Ut infra.
Friday July 22, 2011
The curtains are drawn and the shutters closed against the oppressive heat. But for the light leaking through the uppermost panes of the high windows it might be night, and candles lit, within the stuffy bedchamber. “Gentlewomen attendant upon duchesses, marquises, countesses might wear in liveries presented by their mistresses such as the wives of those that might dispense of an hundred crowns the year,” says the Countess My Lady Dinsmere, as the Privy Maid slips the girl’s blouse from her shoulders and down her arms.
“Your father was Sir Mortimer Henk, was he not?” says the Queen from somewhere behind her dressing-screen. “Of course he was, you’re Charlotte’s sister. He could hardly dispend himself a hundred solders, much less crowns. But this does not matter! You attend upon my majesty. Continue, My Lady Dinsmere?”
“None shall wear gowns of silk grosgrain, or doubled sarcenet, or camlet, or taffeta, or kirtles of satin or of damask, except those degrees ut infra, and the wives of the heirs of knights and the daughters of knights, and also those that might dispense of three hundred solders the year.” She lolls in the low chaise by the dressing-screen, and in the heat she wears a loose white chemise, and her legs and her feet are bare. She’s undone the buttons and bared her small white breasts gleaming with sweat in the darkness, and she fans them lazily with the wide dark feather of a torcock.
“So vulgar, don’t you think, to include those who might only count their money and not their honors?” says the Queen, as the Privy Maid, dressed similarly to the Countess My Lady in a chemise and little else, unties the laces of the girl’s corset. “One wonders why we even have the laws,” says the Queen. “Still, the quacking I’d endure if I were to tittle the sumptus. My Lady?”
“None shall wear enameled chains, buttons, aglets, and borders, but for those ut infra. Nor any velvet, tufted taffeta, satins, or any of gold or silver in their petticoats, but for wives of barons, knights of order, or councillors’ ladies, or gentlewomen of the privy and the bed, or those maids of honor.” The Privy Maid kneeling before the girl works one clocked white stocking down her pale leg and off, and then the other, and then still kneeling reaches up to yank her petticoats over her hips and down her now bared thighs. The girl bites her lip and struggles to keep her balance. “Satins, damask, or tufted taffeta in gowns or kirtles, or velvet in kirtles, or fur whereof the kind might not be found within the realm but for the foin, the lesser genet, the grey bodge, and any wolf, none but those degrees ut infra, or that might dispense of an hundred crowns the year.”
“An hundred crowns the day, the hour, the minute,” says the Queen, stepping out from behind her dressing-screen, as the Privy Maid tugs the girl’s chemise over her head and off. “And spangles and pearls of gold, or silver, or pearl,” she says, “or cowls of gold or silver, or silk mixed with silver or gold, ut infra, ut infra, ut infra.” She wears only a tight-fitting camisole of singled sarcenet cut just below her breasts and trimmed in delicate lace, and tied low about her hips a similar shimmering skirt of panels of lace sarcenet so thin as to reveal the shadowed shapes of her legs. “At the very bottom of that list, my lovely little mouse, are those who might wear of what they choose. Myself, of course, for who might constrain my glory?” She smiles. Her unwigged hair quite short, and hanging loose about her face. “My Lady of the Bedchamber, who is not with us today, and My Lady of the Privy Chamber, the Countess. And her Privy Maid, of course, your sister Charlotte, who attends upon her, attendant upon me.” As the Queen steps close to them the Privy Maid is frowning and looking at something she’s turning over in her hands clasped before her, a bit of ribbon, red, perhaps, though quite dark in that dim room. The girl winces but does not close her eyes as the Queen strokes her cheek. then her shoulder, then her breast, circling a shell-pink nipple with her dainty middle finger, the nail cut close, unpainted. “And yet,” murmurs the Queen, “with this bewildering array of outfits available to us, what might we do against this blighted heat?” She steps back, unties the skirt, and lets it fall away to the striped carpet. She wears no drawers, not even the briefest Stiléan couvregin, and the hair about her sex is as pale as the hair upon her head, and neatly trimmed, and tied about the top of one long thigh a bit of red ribbon, a garter, and a pearl glimmering in the heart of the bow that ties it. “And so my favor to you, my little mouse, the newest Bedding Maid who would be attendant on My Lady of the Bedchamber, who is not with us, attendant, of course, upon me. Go on, Charlotte.”
The Privy Maid kneels before the girl, the Bedding Maid, and wraps the ribbon, red, a garter, about the girl’s thigh. “Higher,” says the Countess My Lady. “Higher.” The Bedding Maid’s eyes are wide and her smile embarrassed. If she blushes, it’s impossible to see in the gloom. “There,” says the Countess My Lady, still fanning her breasts with the feather, as the Privy Maid finishes the bow on the garter, there at the top of the Bedding Maid’s thigh, just below the sparse curls about her sex. “Now seal it with a kiss.” And the Privy Maid kisses that ribbon, the bow, the pearl in the heart of that bow, her hands on the Bedding Maid’s bare hips.
“None may wear a garter of red silk finished with a pearl,” says the Queen, “but the Bedding Maid, or those that might dispend themselves a thousand crown at a word.” She takes the Bedding Maid’s hand in hers and pulls her close, away from the Privy Maid still kneeling there on the floor. “And within the Privy Chamber, the Bedding Maid might wear nothing but a garter of red silk, and finished with a pearl.” She kisses the Bedding Maid’s mouth. “We might have to amend the sumptus come the winter,” she says, and she laughs. “Now, girl, kneel before your Queen, and kiss me all ut infra, ut infra!”