P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Jeronimo was shaking his head. “You should have paid her,” he said in the French he found more comfortable. “She’s right, she needs a dowry. It was only a shilling.”

Leigh shrugged, he was the captain, not the Spaniard. “I need it more than she does. How am I going to afford the ribbons we need otherwise?”

Jeronimo said nothing, only winced and drank more of the brandy after adding laudanum that he kept in a small bottle in his doublet pocket. He only had one arm, his right had been taken off above the elbow with the sleeve neatly folded and sewn up. Perhaps the arm that had been broken by a musket ball and cut off many years ago still pained him as sometimes happened. His doublet had once been a very rich silk brocade and had worn well, but his shirt and falling band were as frayed and grubby as everyone’s was. Perhaps he was ill: his dark skin had a greyish tinge that Leigh didn’t like, though he had no fever.

They finished the brandy and Leigh decided that he, John Arden, and Harry Hunks, the biggest man they had who was nursing bruised ballocks from the Northerner’s final headbutt, would go and chat to this Colin Elliot they had caught. Jeronimo he left in charge of the rest of the men, despite the fact that he was Spanish, because after you had fought together for a while, things like that didn’t matter anymore and the Spaniard was owed money by the Earl of Essex too. And the Spaniard had certainly been a captain in the past and knew how to do it, which was more than Leigh felt he did, even now.

So with the cold autumn sun already westering, they sauntered down the overgrown cobbled path to the cottage. Leigh knew that they could follow the path northwards for a couple of miles and find the village of Cumnor with its haunted almost empty manor house, then three miles north of that would take them to the city of Oxford. The Spaniard had found the place for them and it couldn’t be bettered.

The dog set up a-baying at Harry Hunks, whose real name was Percival but had been given the name of a famous London fighting bear because of his size and ferocity. Harry Hunks growled back at the dog and showed his teeth, at which the animal whined and hid behind the cottage.

The old woman came out still toothlessly chewing some of the bread her granddaughter had brought. Kat however was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” shouted Leigh at the old woman, for general effect. “I know you’ve got him hidden, where is he?”

“Backyard sir,” she quavered. “He’s mending the chicken coop.”

Stupid old bat, why had she given him a job that involved a weapon? They tramped round the tiny cottage, Harry Hunks deliberately squashing some of the winter cabbages already planted, out into the little yard where the chickens pecked and the muckheap teetered.

The Northerner’s face and swollen nose was colouring nicely and he held his right leg awkwardly out to one side, tied with long hazel poles to keep it straight. He was weaving withies in and out to darn a gap in the side of the chicken coop. He stopped to look at them, didn’t stand but did duck his head. Leigh couldn’t see a hammer in his hands but assumed he’d have a knife to cut the withies.

The Northerner watched them from under his brows, his plain long face sullen. He was sizing them up, Leigh felt, including Harry Hunks, no doubt noting their Essex livery of tangerine and white despite its raggedness.

“Colin Elliot?” Leigh said as firmly as he could.

“Ay,” he said. “May I help ye, sirs?”

That was civil enough for a Northerner, perhaps someone had been teaching him manners. Leigh had fought with a few Northerners.

“Good day, Goodman,” said Leigh, doing his best to charm. “I hear from little Kat Layman that some wicked robbers attacked you at the ford. I came to see if there was anything we could do?”

Just for a second the man’s eyes flickered and then his face became even more mournful.

“Ay,” he said. “And they took ma maister’s suit that he lent me, these duds arenae mine, sir, ma wife’s capable o’ much better. And ma boots forbye.”

He looked disgustedly at his bare toes. His feet certainly were wide. Harry Hunks had been delighted with his share of the pickings and was wearing the boots now. A little too late, Leigh wondered if Elliot had noticed this.

“So who’s your master?”

“Sir Robert Carey, sir.”

Leigh nodded. It was wonderful news if true, but was it true?

“Yes,” he said, “I think I met your master in France when he was a captain. One of the Earl of Essex’s men? A very able captain, I think.”

The Northerner finished the end of the withy, put down the coop and sat back. “Ay,” he said, “I heard he wis knighted when he was in France wi’ the Earl.”

Lucky bastard, Leigh thought, who had once hoped to be knighted as well. “King of Navarre took quite a shine to him too, offered him a place, I believe.”

The Northerner shrugged. Fair enough, it was unlikely Carey would share anything of that sort with his henchmen.

“Tell me, my memory’s not too good I’m afraid, your master’s a dark man, isn’t he? Black hair?”

Contempt crossed the Northerner’s face briefly. “Nay, sir, he’s got dark red hair which he calls chestnut and blue eyes. And he’s allus dressed verra fine though he canna pay his tailor.”

Leigh had to smile. That was Carey all right. “He had one entire packpony for just his shirts, I remember, until the Earl of Cumberland got them off him for a night attack.”

The Northerner’s mouth turned down at the ends. “Ay, sir. It’s shocking.”

“So clearly I must help you get a message to Captain…er…Sir Robert Carey. Where do you think he’ll be?”

“At Court wi’ the Queen, wherever she is. Oxford, I heard.”

“And the message you were carrying?”

“Dinna ken, sir, it was a letter. The robbers got it nae doot along o’ ma purse and ma silver and ma sword,” said the Northerner bitterly.

Thank God nobody was actually wearing the man’s sword, Leigh thought, though it was a good solid weapon, clean, oiled, and would have been sharp if it hadn’t been using for something like gathering firewood. He wondered what had happened to that letter.

“Do you know what was in the letter?” he asked and the Northerner shrugged, looking highly offended.

“Cannae read, sir. Ah can make me mark and puzzle oot ma name but nae more, sir. I can fight, though. Ay, I could fight.” He looked gloomy and rubbed his broken leg.

Leigh clapped the dejected man on the back.

“Mr. Elliot,” he said encouragingly, “I’m sure your leg will get better soon enough. And I’m sure that as soon as we find Sir Robert and explain things to him he’ll…er…he’ll see you properly equipped again.”

“Ay, he might beat me though.”

“Oh I don’t think so, goodman, not his style at all.” Leigh had never seen Carey flog a man for anything less than unauthorised looting or rape. Generally the sheer volume of noise he could produce when he was angry did the job just as well. “I’ll send someone to Oxford to find Sir Robert,” he went on, “We’ll soon sort you out.”

“Ah doot he’ll mind ye,” he moaned. “He’s a courtier.”

“Well true,” said Leigh. “but my experience of Carey as a captain is that he did his best to keep his men alive and paid, even if he occasionally came up with mad plans to achieve that.”

At which point the Northerner gave a brief bark of laughter before turning sullen again, which was what convinced Leigh that he had actually struck gold at last.

“Is there anything else?”

“Ay, sir, I had a good post horse under me and a remount when the…eh…the broken men took me, and the nags might be runnin’ loose. I wouldnae want the broken men tae have the benefit of them. There’s a gelding with a white sock and a chestnut mare.”