P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

She came up to the mounting block, puffing a little, and it took the two sturdy Cornishmen to lift her onto the pillion seat, where she settled down, sitting sideways. The gelding sighed and cocked a hoof.

“Would ye no’ prefer a litter, m’lady?” asked Dodd.

There was a loud pshaw noise in his ear. “I hate the things,” snapped Lady Hunsdon, “Disgusting stinking contraptions. Only thing worse is a bloody coach. Now then, off we go.”

Two of Hunsdon’s men ahead, one Cornishman on each side of the two horses in the middle, a packpony with empty panniers led by a boy, with a footman to follow as well-a fine raiding party for the pillaging of London’s shops. They waited for the gate to be opened for them and clattered out and into the noise and dust of the Strand.

“It’s my poor knees,” explained Lady Hunsdon, behind him. “And my hip, alas. I much prefer ships. Of course, it’s a nuisance to get aboard in the first place…” Dodd was suddenly transfixed by the idea of Lady Hunsdon shinning up a rope ladder. “…but once you’re there, that’s it. Off you go and you can go anywhere in the world. Wonderful.” Presumably she used a gang-plank or they somehow winched her up?

“Ay but…” Dodd was struggling with a truly terrible urge to ask what that noted courtier of the Queen, Lord Baron Hunsdon, thought about his wife gallivanting about the oceans. After all, he could guess what the lady’s youngest son thought of it.

“Out with it, Sergeant.”

“Ahhh…does me lord no’ mind if ye…”

Lady Hunsdon’s laugh was a throaty gurgle. “I’m sure he would have played merry hell about it once upon a time. But it was after darling Robin went off to court and Philadelphia’s match with Scrope was made and my lord was busy at Court as usual. I was sitting about with nothing whatever to do and a perfectly good steward to run the estates. Once I was tired of embroidering everything that didn’t move, I went to visit my sister Sybilla at Caerhays in Cornwall. Ever been to Cornwall, Sergeant?”

They were pushing through the constant jam of people being pestered by stinking sore-ridden beggars at Temple Bar, some of whom had spotted the great lady and her party and were fighting to get through the crowds and do some serious begging.

Dodd could see the prick of his gelding’s ears and feel the neck begin to arch at the smell and the noise. He patted the neck again, shook his head to answer Lady Hunsdon. He fixed one of the scabby beggars with his eye and moved the toe of his boot suggestively.

“It’s quite beautiful there. But again, very little to do and so I went visiting the Killigrews at Arwenack by the Fal estuary and Kate was fitting out a privateer to be captained by my cousin Henry Morgan, and so naturally, I took a share and went along with her and we caught a pirate out of Antwerp, in the mist just by St Anthony’s Point and sank her.”

Dodd’s mind reeled at the idea of these two stout mothers taking a whim to go privateering. It was truly terrifying.

“Poor Morgan was killed in the melee, so after my lord got me the letter of marque-half in jest, I’m afraid, poor dear-I decided to go into it properly, fitted out my own little ship the Judith with Captain Trevasker, and paid for the whole thing and more with our first Spanish merchant full of sugar and timber that we caught in the Channel.” She laughed throatily again. “You should have seen the faces of the crew when they saw who had caught them. ‘Bruja,’ they called me, which is Spanish for witch, and other less flattering names.”

“Ay?”

“Of course it’s all a terrible gamble, but not if you have good intelligence and watchers along the coast and a good haven for the ships and to land the prizes. And Cornishmen to sail your ship, of course. Penryn is at the neck of one of the finest natural harbours in the world, according to dear Sir Francis Drake. Kate agrees with him-her windows in Arwenack House near Pendennis Fort have stunning views across to St Mawes-and she’s used her spoils to buy up most of the land around the bay that the Killigrews don’t already own. It’s expensive, land-prices in Cornwall are ridiculously high, despite being very poor for anything but pasture or tin-mining.”

There was a scuffle as the beggars tried to dodge past their escort. One of the Cornishmen caught a particularly cheeky beggar right in the forehead with his fist. The other shook his cudgel and growled something incomprehensibly Cornish and most of the beggars fell back.

Lady Hunsdon was oblivious to the excitement and didn’t seem to need any prompt to carry on talking as Dodd urged the horse on through the crowds.

“Of course, the real reason I go privateering is that it’s very entertaining-you never know what might happen or where you might find a fat prize. My lord says that if I were younger and a little more spry, he could see me boarding with the sailors and laying about me with a belaying pin-which is a cruel thing to say since I would naturally use a sword or a pistol.”

Dodd winched his jaw shut and managed a neutral, “Ay?”

Lady Hunsdon laughed again. “Which of course I wouldn’t either because my hands are too small and my wrists far too weak for a pistol or a sword. And anyway, the last thing the sailors need is another fighter, Sergeant. What they do need is a cool head and an eye for merchandise. That was how we sank the pirate. The sailors were so furious the Flemish had been sinking their fishing boats, they didn’t even notice how they were manoevring us into a very dangerous position. Fortunately I did, and we were able to trap them, board them, free some prisoners, and take the ship into Penryn as a prize. We took some very fine jewels as well. I hadn’t had such fun since I used to hunt with my lord husband and Her Majesty the Queen.”

She leaned against him and put a hand on his belt while she rearranged her skirts with her other hand. “And since then, of course, I’ve done well enough at the privateering that my lord is quite happy with me. He’s planning to begin rebuilding the Blackfriars with my latest spoils, very pleased he doesn’t need to go to Sir Horatio Palavicino for a loan after all. Ha!”

Lady Hunsdon subsided into a sudden thoughtful silence. They were ambling up Ludgate hill and into the city, past the the huge Belle Sauvage carter’s inn where the players were parading around with drums to announce a terrible and savage and improving tragedy of Dr. Faustus. As they pressed on past St. Paul’s churchyard, Lady Hunsdon called out in a voice clearly more used to a full gale,

“Letty, my bird, I need writing paper, ink, pens ready cut, sealing wax, and a new shaker. Off you go now and don’t pay more than a penny a sheet for the paper.”

Dodd watched carefully how Shakespeare gave Letty his hand again and braced himself to take her weight as she hopped down and headed towards one of the stationer’s stalls in the Churchyard. They waited while she went and spoke earnestly to one of the better-dressed stallmen. He had a brightly-painted and lurid sign over his head of a pen dripping red blood. A pile of the popular though scandalous coneycatching pamphlets decorated his stall as well and a crowd of people were buying them. Despite being busy, he and his wife came over personally with the package to make their bows to Lady Hunsdon. One of the Cornishmen stowed it in the pack pony’s basket and Shakespeare and the other man helped Letty back to her seat.

They carried on into Cheapside with the pack pony mouthing his bit and looking sulky. Cheapside was jammed with litters and men on horseback and part-blocked by a cart that was unloading. Lady Hunsdon ignored the bedlam, passed by many fine windows, and stopped at the sign of a Golden Cup beside some barred windows that blazed with assorted gold plate-nothing so common as silver to be seen.