Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) by P. F. Chisholm Page B

his doublet shoulders. The young man had unpicked the lining, taken out just enough of the padding and rearranged the rest to make room for Carey’s extra sword muscles and then sewn it all up again as neat as you like. It seemed to be true he had been prenticed to a tailor.
    “Well done, Hughie.” He put the watch candle down and felt for his purse. There was still a bit of money in it so he gave Hughie sixpence for the job. The amount of money he had seemed to be going down with its usual alarming speed. He wasn’t yet ready to encase himself in Court armour of velvet and pearls so he wandered out into the crowded afternoon.
    The Earl of Cumberland’s men had finished enclosing the whole orchard in a large marquee, laying boards between the trees. Some of the later-fruiting trees still had apples, pears, and golden quinces hanging on them which scented the whole tent. The ones that had already been picked were being decorated with hanging pomanders and little silk bags of comfits. The banquet tables were against the further wall of the tent and the more open part of the orchard had been completely boarded over, with the raspberry and blackcurrant canes taken out, to make a dance floor. Her Majesty would dance that evening in the light of the banks of candles being carefully set up in readiness, but only a couple of them were lit so far.
    Meanwhile in the other corner the musicians were tuning up and arguing over the playlist while the men of the chapel were still practising. Carey stopped and listened—Thomasina was right, there were only two tenors and one of them clearly had a bad sore throat and a head cold.
    He was just thinking he should go back to the cottage tiring room and shift his shirt and change to his Court suit, when Thomasina swept in, followed by her two women who towered over her.
    She stood on a stool and bade the choirmaster have his men sing an air for her, a piece of music which was ruined by the tenors any time they had a line to sing above doh . Carey was shaking his head at his cousin’s likely reaction to the singing and wondering why the chapel master didn’t simply change the air for something in a lower key, when suddenly Thomasina skewered him with a look.
    “Could you sing that line, Sir Robert?” she snapped.
    Carey remembered too late that she’d said something about his voice, bowed and smiled. “I’m no great musician, mistress, and I’m sure the chapel master could find a much better…”
    “He could if we were in Oxford or London, but not here where nobody can read music even if they can sing and we daren’t let in any of the musicians from London. You can read pricksong, can’t you?”
    “Well, yes, but I…”
    The brown button eyes glared again and Carey realised that there was probably some purpose to all this. He bowed again.
    “I’ll do my poor best, mistress.”
    He got some very haughty looks from the chapel men who were understandably nervous at the idea of a courtier singing with them. That nettled him. He knew he could sing and in fact music had been one of only a few childhood lessons that could compete with football.
    He stepped up to the candle and took the handwritten sheet of paper, squinted at it. A little tricky, but not impossibly difficult.
    Mr. Byrd had him sight-sing the entire piece solo to a lute, then grunted and took him through it with the chapel men several times. The result was much better, he knew. With the spine of the music held for them by his voice, they could manage the complex interweavings required of them.
    “Hmm,” said Mr. Byrd, “well done, Sir Robert, very accurate.”
    “This is new, isn’t it? I feel sure I’ve never heard it before.”
    Mr. Byrd and Thomasina exchanged looks and Byrd bowed. “Thank you, sir, I have only just finished it.”
    Could it have anything to do with the death of Amy Robsart, then? Surely not. It was only a piece of music, an air in the Spanish style, magically worked by William Byrd, an