P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

“So? Why don’t you want to go home?”

“I havenae had my satisfaction fra Heneage yet.”

Carey barked with laughter. Dodd was annoyed again. He wagged a finger at Carey.

“Say what ye like about Richie Graham of Brackenhill, but he’d know better than to treat a Dodd like that. Wee Colin Elliot might treat me like that if he got the chance, but he wouldnae have the insolence to leave me alive after.”

Carey grinned. “Jock of the Peartree did something similar to me a few months ago and I’m not planning vengeance.”

“Ay sir, but ye was spying out his tower and forebye it was in the way of battle and retaliation for the lumps ye gave him yersen. That’s fair, is that, and ye both know it.”

Carey nodded. Dodd leaned back with his hands on his thighs.

“So. I canna leave London until I’ve given Heneage back what he gave me.”

“With interest?”

“Ay. Wi’ interest.”

“Trouble is, it might take a while and I really want to talk to the Queen and my lord of Essex.”

Dodd sighed and looked him in the eye. Carey winced, probably at the horribly sour but valiant viol-scraping in the boat that was now closing on them rapidly.

“Sir,” said Dodd, “do ye not ken that the Dodds have a bloodfeud wi’ the Elliots that goes back tae the Rough Wooing of Henry VIII, over sixty years. If it takes a while, then it takes a while. Or if he dies afore I’m satisfied, then I’ll do the same to his son.”

“I don’t think Heneage has a family.”

Dodd shrugged. “If he dies wi’out issue, then I’ll take it to his cousins or his nephews.” He’d been wondering if Heneage had family to back him as well as the Queen. It was good news that he didn’t.

Even so, Carey seemed worried.

Dodd tapped his knee. “Dinna be concerned, sir. It’s no’ a blood feud, only a feud. It might be composed if he offers enough to me or I can burn his tower or the like.”

“Ah,” said Carey. “Good. I need you back in Carlisle this autumn.”

“As yer father tells it, I can leave the court case with my lawyer once I’ve made my statements and he’ll take it on for me until he needs me again. Once it’s well begun I’ll come back wi’ye to Carlisle and happy to do it.” Dodd thought wistfully of Janet. He would never have guessed how much he missed her visits to him on market days and his visits back to her in Gilsland when he could.

“How much would you take to compose your feud?”

Dodd thought carefully. “Ah dinna ken, sir. Whit would be the London price for twenty kine and ten sheep and five good horses.”

At that moment they heard a muttered “God’s truth!” from Hunsdon in the prow. He stood and gestured so that the rowers backed water. Then he beckoned the boatful of importunate musicians even closer.

“How much for your viol?” he roared across to them.

The musicians elbowed each other and there was a fierce argument. “He doesn’t want to sell, my lord,” shouted a harpist with long hair.

Hunsdon fished out a purse of silver and hefted it. “This much?”

There was a scuffle in the boat and one of the flautists brandished the viol in the air while the drummer sat on the viol player. Hunsdon gently threw the purse of silver into the boat and, despite wild protests from the viol player, the instrument was lobbed spinning across the water to be caught by Hunsdon’s man Turner. He handed it to Hunsdon, who took the instrument by the neck and smashed it to pieces against the side of the boat. Carey looked mildly pained, then shrugged.

“That’s better,” shouted Hunsdon, “and don’t for God’s sake let the man buy another bloody instrument.”

The Hunsdon liverymen bent grinning to their oars again and they left the musicians well behind.

Carey and his father were uncharacteristically quiet as the boat sped downriver, helped by the current. As they rounded the bend and came in sight of Somerset House, both men gasped and stood up in the boat, nearly upsetting it.

Another boat was tied up at Somerset steps, a long gig from a ship, also sporting the Swan Rampant that was Hunsdon’s badge. Men were standing on the boatlanding who were clearly not Londoners, being barrel-shaped, mainly red-haired and short, and sporting long pigtails down their backs.

Dodd stared with interest at the play of expressions on Carey’s face-absolute horror predominating. Strangely Hunsdon was grinning with delight from ear to ear and let out a bellow of laughter.

“Good God, it can’t be,” groaned Carey.

“It is!” laughed Hunsdon, slapping his son on the back and taking him unawares so he nearly went in the Thames. “I’d recognise that crew of Cornish wreckers and pirates anywhere. Ho, Trevasker!”

The most evil-looking of the men touched his cap to Hunsdon and said something to one of the others.

“Oh Jesus, this is all I need,” said Carey, sitting down and putting his head in his hands.

His father stayed standing all the way to the steps and jumped off onto the jetty before the boat was even tied up. The crew of Cornish wreckers and pirates touched their foreheads respectfully to Hunsdon as he hurried past them, through the gate in the wall, and up through the gardens. Carey followed nearly as quickly with a face of thunder while Dodd scrambled after, near to dying of curiosity. He caught up with Carey in the orchard.

“Is it one o’ yer creditors?”

“No, much worse. You saw the badge, didn’t you? It’s much, much worse.”

Dodd shook his head, loosened his sword just in case Carey wasn’t exaggerating again, and followed up to the house which was blazing with candles in the grey afternoon.

In the magnificent entrance hall stood more short, broad, pigtailed men with hands like hams and a strong smell of the sea on them. Hunsdon hurried through to the parlour where a smallish woman in her sixties with very bright blue eyes was just taking off a large sealskin cloak and handing it to a pink-cheeked girl.

She turned, smiled, and curtseyed to Lord Hunsdon who bowed formally, then opened his arms and bellowed “Annie!” as he scooped her up and swing her round in a delighted hug.

“Put me down, Harry, you old fool!” shouted the woman as she hugged him back with just as much violence, laughing with an infectious gurgle in her throat. “You’ll knock my hat off.”

Although she otherwise spoke like Hunsdon there was a strong flavour in her voice. It was the sound of the Cornish sailors who plied up and down the Irish Sea in appalling weather, trading tin, hides, wood, and contraband in all directions.

Hunsdon put her down gently and she straightened her smart French hood and smiled lovingly at Carey. “Where’s my little man to, then, eh?” she demanded.

Real pain crossed Carey’s face. Dodd’s mouth dropped open as he finally worked out who he was looking at. Carey stepped past him, swept a very fine Court bow, and bent over the lady’s hand with unimpeachable respect.

“My lady mother,” murmured Carey in a resigned tone of voice. “What a delightful surprise.”

She laughed a gravelly laugh and thumped him in the ribs. “No it ain’t, Robin.” she said, “Don’t try that Court soft soap with me. You’re shaking in your fine boots.”

Carey smiled wanly.

“Er…”

“You’re worried I know what you’ve been at, boy, and you’re right. I do.”

“Ah…”

“Meanwhile, who’s this henchman of yours?”

Guts cramping, ribs aching, and his face stiff with the effort not to laugh, Dodd stepped forward and made the best bow he could manage.

“Ma’am, may I present Land-Sergeant Henry Dodd of Gilsland, presently serving under me in Carlisle,” said Carey in the tones of one going to his execution.