P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

“Well, Mrs. Enys…”

“No sir, Mr. Enys is my brother. My name is Mrs. Morgan.”

Carey paused. “Ah? Really? My mother’s family name is Morgan…I wonder if there’s a connection.”

“I don’t know, sir. My husband’s cousin Henry Morgan was a well-known…er…sea trader.”

“Can we come in?”

For answer the woman started removing a piece of door. Dodd and Carey helped her and entered Enys’ chambers.

There were two rooms visible. In the light from the small window they could see that the smallpox had made as bad a mess of her face as it had of her brother’s. She was quite a tall woman, a little stooped, in a plain grey wool kirtle and doublet bodice, with her hair covered by a linen cap that was crooked. Carey bowed to her and she curtseyed.

“I’m sorry not to be able to offer you anything, sir, but…you can see…”

She waved a hand helplessly. Carey took a deep breath.

“Mrs. Morgan, I am Sir Robert Carey, and this is Sergeant Henry Dodd, your brother’s client.”

“Yes, my brother has told me about you.”

“Can you tell us what happened, mistress?”

Mrs. Morgan bit her lip and shut her eyes tight. “They came and battered the door in and they said if I stood facing the wall and did not scream they wouldn’t hurt me.”

“They kept their promise?”

She shrugged. “Yes sir.”

It was easy to recognise the handiwork of pursuivants. Every chest had been upended, every book opened and dropped on the floor, the great bed and the truckle in the bedroom with the curtains ripped and the mattress slashed so that wadding bled out of it.

Carey sighed. “Did they get all the papers?”

“I expect so, sir,” said Mrs. Morgan. “They took every piece of paper they could find, even things that were nothing to do with your case.”

“Who were they?”

“They had their cloaks muffled over their faces and their hats pulled down. I didn’t know them. My brother said he needed to consult some books at his Inn and then he felt he could apply for a judgement immediately. Is there anything else I may help you with, sir, as I have a great deal to do?”

It was a clear, though polite, invitation to leave. Carey looked at the woman seriously, not seeming put off as Dodd was by the pock scars disfiguring her face.

“I now understand why Enys was reluctant to stay at my father’s house last night. He should have mentioned you.”

The woman said nothing and curtseyed.

“Would you feel safer in Somerset House under my father’s shelter and protection, mistress?”

Mrs. Morgan curtseyed again.

“I would prefer to stay here. There’s…a lot to do.” She coloured under Carey’s gaze and stepped away from the light.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir. Thank you for your offer.”

Carey shook his head. “As you wish, mistress. If you change your mind simply come to my father’s house on the Strand and tell the porter that I sent you.”

She nodded and looked at the ground until they left.

They went in silence down to the Temple steps and waited an unconscionable time for a boat. Just as one finally rowed languidly towards the boat landing where Carey was pacing up and down impatiently checking the sun and the tide every minute, there was a clatter of boots behind them and Enys appeared, running down the steps towards them, holding his sword awkwardly up and away from his legs.

“Ah, Mr. Enys,” said Carey, “there was I thinking you might have left town?”

Enys was puffing and wheezing alarmingly. He shook his head, unable to speak.

They all got in the boat with the Berwickers and Shakespeare looking as if they were prepared for a boring day. Soon the boatman and his son were rowing upstream to Westminster. Once Enys had got his breath back, Carey looked at him consideringly.

“Why didn’t you mention Mrs. Morgan to us last night?” he asked.

“Um…” Enys looked panicky.

“Mr. Enys,” said Carey pompously, “what my mother said is true. We are in a war with Heneage and Topcliffe, but luckily my father has the capacity to protect his counsellors and servants and friends at the moment. He would have sent men to guard your chambers or bring your sister to safety if you had said something…”

Enys coloured red. “I know, sir. I am afraid I was in a panic. I…my sister is very shy and prefers not to be seen in public, or at all.”

“She has Lady Sidney’s malady.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My Lady Sidney-Sir Philip’s sister, you know-caught the smallpox whilst nursing the Queen when she had it and took it very much worse than Her Majesty. She was a very beautiful lady before but now considers herself hideous and never comes to Court. She meets with poets and writers at her house which she refuses to leave. And yet, we would all delight to see her at Court for never was a kinder nor wittier lady. Even the Queen, who dislikes any kind of ugliness, has often said how she misses her.”

Enys was an even darker red.

“I…”

“No one can convince Lady Sidney that nobody is laughing at her and that if anyone should dare to laugh an hundred swords would be drawn in her defence, including mine. I have told her so myself but she only smiles sadly and shakes her head,” said Carey, tilting into the romantic flourishing speech of the court. “And so we are deprived of the company of the finest jewel that could adorn any court, saving the Queen’s blessed Majesty, a woman of intellect and discretion and wit, all because she fancies a few scars make her hideous.”

Enys seemed unable to speak. He coughed a couple of times and mopped his face with his hankerchief. Shakespeare was staring at him with interest but he seemed not to notice.

“I’m afraid, sir, my sister is not of so high blood as my lady Sidney,” he said at last, his voice husky. “And all…er…all she ever wanted was to marry her sweetheart and bear his children.”

Carey nodded. Enys stared out over the river.

“Three years ago I heard that my best friend that had married my sister had taken the smallpox,” he was almost whispering as if he had difficulty getting breath to speak even slowly. “He…I posted down to Cornwall when I heard and found him dead and buried and his two children sickening. After they died my sister took sick and so I nursed her for I would not bring any other into that house of ill fortune to do it. Then when she recovered, I took sick of it as well and so turn and turnabout she nursed me. We lived, barely, hence we have such similar scars, but my sister says…No one cares how ugly a man be, so he be rich enough and kindly, but for a woman to lose her complexion and her looks is an end to all marrying. And so, since her jointure was small and her husband’s land reverted to his brother on the death of his issue, we shut up the house in Cornwall and came to London together to try if the law would make our fortunes.”

Carey nodded. “Her Majesty says that Lady Sidney’s scars are as much honours of battle as any gallant’s sword cuts. And so I think yours and your sister’s must be too.”

Enys inclined his head at the compliment, then turned aside to stare over the water again. “My apologies, sir, but I hate to remember that year.”

Carey and Dodd left him to it. The tale was common enough, Dodd thought, but hit each person it happened to as rawly as if no one else had ever caught smallpox. He might catch it himself and die with his face turned to a great clot of blood as the blisters burst-though they said that when the blisters came out you were on the mend so long as none of the blisters turned sick. That was why they tied your hands to the bedposts so you wouldn’t scratch.

Dodd shuddered and trailed his fingers in the waters. Fish rose to him from the depths and he wished vaguely for a fishing rod.