P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Then it was as before, the shock his watching self felt at the worn green velvet doublet, the glitter and swing of the axe, the sound that had woken him…

He was sitting up now, all the hairs on his body prickling upright. Was that why he rebelled? Because he didn’t marry Elizabeth Widdrington? Why hadn’t he? It was the one thing he wanted most in the world, he was quite clear he would trade anything at all save his honour for her. Had she turned him down? Had she died?

Was this a prophecy from God? Had he been sent a warning? What was he supposed to do with it?

Slowly the strange feelings down his legs and in his heart calmed and faded, leaving him exhausted again. He didn’t like sleeping during the day but he didn’t want to get up. What was he supposed to do? What did God want?

He knelt on his pallet with his eyes tight shut against the light. As he couldn’t think what to say to God, he just recited the Lord’s Prayer and hoped the bit about leading him not into temptation would do the job, whatever it was.

Of course, it was clear that the Queen would consider accusing her of being the actual killer of Amy Dudley as treason plain and simple. Would she have him executed? Perhaps not, although the Tower was a distinct possibility. But he didn’t think that of her because it didn’t make sense, even if the Queen actually was at Cumnor Place when it happened.

He growled softly to himself with frustration, lay down again and instantly fell asleep.

Then somebody prodded him awake and he blinked into the dazzle at a small person in a small but stunning cherry red-and-gold wheel farthingale with a tiny black doublet bodice and a raised cambric ruff behind her head like a saint’s halo.

“Well, Sir Robert,” came Thomasina’s voice, “What have you been up to?”

“Ah um…” moaned Carey, wishing his head would stop pounding. He shut his eyes against Thomasina’s outfit. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Thomasina, on condition you stop any other bastard waking me up and let me sleep.”

“Certainly,” she said.

And so he told her the whole story of what he had found at Cumnor Place and what Mrs. Odingsells had told him, including her wish to see his father. He didn’t say anything about what he thought of the matter. Thomasina sat perfectly still while he spoke and then nodded once. She settled back on her cushion with her legs crossed and he heard the click of ivories as she started playing dice with herself. No doubt it was her full set of crooked dice, highman, lowman, bristleman, quite hypnotic. His eyes fell closed again and he slept.

Dodd waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly in the prickling leaves and stones. There was a crunch of wooden clogs, but quite light, perhaps not a man…The dog was snortling about and came right over to Dodd. He stayed still where he lay, let the animal sniff him all over, heart beating.

A wet nose thrust into his face and started licking his face, chin to forehead, slobbering his beard hairs the wrong way.

“Ach, awa’ wi’ ye!” he complained and shoved the dog off. The dog put his paws on Dodd’s shoulders and panted in his face, so Dodd stayed where he was and reached out to pat the dog’s hairy flank. “Ay, what d’ye want?”

“Goodman,” said a girl’s voice on the other side of the bushes, “Are you all right?”

“Eh…nay, lass, Ah’ve got nae clothes nor gear and yer hound’s droonin’ me…”

Silence. Then: “Are you a foreigner?”

Dodd sighed deeply and said it again more Southern, which hurt his lips and face.

“Oh. Are you very much hurt?”

Considering the battering he’d taken, he’d been very lucky with only a possible busted rib and nose. But…

“Ay, Ah think ma leg is broken.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. The robbers must have jumped you at the ford, didn’t they?”

“Ay,” Dodd said, thinking fast, “Ah’m no’ a pretty sight for a lass. Ha’ ye any breeks wi’ ye?”

After more tiring translation, a bag was thrown over the bushes and in it Dodd found a rough hemp shirt and woollen breeches. He pulled them on at once, hoping the other man’s lice wouldn’t be too ferocious.

The dog had lain down beside him, watching with his nose between his paws and his eyebrows working as Dodd looked about for a belt. There was none, nor shoes nor clogs neither. He sighed, having a shrewd idea what was going on.

“I’m decent now,” he called and the girl peered around the bushes.

She was a grubby little creature, about seven or eight years old and her greasy brown hair hanging out under a smeared biggin cap. Impossible to say if she would ever be pretty.

“Oh, Goodman,” she said with a polite curtsey, “I’m ever so sorry about the robbers, they’re terrible wicked men. My granny says, would you like to come and stay at our house until you’re recovered?”

“Ah have nae money,” Dodd explained. “I could likely get some in Oxford town but the robbers took a’ I had on me.”

It was a real nuisance having to repeat everything he said more Southern. His right leg was the one more bruised from the kicking so that was the one he decided would be broken.

“It’s all right,” said the child with a smile that seemed hard work for her. It certainly never reached her eyes. “My granny says it’s our duty to help poor travellers attacked by the robbers.”

“Ay,” said Dodd, careful to keep his suspicion off his face and not ask why they didn’t try a bit of warning then. And also how it came about that she had clothes for him. “Would ye…ken…d’ye know the name of the reivers…the robbers’ headman…their captain?”

“No, Goodman,” said the child in a pious way which told Dodd that she did. “They’re wicked men.”

Dodd made a great palaver of getting up, screwing up his face and groaning loudly in a way he never would if his leg actually had been broken. Then he leaned heavily on the child’s shoulder as he hopped along the path with the dog padding quietly ahead of them.

After only a mile or so uphill they came to a tiny little bothy with low walls and a roof of turves and branches, not even respectable thatch like the remains of the monastery. An old lady in blue homespun was sitting on a stone by the door knitting and she looked up and smiled toothlessly as Dodd came hopping along with her granddaughter.

He made the motion of taking off his cap to her but of course he wasn’t even wearing a statute cap which made him feel as if he was still naked.

“Missus,” he said respectfully, “yer grandaughter says I can come and recover ma strength with ye, which I’m grateful for, but I’ll tell ye now I havenae money with me for the…bastards took the lot includin’ ma breeks.”

“They do that so you won’t chase them,” said the old woman. “Can you work, Goodman?”

Dodd made a helpless expression. “A little, missus, but I think I’ve broke me leg.”

That got only an unsympathetic grunt from her and the child left Dodd to wobble on one leg and went to whisper fiercely in the carlin’s ear. Another grunt and a chomping of jaws. Before he fell over or had to put his leg down and give the game away, Dodd grabbed the bush he was standing next to. He had felt unaccountably dizzy for a moment there which was odd. Still maybe not surprising, considering the battering. He had already sworn a mighty internal oath that he would never ever come to the soft safe South again, where people beat you up but didn’t bother to kill you.

The old woman’s eyes were narrowed in their crumpled beds and her jaws worked again. “Who’s yer master?”

Dodd had thought hard about this inevitable question. What would be the best thing to say?