P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

Carey gestured wordlessly, still working on catching his breath. Julie picked herself up from where she had been nursing her painfully bruised cheek, curtseyed as low as she safely could to Lord Hunsdon.

‘He’s here, my lord,’ she said. ‘Be careful, don’t go near him if you’ve never had gaol-fever. He’s been terribly ill with…’

Quite gently Hunsdon put her aside, went over to his son and embraced him. Only Julie heard what he said which was, ‘There now, poor boy, you bloody idiot, there now.’

The next moment Hunsdon had turned round and was giving a dizzying series of orders which cleared Bolton’s Ward as if by magic, Heneage standing blank-faced in a corner under guard, his men at arms told they’d get in no trouble if they went and stood quietly in a corner of the gaol courtyard, some of Hunsdon’s men sent running to find and hire a litter, no bloody new-fangled carriages mind, they could ignore the useless contraption standing in Fleet Lane.

Hunsdon went over and clasped his youngest son to him as well. Carey was recovering quickly now, bright eyed and rather pleased with himself until something occurred to him and his face clouded.

‘Where’s Sergeant Dodd, Father?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Have you found him?’

Heneage’s second-in-command scooped up Carey’s sword, pulled the cudgel off the blade and gave it to him, hilt first. ‘If you mean the northerner, sir, he’s in the carriage.’

Carey turned and ran out of Bolton’s Ward, up the stairs. Hunsdon nodded at two of his men to go with him. Heneage looked down at his boots.

Another of Hunsdon’s men came trotting in to report that the litter was ready in the courtyard. Hunsdon took his magnificent gown off and wrapped it around his son before two of the men picked him up carefully under the knees and armpits and carried him up the stairs.

Hunsdon nodded to Julie and offered her his arm. They were all at the door of Bolton’s Ward, ready to leave, when Carey came back down the stairs two at a time, went over to Heneage and, without preamble, lashed out with his fist. Heneage fell back grabbing at his nose and Carey followed up, quite silent, white to the lips, crowding him against the wall, punching him with a blinding flurry of short cruel blows. Heneage cringed, wailing, ‘I didn’t touch him, he didn’t tell me, I worked it out, I never hurt…’ The words ended in a gargle as Carey put his hands round the man’s neck and started to squeeze.

‘Stop him,’ ordered Hunsdon wearily and it took three of his men to do it because Carey was deaf and blind to anything except killing Heneage. Julie had never seen a gentleman go berserk before and she found it very ugly and frightening. Edmund would not have lost all control like that, used such barbarous violence.

Hunsdon went close to his son who was still struggling white-faced.

‘Is your man dead?’ he asked. He asked the question several times before his son could be sane enough to answer him.

‘No, I…no, he’s not.’

‘Is he crippled?’

Carey’s eyelids fluttered as he thought. ‘I don’t…think so.’

‘Well, thank God for that. You’ve a good man there. Now you know you can’t throttle the Queen’s Vice Chancellor, she wouldn’t like it.’

Robin was breathing hard and shakily. ‘One of…one of Heneage’s servants was there, with thumbscrews.’

‘But they hadn’t been used.’

Robin shook his head.

‘Well, thank God for that too,’ rumbled Hunsdon, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder and shaking him gently back and forth. ‘Thank God.’

Heneage was pinching at the bridge of his nose, bent over to keep the blood away from his fine clothes, his handkerchief darkening.

‘I’ll see you in Star Chamber for this,’ he said huskily. ‘How dare you…’

‘How dare you touch my man?!’ roared Carey, swinging round to him and making his father’s men grab at him again to stop his lunge. ‘If he dies I’ll make sure you follow him, you’ll swing for it or I’ll kill you myself, you fucking piece of…’

‘ROBIN!’ bellowed Hunsdon, nose to nose with Carey. ‘Do I have to hit you to calm you down?’

Carey was breathing heavily through his nose again but he was trying to regain his self-control. Julie saw him trembling all over like a nervous horse with the effort.

Heneage was still muttering sulkily and stupidly about lawsuits for battery and assault. Hunsdon looked over at him contemptuously.

‘Be quiet,’ he ordered. ‘This is unseemly. We shall discuss these matters somewhere more private.’

That reminded Julie of the secret Edmund had given her to hold. She turned aside to lift up her kirtle and take it out of the pocket of her petticoat where it had been weighing her down for weeks. She held the heavy little package out to Lord Hunsdon.

‘My lord,’ she said. ‘Ned…Mr Carey gave me this to hold for him.’

Hunsdon took it, looking puzzled. Carey reached out his hand. ‘My lord, may I?’ Hunsdon gave it to him, he opened it, glanced at it and nodded. Heneage watched and for the second time Julie saw real fear in his face. Carey held one of the little round lumps of metal up to the light and squinted.

‘The Tower mark,’ he said. ‘I thought so.’ He smiled so cruelly at Heneage that Julie decided she didn’t like him at all. ‘We can destroy you now, Mr Vice, you know that don’t you?’

Heneage didn’t answer.

***

In a manner that brooked no argument, Lord Hunsdon took over the gaoler’s lodgings. Julie felt that perhaps she should withdraw now, go and see to her children who were staring at her from behind the skirts of the woman who ran the ruff-making circle. But Hunsdon insisted that she stay with him even after Edmund had been loaded barely conscious into the horse litter and sent off at a sedate walk down Fleet Lane towards Somerset House, past the row of tethered horses that had brought Lord Hunsdon and his men to the Fleet. Another litter was being fetched for Robin’s henchman, who was sitting in the sunlight on the steps of the carriage, bent like an old man and looking putty-coloured and ill. Obstinately he insisted in his guttural, almost incomprehensible, voice that if they would just get him a decent horse he could ride, for God’s sake, what did he want wi’ a litter like a woman, he was nae sae bad, he’d been worse, dinna fuss, and forebye he didnae want to go back to Somerset House until he knew what the hell had been going on…In the end, to stop his complaints, two of Hunsdon’s men helped him into Newton’s living room and sat him on the best padded chair, with a cushion to ease his back.

There Carey paced up and down in front of his father who had taken the only other chair and was sitting behind Newton’s table like a judge.

‘As you know, my lord, Mr Heneage wants to be Lord Chamberlain and have control over the Queen’s courtiers, her security arrangements and her mind, if possible.’

Hunsdon grunted at this in a way which indicated he was neither surprised nor shocked nor very impressed. Carey answered the comment with a smile.

‘I know, my lord, it’s pathetic, isn’t it? But still. He wants to remove you, and since you won’t oblige him by committing treason, raping a maid of honour or going to Mass, he’s been looking for some way to blackmail you into resigning your office.’

‘I protest at these outrageous accusations. I have never been so insulted…’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ growled Hunsdon. ‘Let the boy…let my son tell his tale.’

‘Under protest, be it noted.’

‘Noted, noted. Yes, Robin?’

‘Dodd pointed out to me the similarity with some of the gangsters we have in the north. If a man is too strong to attack directly, they kidnap one of his near relatives and apply pressure that way. King James does something similar when he takes noble hostages off his Border lords.’