P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘I’ll do it, I’ll break it and no’ think twice. Stop still afore I hurt ye.’

Just to make his point, he levered up his elbow to lift Greene’s chin and put more strain on his neck.

‘I’d listen to him if I were you,’ said Carey conversationally. ‘So far Dodd’s been quite gentle with you.’

There was that indefinable change of muscle tone beneath him that told Dodd the man was starting to think. He increased the pressure and felt the man surrender.

‘Will ye behave yerself if I let ye up?’

‘Hhhnnhh.’

After another jerk on his neck to remind him, Dodd let him go and stepped away smartly. Greene lay there whooping and gasping for several minutes before he staggered to his feet. He glowered at Dodd for a while, breathing hard.

‘I want satisfaction from you,’ he croaked at last.

‘Are ye challenging me?’ Dodd asked, almost laughing. ‘Tae a duel?’

‘Name your place and your weapons, sir.’

Behind him Dodd distinctly heard Carey say, ‘Oh dear.’

‘Ye want to fight me ? With weapons ?’

‘Don’t you speak English? Yes, I am, you northern yokel.’

‘Och God, I would ha’ thought ye’d want a rest after a’ that booze and the battering I gave ye. But well enough. Let’s dae it here.’ Dodd drew his sword and dagger, crossed the blades in front of him in the en garde position and waited expectantly.

To his surprise Greene didn’t draw his own blades. His jaw had dropped and he was staring at Dodd as if he didn’t know what to do next.

‘Come on, man, I havenae got all night. Let’s get the mither done wi’ and then I can get back tae ma drinkin’.’

In a voice overflowing with amusement, Carey translated this for Greene. Marlowe was standing next to Greene, whispering in his ear. Greene glared about under his bushy red eyebrows, but his hand made no move to his swordhilt.

‘Do ye want tae fight, or no’?’ Dodd asked, surprised at the delay.

Carey was on the other side of Greene now, whispering in his other ear. Greene was looking at the ground. He coughed.

‘I withdraw the challenge.’

‘Ay?’

‘And the insult about northern yokels?’ prompted Carey.

‘I withdraw it,’ growled Greene.

‘Och, Ah dinna care what a drunken southerner wi’ nae blood tae his liver thinks o’ me,’ said Dodd genially.

Carey translated this as acceptance of Greene’s withdrawal of the insult.

Behind him Poley was setting the table upright again and arranging the stools round it. The innkeeper was standing nearby with arms folded, eyes narrowed and a large cudgel dangling from his wrist on a cord. The plump little man was sitting Shakespeare wheezing on the bench, dusting him down and handing him another cup of booze, which the player took with hands that shook like rivergrass.

‘All right,’ said Carey. ‘Now shake on it, gentlemen.’

Dodd put his sword and dagger away, and held out his hand. After an almost insulting pause, Greene shook.

There was a universal coughing and the staccato laughs of released tension.

‘Damn,’ said Marlowe. ‘I had ten shillings to put on Sergeant Dodd to win.’

‘Yes, but nobody was going to take the bet, were they?’ said Carey drily.

Greene slammed his bulky arse down on a stool and glowered. Dodd sat back down on the bench next to Shakespeare and accepted the drink brought for him by Poley. The primero circle reformed itself and the innkeeper stood watching for a few minutes more before he and two other large men with cudgels melted back into the loud shadows.

They were piss-poor, these southerners, Dodd thought to himself; if he could only get the remounts and a sufficiency of right reivers together, he could run the raid of all time down here.

Poley and the plump man, whose name was apparently Munday, were both down on the floor, scooping coins and cards out of the sawdust and complaining at Greene while they did it. Carey was watching Greene with narrow eyes and a very suspicious expression, making no move to help. Marlowe was watching as well. Greene seemed slightly deflated, though he was still knocking back the booze at a fearsome rate. Now Carey was talking to him quietly, to a response of shrugs and growls. Poley put the pack of cards on the table and bent again to pick up the coins. Some of them were gold crowns and angels, Dodd noted to his horror; it wasn’t any wonder the Courtier was in hock to his eyeballs.

Shakespeare cleared his throat painfully next to Dodd.

‘Um…thank you, Sergeant,’ he whispered. ‘Er…if you don’t mind my asking, why did you…?’

‘Och,’ said Dodd, embarrassed. ‘He knocked ma drink over when he sent the table flying.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he puked on ma boots earlier the day. I dinna take to loud drunks either. And I’ve had a long day.’

Shakespeare had a wide expanse of brow to wrinkle. ‘Ah,’ he said, evidently only understanding half of this, though Dodd tried to make his speech sound more like the Courtier’s, which wasn’t at all easy against the effects of the booze. You had to say this for London town, you could find good drink here. Even the aqua vitae tasted quite smooth, if fiery. He tasted some more of it.

‘Ye’ve not had a good couple of days either, have ye?’ Dodd said sympathetically. ‘And what was it ye had me give to Mistress Bassano yesterday that made her so wild with ye?’

Shakespeare blinked gloomily at the sherry-dregs in the bottom of his mug. ‘Sh…sonnets.’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd cautiously, not willing to reveal that he didn’t know what a sonnet was.

The little bald player smiled wanly. ‘Poems. Rhymes. In praise…in praise of Mistress Bassano.’

‘They werenae lewd?’

‘No, of course not. They were classical. I compared her to Helen of Troy, Aphrodite, Aurora goddess of the dawn, likened her hair to gold poured from an alchemist’s flask, her eyes to sapphires…’

‘But her hair’s black and her eyes are brown.’

‘It’s poetic symbolism.’

‘Ay. Does she ken that or does she think ye werenae thinking of her at all?’ This produced an odd effect. Shakespeare stared at him for several minutes together with his mouth open, looking a complete simpleton. ‘Only,’ Dodd added, making a real effort to help the man, ‘if I told my wife I loved her for her yellow hair, she’d hit me with a rolling pin in the certainty I was playing her false wi’ a blonde. She’s redhead,’ he added, for completeness. ‘An’ I bought her a fine green velvet hat the day for twenty shillings.’ He was now feeling quite proud of himself for spending so much money on a frippery for his woman, though Shakespeare either hadn’t heard or was used to the stupid London prices. The player was now nodding to himself, seemingly oblivious to Dodd.

Across the table the Courtier appeared to have won a little of his money back, since he was pulling in a reasonable pot. He raised his eyebrows.

‘Dodd?’

Dodd shook his head. ‘Yer stakes are too high fer me. I’m no’ a rich man.’

Marlowe leaned over, smiling. ‘I thought Sir Robert said you owned land.’

‘I do. I’m rich in land and kin and kine, but no’ in money,’ Dodd explained. And yon Courtier’s rich in nowt but kin, though that’s never stopped him, he thought but didn’t say.

‘Come on, Sergeant,’ said Poley with a little edge to his voice. ‘Aren’t you going to take the chance to enrich yourself? We could teach you if you don’t know how to play.’

Just for a moment, Dodd was sorely tempted. He liked playing cards and he was a lot better at it than he had been.

In that moment, Barnabus brought another tray of drinks, leaned over the table to give them out and while his body was in the way, looked directly at Dodd and shook his head, mouthing a word silently several times. For a moment Dodd was annoyed and then realised that Barnabus was telling him the game was crooked.