P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

At least the Cornmarket’s lead roof had kept some of the rain off and would stop any attempt from above. It was nicely decorated with allegorical people standing on it to greet the Queen by singing, half naked, painted gold and silver, still streaming with rainwater and shivering. The coach had to stop so the standard could be taken down as the roof of the coach just went under the roof. The corn merchants were lined up on either side in their best, the only dry spectators of the day, cheering the Queen.

The coach came out again onto the square crossroads with the tower and there was more messing about while they put the standard up again. Yet more men were waiting in their doctor’s robes and hats, all of them tense. The coach stopped near the tower, which would make a shot from its roof more difficult. Good. Dodd brought his horse round behind the coach, too many people pressing forward to see the Queen. Carey was staring around anxiously, squinting to see if one of the chilly half-naked painted people on the roof of the Cornmarket was armed. The light was suddenly bright and sharp between the banks of grey.

Somebody pulled on Dodd’s stirrup and Dodd scowled down at that bloody Scot Carey had hired, Hughie Tyndale.

“Ah’ve seen him, the greybeard that filled the flask wi’ poison, there. He’s there!”

“What?” Dodd couldn’t work out what the man was talking about. He was pointing at the crowd. There was a bunch of schoolboys in their best with their schoolmasters holding them back with whips, but no greybeard visible. Carey’s head craned round, he was squinting. Nothing.

Dodd stared hard at the top of the tower, couldn’t see anything there either. A movement caught at the corner of his eye, he couldn’t see who had suddenly bent in a bow. Then he heard a kind of scraping rolling sound under the roar of the crowd that bothered him. Tyndale’s dark face was there, looking ready to run.

“Under the coach, Sergeant,” shouted the lad, sprinting backwards. There was a disturbance going toward the tower.

What was under the coach? From his horse’s back, Dodd couldn’t see, so he slid sideways to the ground and bent and peered.

Something round and metallic was there, smoke coming out of it…

Dodd’s gut clenched hard and his mind slowed down and went cold. Quite calmly he looked at the grenado under the Queen’s coach. His horse behind him was stamping. No, it was worse, it was made of metal. It was a petard.

“Git her oot!” he shouted and threw himself down in the mud on all fours, scrambled under the belly of the coach. As he did that he heard creaking, more cheers and then the straps went up a bit. Someone must have helped the Queen down from the coach. From underneath, beyond the deadly iron ball with its burning fuse, Dodd could make out people kneeling and the large velvet folds of the Queen’s kirtle.

Damn it, he didn’t even have gloves. He grabbed for the petard, it rolled away, he stretched and grabbed again, caught it, brought it toward him, fanned away the choking smoke, saw that the fuse was nearly down to the priming chamber and tried to pull the whole fuse out with his fingers, scorched them, couldn’t do it. He grabbed his hat off, pulled the secret from his head and then carefully brought its iron edge down on the smouldering bit of fuse, cut the hot coal away and stubbed it out on the stones. As soon as it was cool, he pulled the fuse out with his teeth. Then he tipped the petard over and let the fine black priming powder scatter on the stones, then the charge smelling of bad eggs, rubbed wet mud on everything.

At that point the world speeded up again, he felt sweat dripping down his face and he heard more foreign windbaggery resounding from one of the kneelers to the Queen. All he could tell about it was that it was a different sort of foreign from the usual with a lot of oy-sounds in it so he supposed that was Greek.

Somebody was pulling on his boots, he eeled out backwards and bounced up ready to punch whoever it was and found Carey facing him. He held up the petard ball and saw Carey go as white as paper. Beside him was Jeronimo for God’s sake…Smiling?

“ Bien, mi bravo! Benga, esta en el torre !” said Jeronimo, “ Hombres, vamonos !”

“But…”

Carey was already shoving through the crowd to the tower, Hunsdon’s men let him through, Jeronimo after him and Dodd scrambling behind, still holding the empty petard. Empty of powder but full of metal balls and scraps of iron.

There was a man lying unconscious at the door which was open. Dodd heard Carey’s boots, saw Jeronimo’s boots and sprinted blind up the narrow spiral staircase because he didn’t know if this was another elaborate trick or what was going on. First you put a petard under the Queen’s coach which was an excellent target whether the Queen was in it or not and then you…

Well, then of course you sat somewhere high up and shot into the confusion caused by the explosion.

He got to the platform at the top of the Carfax tower. Jeronimo was advancing on an old man standing by the parapet holding a crossbow. The old man had shaved recently from the pale skin round his mouth and one of his thumbs was bandaged.

“ Amigo mio ,” said Jeronimo, panting for breath, “ Sam, no la mates, por Dios! ”

The old man’s face crumpled for a moment. “Stop,” he whispered, “Let me finish it for you. I’ve waited so long.”

Jeronimo shook his head. His remaining hand was open as he advanced, unarmed. The old man set the crossbow stock to his shoulder, aimed squarely for Jeronimo’s chest.

Dodd threw the iron ball under arm. It skittered on the flagstones curving leftwards. Carey swung down with his sword from the other side and in that moment Jeronimo charged, the crossbow twanged, and as the men crashed together, Jeronimo’s stump lifted, punched under the old man’s jaw and into his throat.

Both of them thudded to the ground, the greybeard choking blood from his broken windpipe and Carey’s sword stuck in the bone of his shoulder. Other men were coming up the stairs too late, the Scot at the back, typically. Dodd left Carey to pull out his blade, peered over the parapet, caught Hunsdon’s eye and gave him the thumbs-up.

Below them, interminable Greek oratory continued and the Queen stood on the rug-covered cobbles beside her coach, glittering in the sudden sunshine, smiling and nodding attentively at the speech.

The old man was taking a while to die, Carey’s blow had only broken his shoulder blade. But he was drowning in the blood from where Jeronimo had punched his throat with his iron-capped stump, turning blue like a hanged man, threshing and straining to breathe. Dodd glanced at him briefly to make sure he wouldn’t get up again. Carey had turned Jeronimo on his back and found the bolt sticking out of his chest with water and blood leaking out.

The Spaniard was smiling. “Eh…Lucky,” he said, “She is well, the Queen?”

“Yes,” said Carey. “We thought you were trying to kill her as well.”

“No. Pardon that I struck you yesterday, Senor. When you said…poison…I knew poor Sam was still trying to finish the business after thirty years.”

“It was meant for the Queen after he heard your song?”

The blood was bubbling from around the bolt and more was coming out of the Spaniard’s mouth, staining his clenched teeth.

“I think so. Last night I tried…to change his mind. But I was too sick to reach him. It took me all my strength to reach Oxford, I had none to find where Sam had gone.”

Jeronimo shook his head. “I put the music and a finger of the Queen’s glove in her baggage as it passed me on the road to Rycote and asked to speak to her, to confess to her. If she would, she must cause it to be sung. I am so sorry I never heard it sung by you, Senor, because I was busy with Captain Leigh and his men to take your man prisoner after I found him at the inn.”