P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

“Have you never been on London Bridge, Sergeant?” asked Lady Hunsdon with a naughty sparkle. “Or did you cross several times and simply not notice that the best drapers, haberdashers, and headtiring shops in the world are there?”

“Ay,” Dodd admitted, “that’d be it.”

They were coming to the gate towers with their fringe of traitors’ heads, where you could hear the rush and creak of the newly installed waterwheels, the crowd nearly solid as they passed through the narrow entrance. The gate gave onto the street over the Bridge which was enclosed by the shops and houses built right on it and dim enough to need lanterns at the shop doors. Suddenly there was a gasp behind them as if somebody had been stabbed. Dodd jerked round to see Letty staring up at the row of spikes along the top of the gatehouse. A crow was flapping heavily away from the newest of the heads there, arrived from Tyburn the day before. Letty seemed struck to stone by the sight of the bearded and now eyeless face. Her hands flew to her mouth, she breathed deep, and then she screamed like a pig at the slaughter.

Dodd’s gelding took severe offence and, despite the weight of two people on his back, tried to pirouette, then backed frantically into a group of stout women with baskets who all shouted angrily. Letty was still screaming which had thoroughly spooked the mare she was sitting on. Shakespeare was frantically sawing at the reins as the animal lunged sideways, snorting and kicking and starting to crow-hop to get rid of her burden. A gap opened in the frightened crowd and she looked ready to take off for the far hills.

Dodd felt Lady Hunsdon’s arms clasp tight around his waist and her hands lock together.

“Help them, Sergeant,” came the firm cool voice behind him.

Dodd brought his whip down brutally on his gelding’s side, which got the beast’s attention. Then Dodd turned him around and drove him after Shakespeare’s and Letty’s mount, knocking pedestrians and one Cornishman aside. He came alongside the bucking, frantic nag, grabbed the bridle, and leaned over to put his sleeve across the silly creature’s eyes. Being a horse, she immediately stood still because she couldn’t see and Dodd muttered in her ear, telling her gently how he would have her guts for haggis casing and feed her rump to the nearest pack of hunting dogs he could find. It didn’t matter what you said to the animal, so long as your voice was right. At least Letty’s screaming had stopped, though a glance over his shoulder showed this was because Shakespeare had a hand firmly on her mouth.

Shakespeare’s face was white and there were hot tears boiling down Letty’s cheeks, little cries still coming from behind Shakespeare’s palm.

“God’s truth, mistress, did ye wantae die…?” he snarled.

“Shhh,” said Lady Hunsdon behind him in a voice that was an odd mixture of fury and sadness. “She’s seen something that upset her. We’ll go back to Somerset House now.”

“Ay m’lady,” said Dodd, and turned both the horses. “Will ye bide quiet now, lass?” he asked Letty who was trembling as much as her mare. She nodded so Shakespeare took his hand away, after which she dropped her face into her hands and started to cry.

Dodd was sweating from all the drama, which was made much worse by the stares and sniggers of the Londoners standing back unhelpfully to watch the show. The Cornishmen were helping Hunsdon’s henchmen to pick up and dust down a couple of annoyed lawsuit-threatening Londoners who hadn’t moved away fast enough.

Dodd jerked his head at Shakespeare and they closed up the distance between the horses. A Cornishman cudgelled an urchin who had his hand in the heaviest pannier on the packpony as Dodd swatted away a small bunch of child-beggars with their hands up and their sores exposed. Their party formed a tighter group and headed back for the other side of the City as fast as they could.

“M’lady, what the…”

“She’s just seen her father’s head on a spike at London Bridge,” said Lady Hunsdon drily into his ear. “I think that’s a reason to be upset, don’t you?”

Dodd craned his neck to see. The only recognisable head was the priest’s, that he and Carey had seen hacked off the day before. His mouth went dry.

“But m’lady…?”

“Be quiet.”

“But…but Ah thought Papist priests couldnae wed…?”

“Precisely. We’ll discuss this in private.”

***

A war council of the Hunsdon family convened at dinnertime, with Sir Robert, Lord and Lady Hunsdon, and Sergeant Dodd staring at each other over some marvellous venison and more of the mutton pasties. When the second cover was served and Dodd could wonder at the jellies and custards that were laid out for no more than a normal meal, the servingmen were sent out of the room. Letty had been put to bed with a strong posset and a girl to watch her, while Dr. Nunez and his barber surgeon had been sent for to bleed her against the shock.

“You are quite certain it is Richard Tregian, my lady?” rumbled Lord Hunsdon, staring at his clasped hands.

“I am, my lord,” said his lady soberly. “He had a scar by his mouth from a hunting accident a few years ago and his beard was still red. I knew him at once even on a …at that distance.”

“No priest then,” said Hunsdon.

Lady Hunsdon snorted. “Hardly. He was a Papist though.”

“He was the man you were in London to meet?”

“Yes, my lord. I wanted to find out more before I broke the matter with you, but events are now ahead of me. I discovered from my sister’s husband that there have been some very dubious land-deals happening in Cornwall and Richard Tregian was up to his neck in them. He was in desperate need of money to pay his recusancy fines, to be sure, but there was more to it than that. There was Court money involved. The land around the Fal has tripled in price in the last three years, but additonally there have been some very surprising purchases further north in the tin-mining areas near Redruth. I would have gone to Sir Walter Raleigh as President of the Stannary when I had consulted you, my lord, but Sir Walter is in the Tower for venery, I find. I wanted to warn Richard away from whatever deals he was doing and I brought Letty up to town with me in the Judith to talk some sense into him.”

“Was there any question of treason involved, my lady?”

Lady Hunsdon bowed her head. “Letty says not, but I simply don’t know.”

Lord Hunsdon sighed heavily. “Sir Robert?” he said formally to his son.

Carey looked at Dodd briefly, then at his mother, before he answered his father quietly. “We watched Richard Tregian die yesterday under the name of Fr. Jackson. He was gagged and had been tortured. The hangman gave him a good drop so he was quite dead by the time they came to draw and quarter him.”

Lady Hunsdon nodded. “Thank God for that at least.”

“How do you know he was tortured?” asked Lord Hunsdon.

“His wrists were swollen and showed the print of bindings with swelling above and below. I would say the rack or the manacles.” Carey’s voice was remote.

There was a long moment of silence. “What statute was he sentenced under?” asked Lord Hunsdon.

“Henry VIII’s Praemunire.”

“Nothing more?”

“Now that I think about it, the announcement was very short.”

“He made no sign?”

“He was in no state to do it before he was hanged and moreover he was gagged.” More silence. “I wonder whose authority was on the warrant?” Sir Robert added softly.

“It will have been genuine and the authority unexceptionable or Her Majesty would not have signed it.”

“Heneage?”

Hunsdon shook his head. “Not necessarily. Sir Robert Cecil or Lord Burghley himself could have been involved, or even my lord the Earl of Essex. Someone of lesser rank could also have originated the warrant, such as the Recorder of London or the Constable of the Tower. Of course, I could do so if I needed to.”