P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

Even Carey shifted slightly under the impact of the judge’s skewering glare and silence. “Is this a matter of Court faction, Sir Robert?” he asked at last.

“No your honour, of course not. It is a matter of seeking justice for an abhorrent and illegal assault and…”

“Yes, yes, Sir Robert, thank you,” sniffed Judge Whitehead. “Mr. Enys, I suppose you had better open these pleadings.”

This Enys did with verve and in detail, not seeming to need to shout to be heard quite clearly in the court, quoting various laws in parliament against which Heneage had offended and various legal precedents establishing the same. More than half of what he said was in Norman French but Carey, who spoke French, whispered a translation for Dodd. Enys came to the end and Dodd was surprised to find he had understood most of what had been said that wasn’t actually in foreign.

“Sergeant Dodd,” said Judge Whitehead, “are those the facts as Mr. Enys has related them? You were arrested in error instead of Sir Robert on a warrant of debt and not believed as to your true identity. You were shortly after removed from the Fleet by Mr. Heneage who was fully aware that you were not in fact Sir Robert Carey since he complained of it. You were then falsely imprisoned by him in his coach and interrogated by him therein, during which time he himself as well as his servants and agents laid violent hands upon you?”

“Ay, my lord.” Dodd felt himself flushing with anger, enraged again at being beaten like a boy or a peasant of no account and not able to fight back.

“Mr. Heneage produced no warrant and did not accuse you of any crime?”

“No, my lord.”

“What religion are you, Sergeant?”

Dodd blinked a little at this although Carey had prepared him for it. “My lord …eh…I am a good English Protestant and attend church whenever my duties at Carlisle permit it.” Dodd had practised saying this. It wasn’t strictly true-like most English Borderers, Dodd worshipped where and how he was told to and concentrated on avoiding the attention of a God who was so terrifyingly unpredictable. It was only powerful Scottish lords like the Maxwell who could afford to go in for actual religions such as being a Catholic.

“No dealings with Papist priests?”

“No, my lord,” Dodd said, then ventured, “I might have arrested one once, a couple of years back. For horse-theft.” He had never been quite sure whether the man had been a priest or a spy or indeed, both. Lowther had been doing a favour for Sir John Forster.

Carey coughed, Enys blinked, and the judge looked down at the papers for a moment.

“I see, thank you, Sergeant.” The judge was rereading the papers in front of him. He snorted.

More silence. Dodd stole a glance at Enys to see if he was going to say anything, but he wasn’t. He was watching the judge carefully.

“On the face of the case and on the facts here presented to me, Mr. Enys, we have here a quite shocking incident. Ergo…” The words degenerated to foreign again.

Enys’s face split in a delighted grin.

“You may take two of the Court bailiffs when you go to execute the warrant, Mr. Enys.”

Enys bowed low. “Your lordship is most kind, thank you.”

The judge scribbled a note on the warrant and passed the pleadings to his clerk who was looking alarmed. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Enys,” said the judge in a chilly tone of voice. “You have been admirably succinct.”

A flush went up Enys’s neck as he bowed again, muttered more thanks and then led the way out of the court. As he threaded at speed through the shouting crowds, Carey called,

“And now?”

“Time to arrest him.”

The Court bailiffs were two stolid looking men who took the warrant and went down to the Westminster steps where two of Hunsdon’s boats were waiting. The second was low in the water with the weight of some large and ugly Borderers. Among them Dodd recognised jacks from the Chisholms and the Fenwicks which reminded him that Hunsdon was also the East March Warden. The Berwick tones were now pleasantly familiar to him, mingled with the rounded sounds of the incomprehensible Cornish who made up the other half of the party in the first boat.

Dodd, Carey, Enys, and the bailiffs got in the first boat and they headed upriver, past leafier banks, straining against the flow, to the oak spinneys of Chelsea where Heneage maintained his secluded house on the river frontage.

Dodd’s heart started beating harder as they came near. He looked about him to spy out the approaches to what he couldn’t help thinking of as Heneage’s Tower. There was a boatlanding and a clear path heading up through market gardens and orchards. Not bad cover, no walls to speak of, no sign of watchers on the approaches. He jumped onto the boatlanding with the rest of the men, loosening his sword, then felt Carey touch his elbow and draw him aside.

Some of the men went round the back of the house while the bailiffs strode up to the main door, surrounded by the largest of Hunsdon’s men.

“You and I stay out of this,” said Carey to Dodd.

“Ay sir. I wantae see his face when…”

“You’ll see it but from a distance. I don’t want any risk of a counter-suit if you whack him on the nose. And you’re definitely not allowed to kill him.”

“I know that,” said Dodd with dignity. “This isnae a bloodfeud yet. But…”

“No. It’s bad enough that I lost temper and hit him myself after I found you. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”

“Och sir,” moaned Dodd rebelliously. It was typical of Carey that he let some bunch of Berwickmen have all the fun.

The bailiff was speaking to Heneage’s steward whose expression was one of astonishment and horror. Not only, explained the bailiff, was there a warrant for Mr. Heneage’s arrest, there was also a warrant to search the house for him if he didn’t come out, which warrant they were minded to execute immediately.

The steward was objecting that Mr. Vice Chamberlain was not there, had gone out, had never been there and…The bailiffs shouldered past him, followed by Mr. Enys, who was wearing an oddly fixed and intent expression.

There was a sound of shouting and feet thundering on stairs. Carey’s face clouded. “Hang on,” he said, “that’s not right.”

He headed for the door and brushed past the still protesting steward, followed by Dodd who was pleased to be in at the kill.

The house was expensively oak panelled and diamond-paned, there was an extremely fine cupboard with its carved doors shut, and the steps going down to the cellar truly reeked.

The bailiffs had fanned out and were checking all the doors. Enys had hurried down the stairs and into the arched cellar where there were a few barrels of wine and a central pillar. Barred windows level with the courtyard paving let in some light. Bolted to the pillar about eight foot off the ground was a pair of iron manacles. Somebody had dug a pit in the earth underneath them which was soiled with turds. The manacles were darkened and rusty with blood.

Carey paused, took a deep breath and then went forward to where Enys was opening both of the smaller doors that gave onto two further cellars that were tiny, damp, and had not been cleaned since last there were prisoners there. However they were otherwise empty and Enys turned away, the shadows making his face hard to read, though Dodd could have sworn he saw a glint of something on the man’s face.

“Who were you looking for?” Carey said quietly, his hand on Enys’s narrow shoulder.

“No one…” Enys looked down. “My brother. I heard…I was afraid…Heneage might have taken him.”