P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

The goats were creating a bedlam of noise, there was a bit of starlight, occasional moonlight. Dodd’s mouth drew down angrily. It was his own fault. The night had been too easy, he should have realised that and no doubt Leigh had somehow got out and was even now re-establishing who was in charge of his troop of men, knocking heads together. So Dodd didn’t have long to kill this bear of a man and get away. And it had to be done because it looked like the bastard had killed someone whether the carlin or the child he wasn’t sure but he could smell the fresh blood on the man’s axehead…

Again, it was his body saved him, not quite ready for Hell yet. He dropped to his knees as the axe came whistling from nowhere exactly for his neck. He rolled again as one of his own boots tried to kick him in the face.

Goddamn it, Harry Hunks had his boots.

Dodd’s eyes narrowed and he finally stopped thinking. He came in and out a couple of times, feinting to see where Harry Hunks’ weaknesses were but he didn’t have any. Each time Dodd’s sword bit nothing but air as Harry Hunks moved just enough out of the way and while Dodd was off balance with the missed blow, he nearly lost an arm and then his nose. You didn’t get wounded by a battle axe, you got dead, there were no first bloods, no second chances.

Harry Hunks came after him again and he tripped, stubbed his foot on a stone and nearly had his crotch split while he went over his shoulder and up again behind a tree.

The tree took the full force of the battle axe again, the axe stuck for a second but when he tried to slice the man’s arm as he tried to free the axe, Dodd nearly ended spitted on a short sword.

Jesu, said the little cold voice at the back of his head, this one’s bigger and faster and stronger than you and he’s better. He’s going to kill you.

He dodged again behind another tree and ran, turned tail and ran like hell for the clearing by the old stone shed and the ruins of the monastery gatehouse.

Carey was just deciding that it had been a mistake to try quartering the alehouses of Oxford for any clues to Topcliffe or Dodd, mainly because there were so many of them and he couldn’t find the musician again. His head was pounding from the grey daylight in his eyes and his stomach turned at even the smell of wine. Nonetheless it was past time to get a horse and remount and go down the London road in search of his man.

As he turned his back on the High Street with its forests of scaffolding and hurrying men with ladders and hammering and sawing, a page in Cumberland’s livery came running after him. “Message, sir!” shouted the boy. “Message for Sir Robert Carey!”

The lad gave him a folded letter with the Vice Chamberlain’s seal. Carey opened it, skimmed the Italic.

“Sir Robert, I have just arrested your man Dodd on a charge of horsetheft and forgery. Please reply by this messenger, with your terms.” It was signed by Heneage.

For a second, fury scorched through him as he stood with his hand on his swordhilt. The boy read his face and stepped back nervously.

“Is there a reply, sir?” asked the lad. Carey stared at him for a moment. Heneage must have just caught Dodd and come straight over to Cumberland’s camp to gloat because otherwise, why would he send one of Cumberland’s pages?

“Yes, please tell him I will meet him at Carfax to discuss terms with him when I have consulted my father. An hour from now.”

The boy bowed and ran off, heading up the Cornmarket. Carey took a circuitous route but headed out of town for the Oxford lock-up, jingling what was left of Cumberland’s five pounds in his purse.

A little to his surprise, it wasn’t a trap. The guard was as bribable as usual and unlocked the little cell with great ceremony. Carey’s eyes still weren’t working properly and sunlight was coming in at the barred window so at first he only thought that the suit he’d lent Dodd had taken some damage and there must have been a fight, which made sense.

“Come on,” shouted the guard, “Get up to your master, Dodd, don’t sit about.”

The man didn’t turn his bare head, which was balding. “My name,” he said with dignity, “is Captain Leigh, I am a gentleman and I’ve never heard of anybody called Dodd. I demand that you set me free immediately.”

Carey nearly exploded with laughter. By God it was hard to keep a straight face. Then he thought to lean in and ask,

“Then how did you come by that suit?”

Leigh lifted a shoulder. “I won it from a man called Colin Elliot.”

Carey grinned and nodded to the man to lock up again. Then he went to visit the Jailer and made him richer by five shillings.

“No, sir,” he said, “By information laid. A small girl brought this letter from a Mr. Colin Elliot, informing the Sheriff’s man that this is Dodd, a notable horsethief and forger, wanted by Vice Chamberlain Heneage. We checked his horse and found it had the Queen’s brand though a bit coloured over to hide it and there was no proper warrant. His purse had several forged angels in it so the information was correct. Unfortunately his henchman got away, but we have informed Mr. Vice.”

Carey took the smeared bit of parchment decorated with blue flowers. The charcoal scrawl was Dodd’s horrible penmanship and Colin Elliot was his usual nom de guerre . Reading the script, Carey almost cheered at the elegance of its contents.

“Where’s the little girl?”

“She got away, ran south. Said she lived to the south of Cumnor Place.”

So at least until yesterday, Dodd had been alive and scheming to get someone else arrested for horsetheft in place of him. They must have been within a couple of miles of each other when he and Cumberland were poking about at Cumnor. Meanwhile he could rejoice at the splendid way Dodd had dealt with the problem of the horse he had stolen from Heneage’s stable.

“I’d like to talk to my man,” Carey said to the Jailer.

“You can’t bail him,” he said at once, “Mr. Heneage’s man was very particular about it.”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll have a word with his honour later. I just want to talk to him.”

Another shilling got him back inside the cell with a quart of beer to share. Leigh seemed grateful for it and very willing to talk especially once he focussed and recognised Carey from France.

Half an hour later, he had the full sorry tale and Leigh’s desperate petition that he ask the Earl of Essex for their pay. He insisted that the man he knew as Elliot was being held in a pit-not chained, of course, not at all and the pit was not at all uncomfortable, quite dry in fact-but had a bad leg. Some mysterious trouble with the horses had broken out in the night and Leigh had been delayed in setting out with only the stolen horse to mount…His lieutenant would be fully capable of keeping the prisoner safe and all Sir Robert needed to do to free him was promise to get their pay. They were owed a lot of it, a full year’s service in France and not a penny from the King of Navarre either.

Carey had been financially crippled himself by soldiering for the Earl of Essex but had at least gotten a knighthood out of it and was in any case used to debt. He nodded sympathetically, promised to try and sort out the mistaken identity with the Vice Chamberlain but had not given his word on the matter of pay. He couldn’t. He knew perfectly well that the Earl of Essex wasn’t going to pay anyone.

Meantime it sounded as if Dodd was healthy enough and would stay put for a while. It was a relief that he wasn’t a corpse with a broken neck in a ditch somewhere. Carey thought about enlightening Heneage and then decided not to-why make trouble? Presumably once Heneage bothered to go and visit the man he would know Dodd had given him the slip again and Leigh would have to be released as the bill was spoiled. Carey smiled as he set off for Trinity College and then frowned because he had decided it was time to talk frankly with his father.