“But…”
“Damn it, I can still play a veney, I shall be perfectly well tomorrow. I’m just overwrought at the moment, what with the progress, Her Majesty’s tantrums, your bloody inconsiderate and careless drinking of poisoned wine and now this…”
Robin grinned exactly like the boy Hunsdon had so often had to shout at for running away to play football with the stable hands and dogboys and occasionally beat for more serious crimes. “There may well have been two of them but God looked after Her Majesty as He always seems to look after me.”
“Can’t think why, it must be a time-consuming business keeping a bloody fool like you safe…”
Quite surprisingly Robin put his arms around his father’s shoulders and hugged him tight. Hunsdon gripped back which eased his heart a little more.
Wednesday 20th September 1592,
early morning
They had left well before dawn from the old monastery, with two of the three remaining horses drawing two of the three carts still left from the Lord Chamberlain’s provision train. A couple of the men had run in the night after refusing to dig graves for the three men of the troop Dodd had killed there. He had sixteen men following him and they walked reasonably well for the ragged starveling creatures that they were. No doubt they had done a lot of walking.
Nobody except Kat had got any sleep—she was curled up in a blanket on one of the carts. The rest of them had spent some time making themselves as tidy as they could and their weapons as clean and sharp as they could under Dodd’s tongue-lashing. What had come over him, he wondered? It was only a few months since he had furiously resented Carey’s ridiculous whims in the matter of cleanliness and tidiness, but here he was forcing his new followers to clean and sharpen their swords, knives or pikes and their faces as well. He himself spent an hour cleaning and straightening his new poinard and his familiar friendly sword, sharpening them and oiling them.
All three of the carts had a mark he recognised instantly, the mad duck of the Careys, or, as Carey called it, the Swan Rampant. The two remaining carthorses were in bad condition, mainly from neglect and bad feed, so Dodd set two stronger men to each cart to help it along on the rutted track north from the monastery, and four of the ones he thought might make trouble to pull the third cart and really give them something to moan about.
They had reached Oxford city gate after it opened and joined the queue of farmer’s wives laden with produce to sell, some nasty covert looks from them as well. Dodd was comfortable on the bare back of the mare he had part-ridden from London, bandages round his feet, Harry Hunks’ large buffcoat making him a bit more respectable and his recovered hat on his head. And he had his sword at his side and his own boots in the cart next to Kat.
He didn’t dismount to talk to the sheriff’s man at the gate, noticing a couple of the Queen’s Gentlemen Pensioners of the Guard behind him. He did strain his Adam’s apple to talk Southern.
“Ay’ve the baggage train sent up from London by may lord Baron Hunsdon that wis waylaid by sturdy beggars. These men helped me get it back.”
“And you are?”
The goats at the back being led by the youngest man, rightly suspecting something was up, started making a racket and trying to escape. The gateman was eyeing him with distaste.
“And you are?” he repeated.
Dodd drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the man. He knew the black eye and bruising that flowered green and yellow on his face and nose were hardly helping him but why should he care?
“Ma name is…” he started, then caught himself. “Ach…Mr. Colin Elliot, Sir Robert Carey’s man.”
Now that got a reaction. The gateman turned and shouted at one of the lads quietly collecting weapons from the men wanting to come into the town. The boy touched his forehead and pelted off and Dodd and his party were waved aside into the space by the gatehouse, where another merchant was protesting about paying so much tax.
Dodd sat back and tried not to doze. It was hard work being a captain, that was sure, especially when you had no wife to threaten people with. And his belly was rumbling too—when was the last time he had a decent meal, he wondered. Saturday?
There was a stir and a shout: Carey was riding through the crowds at a trot, followed by four mounted liverymen of his father’s, his face full of delight. Dodd was appalled to find that he was glad to see the courtier too, so he scowled and his mouth turned down with the effort of not smiling back.
“By God!” shouted Carey, “Mr. Elliot, I’m very happy to see you at last. That wicked man Dodd is safely locked up in the town jail. Now is that the baggage train my brother so carelessly lost?”
“Ay, sir, I think it is, there’s a bit left o’the supplies.”
“Do you know who took it?”
Dodd was trying to communicate urgently without words. Carey’s eyes passed over the men behind him who were looking self-conscious.
“Nay sir, but these lads helped me…ehm…get the supplies back.”
Eyebrows up, a look of perfect comprehension on Carey’s face.
“Spendid, splendid! My lord father’s in Trinity College and my brother will be very happy to hear that at least some of the train is here. Do you know what happened to the carters bringing it?”
“Ah think they went back tae London, I dinna think they was killed.”
“That’s a relief. Perhaps they’ll turn up again at Somerset House. Now then, gentlemen, I think I recognise some of you from France.”
Dodd made a few introductions, ending with the Spaniard who swept off his hat in an accomplished Court bow. “Don Jeronimo de la Quadra de Jimena,” he said.
Dodd hadn’t often seen Carey do a double take. “Indeed?” he said, responding with a fractionally shallower bow. “The musician?”
Something in Jeronimo’s lean weary face settled and hardened. “Si, Señor,” he said, “El músico.”
“Ehm…” Dodd put in with a clearing of his throat. With great reluctance he slid down from his horse and hobbled into a corner of the yard, beckoning Carey to follow him.
“What happened to your feet, Sergeant?” Carey asked, looking at the rags Dodd had wrapped around them.
“Ah’ll tell y the whole of it over a meal, sir, but first I want ye tae arrest Don Jeronimo and keep him safe.”
“Why?”
“He’s asked for a meeting wi’ the Queen…”
“He has?”
“And he says she’ll grant it.”
Carey’s eyes narrowed and he took breath to shout an order. “Take him quietly,” Dodd put in, “so the lads arenae upset by it.”
Both of them moved toward where Jeronimo was waiting, his back set against the guardhouse wall, eyes hooded.
“He helped me for nae reason but that he wanted tae talk to ye. I think he was the one convinced Captain Leigh to come this way in the first place and I seen him at the inn the night before the bastards took me and robbed me in the forest.”
“Of course they’re the sturdy beggars who have been making the Oxford road so dangerous.”
“Ay, sir, I wis careless and they had me easy an’ ma suit and horse and ma boots and sword. They’re wanting their pay fra the Earl of Essex and had nae ither way of making a living. I cannae say I wouldna do the like in their place, though I’d do it better, I hope.” He vaulted back onto the mare to save his feet again and scowled at them.
Back with the little knot of worried looking men, Carey went over to Jeronimo, leaning on his wall, and made himself extremely affable, speaking French to the man. That was ama-zing, in Dodd’s opinion, how Carey could suddenly switch into speaking foreign, easy as you like. Mind, when you looked at Jeronimo carefully, you could see he was hollow-eyed and often drank his medicine now. Perhaps it was true he had a canker.
They walked their horses together up a street with a roof over it that was high enough so they didn’t need to dismount. They were tactfully escorted by Hunsdon’s liverymen, to Trinity College whatever
that was, tucked away on the other side of a wide street that must be taking the place of a moat for opposite was the patched and pierced old northern wall of the city. Oxford was an interesting place, full of huge archways and pictures made of canvas and behind them were good sturdy houses and a number of places that looked like monasteries with high walls and gatehouses like mansions. Quite defensible, for a wonder. However, now that he’d seen London, Dodd wasn’t easily impressed.
As they went past the gate into the courtyard, Carey spoke quietly to the porter and Dodd heard the sound of the gate they had come through being locked and barred. Jeronimo looked up at him. “Do not arrest me when the men can see,” he said quietly. “Wait, settle them. I give you and Don Roberto my parole that I will not try escape until I have seen the Queen.”
The business was done quickly. The other men were shown into the college hall to eat a late breakfast from the remains left by Hunsdon’s servants. Jeronimo waited as four large liverymen appeared and surrounded him.
He deftly unbuckled his swordbelt one-handed and handed it to Dodd who took it grimly.
“I surrender to you, Señor Dodd,” he said. “I ask only that I may speak to the Queen.”
“With all due respect, Don Jeronimo,” Carey said, “I don’t think she will agree.”
“She will, Señor,” said Jeronimo, reaching with his only hand into his doublet pocket and taking out something quite small, wrapped in old linen. Carey took it and opened it. Dodd could just glimpse it was a richly embroidered woman’s kid glove, badly stained with brown and with one of the fingers cut off. He could also see the breath stop in Carey’s throat as he took it.
Carey’s eyes were a bright cold blue as he stared straight at Jeronimo for a long silent minute.
Jeronimo inclined his head. “If you give her that, Señor, she will see me. If you do not…” He shrugged elaborately. “I will die soon in any case and then she will never…know something she has wanted to know for many years.” He smiled gently, his dark hawk of a face as arrogant as Carey’s. “In the end, it will not matter, all will be as God decides.”
Carey tucked the little package into his own doublet pocket, holding the Spaniard’s gaze for another minute, something unseen in the air between them. Then Carey turned and issued a blizzard of orders.
Kat had woken up while all of this was going on and watched with frank fascination, her pointed chin on her arms on the side of the cart.
“So that’s why he helped you, was it?” she asked without surprise. “I did wonder.”
Jeronimo went quietly and Dodd made introductions to Carey who smiled and said nothing about yet another waif added to his father’s household. The goats were inspected and approved of by the Steward, although the young billy kid was likely to meet his inevitable fate soon.
And the inevitable time came when Dodd had to get down from his horse again. He sternly refused a litter but took a dismounting block and tried not to wince. He still couldn’t put his boots on and so he followed a servant to one of the downstairs rooms usually lived in by scholars. When Carey offered him a shoulder, he took it and soon found himself seated on the side of a comfortable half-tester bed, next to a small fire in the hearth, his feet soaking in cool salted water with dried comfrey and allheal in it, which stung like the devil, and drinking a large jack of excellent ale. The chamber gave onto a small parlour that had another chamber leading off it where there was a pile of packs and Carey’s Court suit hanging up on the wall. Dodd started to explain to him what had been going on but when he started yawning every other word and losing track, Carey called in the barber surgeon who had been sent to bandage Dodd’s feet.
“The story can wait. I’ll be riding out with my father immediately,” he said, “Get some sleep, Henry and…by God, I’m pleased to see your miserable face again!”
Carey clapped Dodd on the back and went through the parlour to clatter down the stairs. The barber surgeon peeled off the clouts, cleared out a lot of thorns and a sharp stone splinter while Dodd drank more ale and wished the man in hell, then put clean linen socks on him and bowed himself out.
Dodd found a decent linen shirt waiting for him on the bed and was pleased to put it on rather than the filthy hemp shirt and woollen breeches although no doubt the lice would be sorry. He was too tired to be hungry, ignored the platter of pork pie, bread and cheese and finished the contents of the jug of ale. He fell into bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
His last thought was a question as to what the hell was it Carey had been up to while Dodd had been busy, which had made him look distinctly pale and unhealthy, coupled with a forlorn hope that he might let Dodd sleep for a couple of days at least.
Wednesday 20th September 1592,
late afternoon
Sunset was coming through the small glass window as Dodd woke because someone had just come into his room.
Yes, it was Carey. Dodd knew he hadn’t slept nearly long enough, but he didn’t see the point of complaining about it. Carey’s face was unreadable, closed down into the affable, slightly stupid-looking mask he wore when he played primero for high stakes.
“Ay,” sighed Dodd, “what now?”
“Sergeant, I hate to have to tell you this but we absolutely must visit the stews.”
“Eh?”
It turned out to be one of the strangest experiences of Dodd’s life and it was only a pity he was too tired and hungry to enjoy it properly. He had to get dressed again in a respectable suit of wool that Carey said was borrowed from the Under-steward and apologised for it being well out of fashion as it had been handed on from Carey’s father. Dodd didn’t care, at least it wasn’t as tight and uncomfortable as Carey’s previous loan, now being worn by Captain Leigh in jail.
Dodd had leather slippers to put on and low pattens to save them from the disgraceful cobbles and he wobbled painfully across Broad Street and down a tiny alley with the sign of a magpie hanging on an alehouse at the corner. Did none of the scholars here know that horse muck was good for gardens and making gunpowder?
They went into a little house that smelled of woodsmoke and was full of sly-eyed women with very low-cut bodices, but Carey swept straight past them, for a wonder.
The next thing was shocking. They were in a room full of shelves with a tiled floor and Carey proceeded to strip off all his clothes as if he were about to go for a swim, even his shirt. An ancient attendant folded his doublet and hose and handed him a linen cloth which he wrapped around his hips like someone in an old religious picture. Then he put on a new pair of wooden pattens from a row by the wall. Firmly ramming down his multiple suspicions and wondering if he was in fact delirious and hallucinating, Dodd did the same and clopped after Carey along floors that got hotter and hotter until they were in a small room with a brazier in it. Several other men were sitting about on wooden benches—old men, mainly, with grey beards, wrinkled stomachs and twiglike arms, a few spotty youths like peeled willow wands and with a tendency to peer.
The heat from the brazier was fierce and Dodd could feel the sweat popping out all over him.
“We never got round to doing this in London, which is a pity as they’re much better there,” Carey said conversationally, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to take off his linen cloth, fold it and sit on the edge of the bench on it. He stretched his legs negligently in front of him, peering at one of the white scars. “This will do.”
“Ehm…whit the…why…?”
Carey didn’t meet his eyes. “Sovereign for bruises and damage generally, helps sweat out poisons and so on and so forth.”
Dodd had never heard of a medical treatment that required you to get this hot though he had heard of some alchemists curing the French pox with mercury and sweating.
“Och,” he said, as Carey had done so he didn’t burn his arse on the planks and tried not to fight the heat as the sweat started dripping off him in rivers. You had to admit it was sort of relaxing.
“We’re lucky it�
��s the men’s day today,” Carey said. “Otherwise we’d have had to pollute the Isis.”
The older men and youths left a little later and Carey opened his eyes and smiled lazily at Dodd who was dozing where he sat.
“Now then,” he said, “what have you been up to, Sergeant, apart from recruiting a sorry pack of my lord Essex’s deserters for the Carlisle castle guard?”
“Ay,” Dodd said, sticking his jaw out, “but they are nae related to onybody, are they? And they can shape up or die.”
Carey laughed. Dodd told him the story. Carey was a good audience, exclaiming with anger at Dodd being ambushed, laughing at his description of Kat.
“That’s the child in the cart?”
“Ay. How is she?”
“Still asleep as far as I know, with the wife of the Trinity College cook looking after her. Last I heard she was insisting she had to stay with you.”
Dodd carried on with his tale until he brought it to the death of Harry Hunks and his own decision to leave the ill-starred monastery.
“If ye ask him, d’ye think the Earl of Essex will pay his men at last?”
Carey’s expression became unhappy and he looked away.
“Ay, well, their stupid captain’s plan was tae get into the procession in their stupid tangerine and white rags and ask him in public why he betrayed them?”
“I gathered something of the sort from the unfortunate Captain Leigh. It would not have been allowed, believe me.”
Dodd said nothing although he suspected that with the number of alleyways and passages in Oxford town and some men who weren’t too fussy about what they did, it might be easier than Carey thought.
“I dinna think they expected more than tae humiliate him and perhaps get the Queen to pay them instead.”
Carey made a non-committal grunt.
Dodd sat up, despite the puddle of sweat on the floor under him and the way he was starting to get dizzy with the heat.
“Sir,” he said sternly, “they should be paid. They ainly went wi’ the Earl because they believed him. The maist of them are not fighting men, or they werenae, they was younger sons of farmers that wanted adventure and found that fighting wisnae as he painted it. And the maist o’ them died and not one o’ them was paid aught but promises.”
Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) Page 29
