P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Later he would remember the man sitting by the fire with a gaunt hawklike face and a wide-brimmed hat who looked up at that. At the time he didn’t properly notice.

“Hmm. Where are you from anyway?”

“Berwick,” lied Dodd on general principles. None of the soft Southrons had heard of Carlisle and there was nothing wrong with a little misdirection. Especially as he didn’t of course have any kind of warrant with him at all. For good measure he added, “I serve the Lord Chamberlain’s son, Sir Robert Carey.”

The barman was wiping the bar now, still not looking at him. Dodd smiled and lifted his mug to him, paid for his board and went upstairs. He was still dressed as a gentleman in a smart grey wool suit of Sir Robert Carey’s and he carried a sword, but nobody knew better than him that he was in fact, thank God, no kind of gentleman at all and never would be. He was a tenant farmer and Sergeant of Gilsland, in charge of one troop of the Carlisle guard, that was all.

By the South’s ridiculous way of looking at things, he had in fact stolen one of the Queen’s horses from the Queen’s vice chamberlain and he had no intention of explaining the circumstances to anyone at all until he had caught up with that bloody man Carey. He got into a bed that didn’t smell too bad and fell asleep instantly.

He woke in the darkest part of the night with the thought “Time to go,” ringing through his head.

He dressed quietly, getting better at putting on his complicated suit. Moonlight shone through the luxurious Southern panes of glass. Holding his boots, he went to the door, unbarred it, and found it had been locked on the outside.

“Och,” he said disgustedly and sat on the bed. No doubt there was someone sleeping on the other side of that door, waiting for him. Perhaps it was something to do with the damned warrant the barman had asked about. He went to the small glass window that opened onto the courtyard, which he knew had a gate that would also be locked at this time. The stables were directly below on this side of it, the kitchens on the other side. He needed at least one horse.

No help for it. Perhaps it was a pity to mess up the comfortable little room but there was really no help for it. From the moon’s position he thought he had a couple of hours until dawn so best to get started.

Softly he tapped the floorboards-too solid. Then he tapped the wall between him and the next room. Withies, lightly plastered. He hadn’t an axe but he did have a broadsword which he would now have to sharpen.

It took some strength and sweat to do it quietly, but he broke through the plaster low down behind the bed, smelling of where the bedbugs had their hiding places and then through the withies on his side, pulled them outward to a panicked exodus of creepy crawlies. The filling was only rubbish and then there were the withies for the wall on the other side. Working as quietly as he could, a giant rat up to no good, he weakened them with his sword and broke them, brought kindling over from beside the luxurious fireplace and built it up against them. Then he lit the tallow dip from the watchlight and lit the small bonfire. He had some aqua vitae left so he sprinkled it about around the fire to catch when it got hot enough.

He sat back on his haunches and watched the flames catch, enjoying the sight as always, the feeling of power as fire flowered where it shouldn’t, then caught himself and pulled on his boots, buckled his sadly blunted sword on his hip and picked up his hat.

The flames were climbing the wall and had gone partly through. He took the jack of ale left on the table and kicked through the wall bellowing “Fire! Fire!”

A fat man in his shirt and two boys sharing the trundle bed in the next room started up, all shouting with fright. Somebody further away took up the shout.

Dodd slung ale all around the fire, but not on it, kicked some more of the wall, put his hat on his head and ducked through the flaming hole he’d made into the next room where the fat man was desperately scrabbling on his breeches and trying to move his strong box. The two boys had already opened the door and run. Dodd went through onto the landing, found a big man lying across his door just waking up and kicked him twice in the cods.

Then he went back to the merchant. “Shall I help ye carry that, sir?” he asked politely, speaking as Southern as possible.

“Yes, yes…”

So he and the fat man in his breeks and shirt carefully carried the interestingly heavy locked box onto the landing, down the stairs crowded with other frightened customers, some of them in very fine velvets half put on.

He took the lead, elbowed through the throng, and helped carry the box out into the courtyard where there was a fine mizzle. It must have been dry recently for the thatch over his room was well alight now, billows of smoke going up and the rats coming out of the roof squeaking. The innkeeper was straining to open the big gates to let his neighbours in to help.

“Thank you, sir,” puffed the merchant, “If I may give you…”

“Nay sir, glad tae help, I must see after my horse now.”

Dodd slipped away from the man and went into the stables where a brave but stupid boy was trying to lead the horses out without blindfolding them first.

Dodd went to his own nag and put his hat across the beast’s eyes and put the bridle on. “See ye,” he said to the frightened boy struggling in the next stall with a rearing kicking mare, “Dinna let them see and they’ll let ye help them.”

The boy put his statute cap across the mare’s eyes and she started to calm down. Dodd got another bridle from the wall and put it over her head. He couldn’t bring himself to grab a different horse, seeing as how none of them was a patch on Whitesock. The boy had followed his advice and managed to bridle two more horses.

“Ah’ll take them out,” he said to the boy who was coughing hard and disappearing as the smoke filled the stable. “Just unhitch the others and drive ’em before ye, then stay out of the stables.”

The hayloft above was likely to catch soon and Dodd didn’t want the lad on his conscience as well. Then, slowly and gently, Dodd took four snorting horses through the door and out into the courtyard where he let all but Whitesock get away from him. They helpfully caused much more confusion there along with two hysterical dogs and an escaped pig, and disrupted the bucket chain. Bless the mare for her common sense; she headed straight for the open gate and he swung himself up on Whitesock shouting, “I’ll fetch her back!” and galloped straight out of the gate and up the road, leaving the other horses for dust and catching the mare’s reins as he passed her.

Two miles up the road in the darkness he could still see the glow of the fire and could hear no hooves behind him. He started to laugh then. Well, it was funny. Here in the South nobody seemed to have the least idea about anything. Imagine thinking that locking the door on him would stop him?

Hughie’s ears were burning as Carey praised him for the work he’d done on that Court doublet. It had been a pleasure really; it was a lovely piece of work by a fine London tailor. It would be a pity to put a knife through it, and quite difficult as well because of the quadruple thickness, the heavy embroidery and pearls, the padding. So he wouldn’t do that.

Carey changed his shirt and left the other on the floor as he hopped about putting on his hose. Hughie helped him into the canions and trunkhose, held up by a waistcoat of damask. The doublet weighed many pounds, Carey went “ooff” and made a wry face as his shoulders took the weight, though he must be used to wearing a jack that weighed much more at about fifty pounds. Hughie then had to tie and retie the points at Carey’s back three or four times to get them at exactly the right length so that they held the doublet and trunkhose together but allowed him to dance. Carey took his long jewelled poinard, having left his workmanlike broadsword in the Cumberland armoury.