A man can’t just come—’

      ‘And then it will be you. Don’t СКАЧАТЬ