‘Most cunningly made,’ said My Lady. ‘See, Mervyn.’
The visitor took it from Sir John and put it into the boy’s hand and he, being careless, straightway let it fall and it shattered on the flags. The visitor’s reaction I cannot now remember, for I was so shocked that I cried out in protest as if the cup had been my own. I was told to fetch a broom. Sweeping up the fragments, I cannot swear that I did not let a tear, while Mervyn sat sullen and stupid. I guessed they had given him a tongue-lashing while I was out of the room, but I would fain have seen him hanged for the destruction of the glass before my eyes could learn it.
For weeks I kept the shards of it in a leather pouch, taking them out frequently to admire the stem, which was still in one piece, or to look through the fragments of the bowl and see the world all drenched in blood. The garden viewed thus was a scene of nightmare, its trees and plants hot curls of stone beneath the fiery skies of Hell, the black and crimson maze a trap for souls. Or, it might be, this was how Beaurepair itself would look on the Last Day.
‘Your grim fancy,’ said Izzy when one day I showed him the Hell Garden. ‘The thing amuses, I suppose. But I would rather have the garden as it is.’ Zeb would also hold or look through the glass pieces from time to time, until the day when, called to some urgent task, I left them on the floor and out of the pouch. When I returned to my treasures they were gone.
I at once suspected my brother. But Zeb persuaded me that this was none of his teasing while Izzy, looking sick, suggested I enquire of Godfrey. The steward told me that he had trodden on the glass shards and one of them had pierced his shoe and gone into the sole of his foot. ‘And so,’ said this wise old fool, ‘I have thrown them down the jakes.’
Thus perished a lovely thing, all broken and degraded, for that it was given into the wrong hands. I drifted off remembering, and it came back to me in my dream, where I was holding it for someone to see. But it was already broken, and a sadness blew through me like smoke.
When next I opened my eyes the room was light and the other three were standing over my bed.
‘It is time,’ said Izzy.
We were boys again. Half asleep, I protested as the cover was dragged off. Izzy put into my hand a cup of salep, a rare treat in that house where the servants drank mostly beer. I let its thick, pearly sweetness drop over my tongue like some great honeyed oyster.
Peter had fetched us up a special perfumed water from the stillroom. As bridegroom, I was first with this water, which had been infused with rosemary and lavender. There was also a washball to scrub my skin with, and cloths for drying. In the days when we still had old Doctor Barton for tutor, he showed me a print of a Turkish bath and I, being at once full of a child’s desire, begged of him that we might go to Turkey. He said that it was too far off, and the people not Christians, but the picture with its men naked or draped in sheets, the spacious stone halls, the fountains and the musician in strange pantaloons and pointed shoes, plucking at a shrunken harp, stayed with me. It was still before me even when I bent to hoe Sir John’s cornfield, miserably fulfilling the Word: In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread. Now I took a dampened cloth and ran it over my body. My delight in washing and aversion to every kind of dirt was a byword in our house. Though I was called fantastical, and was much teased, yet it made me a careful servant, and I thought Caro did not like me the less for it.
While I was drying myself and lifting out my best shirt from the press, the other three all washed together, splashing the water here and there, mostly over head and hands for none but me took off his shirt. There was much fooling, much spitting of foam; the chamber floor was soaked, as was Zebedee when Peter scooped up water in his hands and threw it.
‘Clodpate,’ said Zeb without venom. He pulled the wet shirt over his head and came to the press where the fresh ones were kept. Almost dressed by now, I watched him fling the linen this way and that, Peter wailing that everything would be crushed. It struck me how rarely I saw Zeb naked, for all that we shared a chamber. Stripped, he showed more muscular than I remembered, but well-knit and graceful – what some called a proper man, one who drew women to him and had already sired a child to prove it. As for my elder brother – poor Izzy, what woman would be charmed by him? His back would never be as straight or as strong as the one that was turned to me now as Zeb dropped a shirt over his head and pulled on his breeches.
‘Hold, Jacob,’ said Izzy. Peter and Zeb turned to watch as he handed me a pair of hose I had never seen before, of the finest wool and such a tender white you would say they came from the mildest, purest lambs.
‘These are not mine,’ I told him.
‘Yes they are, they’re a gift from us three.’
They smiled kindly on me and the hose were straightway more precious to my heart than anything the Mistress might give or lend. I hugged my brothers and Peter, gaining a little damp on my shirtsleeves, but that mattered nothing: the coat would go over it.
‘Soft as down,’ I said as I stood up, hose stretched clean and tight and my newest shoes on.
‘They look well on you,’ said Izzy.
‘My thanks, they are the best I ever saw.’ Again I suffered a pang for the sweet brother whose garments never looked well on him. Peter helped me do up the mother-of-pearl buttons on my coat, which, like Zeb, were handsome but difficult to lay hold of.
‘Like a prince. She’ll want to eat you,’ Peter said as he slid the last one into place.
Zeb laughed. ‘Be kind and let her.’
Izzy was giving a last brush to his coat. ‘I hope Mounseer finds the cooks to his liking. I heard shouting from the kitchen last night.’
‘Have you seen Caro’s robe?’ Zeb asked him. ‘It is magnificent.’
I stared. ‘You have, then?’
‘It’s only the husband that’s not allowed. You’ll take her for My Lady Somebody.’
‘When did she show you?’
Izzy stopped brushing. ‘Are we ready, lads?’
‘The favours!’ cried Zeb. With shaking fingers we pinned them on, so that the guests could pluck them off later – another curtsey to Dame Fortune, but one I had not dared to oppose.
‘Here, here!’ Peter shoved a glass of wine into my hand. ‘Down in one. Go to it.’
I was glad to obey.
‘Done like a man,’ said Izzy.
‘When did she show you the gown?’ I repeated, but Zeb and Peter bounded out of the door, eager as dogs to the hare.
‘This is no day for jealousy,’ Izzy said, laying his hand on my arm.
‘I’m not jealous.’
Peter went directly to the garden, while we brothers had first to knock at Caro’s chamber. It should have been her father’s house, but there was nothing to be done about that. I tapped on the door and heard whispering and a stifled laugh within. Godfrey’s voice bade me enter.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes glittering. A cloak had been thrown over the gown, and her hair hung down loosely as befitted a virgin bride. Mary and Anne, clutching branches of gilded rosemary, looked me over from head to toe. I took Caro by the hand as custom demanded, said the traditional ‘Mistress, I hope you are willing’, and allowed Godfrey, who was standing in for her father, to lead me out of the room. The bridesmaids, giggling, went on either side of me, their captive man, while Izzy and Zeb stayed behind to escort Caro.
We slowly descended the stairs. I was in a daze and my shoes, which were not well broken in, pinched. I heard Izzy and Zeb laughing along the corridor. The idea was that Caro should follow me out to the maze,