P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘Whuffle?’ said Dodd, so stunned at this he almost forgot to feel his headache.

She tilted forwards and kissed him on the nose. ‘Now now, my love, you’re getting what you paid for.’

Hangover or no, Dodd was sure he hadn’t hired anybody the night before. Almost sure. And Carey would…Maybe Carey had hired her? Yes, that must be it. The Courtier had paid for a woman to come and wake them up and then gone out and forgotten about it or mistaken the time? That made sense.

Or he was dreaming again. No, his headache was too bad. And she was tracking kisses down his chest, unbuckling his belt…Oh, what the hell?

Fumbling frantically at the stupid points to his hose, terrified in case the Courtier came back and spoiled everything by laying claim to his whore, Dodd caught the girl by the shoulders, pushed her gently back on the bed and climbed happily aboard.

She made such a squealing, that Dodd actually paused to make sure there hadn’t been some terrible mistake, but she reassured him by pulling him down and nibbling his ear before letting out another astonishing yell.

The thunder of Dodd’s heart seemed to shake the room they were in, the door bounced against the latch, his mind went white, the girl squealed again, and the whole door crashed open as two men shouldered through it.

Too spent to do anything for a moment except lie on top of the girl’s delightfully soft body and pant, while his headache clamped down over his eyeballs like some Papist torture machine, Dodd tried desperately to catch up with what was going on. It was clear he had visitors and that they were strangers. There was a portly man in fine silks and velvets with an expression of pompous and self-righteous rage on his face, and two other men with him in buff-coats, that had ‘hired henchmen’ all but written on them.

‘Sir Robert Carey, what the devil are you doing with my wife, sir?’ spluttered the portly gentleman, as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious. ‘What’s your explanation, sir? You have committed fornication and adultery with a married woman, to wit, my wife…’

His heart was slowing down to only a triple-hammered pace. Dodd shook his head as the girl started eeling out from under him, her face twisted with fear.

‘Oh no, no, my husband,’ she gasped. ‘I’m done for. All is lost!’

The two henchmen started forwards purposefully with their hands out to grab. Working purely on animal instinct, Dodd rolled the opposite way off the bed onto the floor beside it, landing with a crash that made his skull feel as if it had burst open, yanking desperately at his breeches. Where the hell had he put his weapons last night?

Next to the bed, of course, came the cool answer out of a growing rage. Those two henchmen should have at least cracked a smile at the sight of Dodd, breeches round his knees, draped bare-arsed across their master’s wife. Dodd himself would have smiled at it. But neither of them had, their faces were grim and solemn, and that rang false, at least as false as the girl’s wails and pleas for mercy.

There was plenty of room under the main bed and the two bullies were coming round it to grab for Dodd once more, so he rolled again until he was underneath, finally got his breeches fastened and belted, then reached out an arm and scooped up his sword belt.

One of them was bending down, flailing about under the tumbled blankets for Dodd. Dodd poked him in the face with the sword still in its scabbard, then emerged volcanically out the other side, kicked the truckle bed on its wheels into the portly gentleman and made for the door. It was locked and he couldn’t open it, so he turned at bay with his sword and dagger out and snarled at them all,

‘Get the hell oot o’ my bed chamber!’

‘Don’t you realise who I am, Sir Robert?’ said the portly gentleman. ‘I am Sir Edward Fitzjohn and that’s my wife you were attacking.’

Sheer outrage at this ridiculous claim stopped Dodd from roaring and charging at the man.

‘What?’

‘I am Sir Edward Fitzjohn and I will swear out a warrant against you in the church courts, sir, for fornication and adultery with my wife.’

‘ What ?’

‘Oh oh,’ wailed the girl. ‘Don’t let them take you, they’ll put you in prison, oh oh!’

‘WHAT?’

‘I have that right, as the offended party,’ said Sir Edward Fitzjohn.

‘Give him money, anything you’ve got, only don’t let him take you away…’

Grinding headache and churning stomach notwithstanding, Dodd was now quite certain there was something very fishy going on here.

‘What would it take to settle the matter?’ he asked, only glancing at Sir Edward while he made sure he gave no opening for the two henchmen to grab him.

‘Are you offering money?’ spluttered Sir Edward. ‘For my wife’s honour? Damn you, sir…How much have you got?’

Dodd wanted to laugh, he could feel his mouth turning down with the effort to stay straight-faced.

‘Ah dinna ken where ma purse is, Ah think it was lifted last night,’ he said, which caused all four of them to wrinkle their brows, including the girl sitting prettily on her knees in front of her alleged husband with her smock still falling off. ‘I wis robbed last night,’ he explained, trying to speak slowly and clearly. ‘I’ve no money left.’

Sir Edward’s face went through a series of expressions-disbelief, disappointment and finally hard ruthlessness. ‘We’ll have to kill him then,’ he said in quite a different voice, and the girl obediently started shrieking. ‘Help, murder, oh oh!’ while the two henchmen and Sir Edward himself attacked with their swords. The girl scurried on hands and knees under the bed and started pulling on her stays and petticoat, all the while shrieking, ‘Murder, blood, help, oh save my husband, sirs, save him!’ at the top of her voice.

In the flurry of ducking one sword while he parried desperately at two more, Dodd was never quite sure how soon it was before the door started juddering to somebody else’s boot. The bolt ends came out of the door-jamb which was when Dodd realised it wasn’t locked, just bolted top and bottom.

Carey appeared in the doorway, sword out, Barnabus next to him on the little landing with a throwing knife in each hand.

‘Oh shit!’ said the girl under the bed, crawling further under it and starting to pull on her boots. Dodd was in a corner by then, dagger and sword up and crossed, ducking as Sir Edward’s rapier flicked for his eyes.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ demanded Carey’s court drawl.

There was a bright glitter in the air and one of the little daggers was growing out of Sir Edward’s arm. He yelped, grabbed it out and the henchmen stopped their attack to stare at Dodd’s reinforcements. Dodd growled, rage truly flaming in him now for the ruination of one of the few pleasant awakenings of his life, aimed the point of his dagger and charged at Sir Edward’s belly.

Sir Edward jumped back, bombast and wool bursting out of the wound in his doublet, the two henchmen exchanged glances, and all three of them suddenly broke for the door. There was a confused scuffle while Carey and Barnabus tried to stop them, but they had momentum and desperation on their side and all three sprinted down the stairs and out through the common room, followed by Dodd, still roaring.

They disappeared into the crowded street and Dodd had to stop chasing at the cross-roads because he couldn’t see any of them. Also the Londoners were staring at him and Dodd realised that his shirt was open and his insecurely belted breeches were on the point of falling down.

He sidled back into the inn, up the stairs and found Carey leaning out of the window swiping at something there. Dodd peered over his shoulder to see the girl who had woken him up so well climbing briskly across the thatch, still in only her stays and petticoat. She flipped Carey the finger as she let herself down onto a balcony and he laughed and took his hat off to her.