However Carey had run to Court to speak to the Queen so he conveniently wasn’t here to stick his neck in another noose.
What had Enys said …“it was all a lie to coney catch great men at court.”
Dodd’s own voice came back to him. “Ye know nowt,” he had said to Carey about another ambush. “Ye’ve been told.”
Two boats? Sergeant Dodd as advisor, in command with Mr. Trevasker? Did Lady Hunsdon suspect something? He realised that he had sweat trickling down his back under his shirt, his stomach was crunched up, hiding under his ribs. This was far more frightening than a mere battle. He had been sixteen the last time he was this frightened. He looked across at the other boat which might as well have been on the other bank for all the talking he dared do. He couldn’t even signal with a lantern for fear of being seen, and he certainly couldn’t shout.
All right then. So they took Portia Morgan and had taken Briscoe’s wife to make sure of Briscoe’s help. It was provocative, an invitation to an attack. If there was to be an ambush there would be an alluring trail. And there was. Enys right there on the Judith where Carey would likely go to keep his father out of it, with the story of the house in the marshes, how he knew the path, how he had the key…
Dodd shook his head. This was all too complicated. It was simpler to think about it as if the Elliots had taken Janet and, say, Lady Widdrington.
No, perhaps not. Carey would be in the game then and make it complicated again. So. The Elliots have taken Janet. You think they’ve gone to their chief tower, but it could be one of the others. What do you do?
You hit the one with the less obvious trail and hope they haven’t double-bluffed you. In fact, you hit both towers, but you personally, Henry Dodd, you go to the less obvious one and make damned sure it’s taken quickly before they can cut Janet’s throat.
Which is less obvious? Lady Hunsdon and said “properties” so there were more than one. There was Heneage’s large house in Chelsea and the one Enys had been talking about in the marshes on the south side of the river. Both houses accessible by boat, one on the north and one on the south of the river. One approachable through orchards and gardens, in the village of Chelsea where there are witnesses. The other out in the empty marshes along a single muddy path which you could mine, lay an ambush along, or simply wait until your attackers are in the house and then…say…blow it up. And which one has the more attractive trail?
Dodd showed his teeth to the night and relaxed. He leaned over and tapped Ted Gunn on the arm. “Can ye bring the boats together?” he asked. “I wantae talk to Mr. Trevasker?”
Gunn nodded and called in a foreign language across the water. It sounded a bit like the funny jargon you sometimes heard from Welshmen or Irish kerns. The other boat came cautiously closer.
“Mr. Trevasker,” said Dodd, “I’ve a mind tae talk to Mr. Pickering.”
Trevasker looked blank so Dodd repeated it as southern as he could and added “The King of London,” Trevasker nodded hesitantly.
How and where could he find Pickering? Well, he was a headman who was also presumably about to go to war. He would have men placed on his borders to watch for him and tonight they would be awake.
“Take me to the nearest set of steps on the north bank,” Dodd said, “Wait there for me,” Mr. Trevasker was frowning slightly but eventually he nodded and the gig that Dodd was in began cutting north towards Blackfriars steps again. The other gig backed water well out from the bank.
Dodd was impatient to meet Pickering. He climbed out as noisily as he could, went up the steps a little way, then turned suddenly and laid hands on the two beggars quietly following him. They choked because he was holding both of them by the neck.
“I havetae talk to Mr. Pickering at once,” he hissed. “You go tell him, you stay here wi’ me.”
Bare feet sprinted into the distance and Dodd settled down to wait. Pickering announced his presence by the unmistakeable pressure of a knife against Dodd’s side and the smell of feet and sores. That was one of his henchman who had come up very silently next to Dodd despite the fact that he had his back firmly pressed to a wall from the old Whitefriar’s monastery. In front of Dodd was the interesting sight of the King of London wearing rags and almost silent turnshoes.
Dodd grinned, knowing his teeth would show in the paltry moonlight.
“Well, Sergeant?” came Pickering’s voice, steady in the greys and blues.
Dodd told him everything he knew, had worked out, and thought he knew. At the end of it, Pickering was silent for two beats of Dodd’s heart, and then he chuckled. Dodd nearly chuckled back because there was nothing more satisfying when you were on a raid than to know there was an ambush and where it was.
“I got some news for you too, Sar’nt. The prisoners ain’t in Chelsea, nor the marshes,” Pickering said., “And they ain’t at the Tower neither. They come off their boats at the Bridge. My bet is Southwark or the Bridewell.”
“Ay,” said Dodd, rubbing his chin. “But which?”
“We’ll know in a minute or two, I’ve got young Gabriel watching the Southwark house for me. One of Topcliffe’s places, but outside the City so ‘e can play ‘is games.”
“Can Ah go and tell my lady Hunsdon’s men whit’s in the wind,” said Dodd.
“Eh? Lady Hunsdon?”
“Ay, there’s two boatloads of Cornish pirates that brought me here.”
Dodd saw Pickering’s eyes glint with mischief. “Well well, who’d ha’ thought it. I know my Lord Hunsdon left Somerset House this evening heading up the Oxford road at the clappers.”
Dodd almost smiled back. Careys on the move, eh? Ay well, the Dodd headman was on the move too. He nodded and went down the steps to where the gig was tied up with a large Cornishman standing on the boatlanding looking nervous. Dodd saw Enys still sitting in the boat, waiting patiently, his tense face giving back moonlight. Dodd beckoned Enys to him and the man climbed out of the boat and came over. Dodd clapped him on the shoulder.
“There’s a change of plan, Mr. Enys,” he said. “We’re gaunae…” Then he punched the man as hard as he could in the gut, caught his shoulders, steadied him and put his knee into Enys’s groin. It was very satisfying and the man went down with little more than a whine. Ted Gunn was staring at him. He listened while Dodd carefully explained what was going on as southern as he could, and then climbed out of the boat, tied Enys’s arms behind him, and stuffed a bit of rope in his mouth. He and another Cornishman lifted him into the gig and laid him down along the length of it. Then Gunn raised his arm and whistled like a curlew across the water. Dodd could hear the rhythm of the oars as the gig came in to the boatlanding. He explained again to Mr. Trevasker who also grinned happily. Then he tensed and one of his men raised a crossbow.
Dodd spun on his heel to see Pickering with a couple of ugly mugs and a remarkably handsome young blond man beside him. “Gabriel ‘ere says it’s the Southwark house, but the Bridge is guarded,” explained the King, “Not seriously, just someone watching. ‘E also saw your boats climbing the Bridge rapids and the watermen says it was well-done but you was lucky not to die, and one of them lost ten shillings on it.”
“Ay,” agreed Dodd. “Will yer man lead us across the flow tae Southwark?”
“Course ‘e will.”
“Are there horses at the house?”
The blond man nodded. “Three of them for dispatch riders to Dover,” he said in a deep voice.
“And where are the women?”
“Cellars of course,” said Gabriel. “We ‘eard ‘em crying, couldn’t see them.”
“Crying?” asked Dodd, his blood chilling.
“Yer, screaming one of them was, like she was being tortured.” The young man’s face didn’t change when he said it. “Or flogged,” he added thoughtfully, “she was a bit breathless.”
Dodd set his jaw. “Mr. Pickering, what would you suggest?”
Pickering sucked his teeth. “Gabriel tells me the house is locked up tight, no o
pen winders, no outhouses to climb on. Front door’s locked, o’course. There’s a courtyard onto Upper Ground wiv men in it and dogs and one of the horses is there ready to take a message.”
It was a pity Heneage wasn’t sloppy nor completely stupid. No doubt the house in the marshes was mined and the house in Chelsea well-defended. Southwark would have the fewest men, but there’d be enough to defend against a sneak attack or a frontal assault just in case. Well then, what you needed was distraction.
Dodd squatted down with Pickering, Gabriel, Mr. Trevasker, and Ted Gunn and laid out what he thought would make a good plan. At the end of it there was a moment of shocked silence.
“Well, Sar’nt,” said Pickering eventually, “You can go back to Newcastle…”
“Carlisle,” Dodd corrected automatically.
“…the north, but I’ve got to live in London. This is my manor, you might say. And I’ve never done anyfink like that.”
“Ay, and anither man has put a brave upon ye. If ye dinna hit him back wi’ more and worse, ye’ll no’ be a headman for long,” said Dodd with finality. “But if ye can think of another way intae a house that’s defended and has hostages of yourn, I’ll be glad to hear of it and take the news back tae the north country.”
More silence. Finally Dodd recognised Gabriel’s gruff voice. “’e’s right, master,” it said, “and that ‘ouse is in a garden and right on the river.”
There was the sound of teeth being sucked. “All right,” said Pickering, “But we do it my way. We’ve got a bit of time to spare.”
Ted Gunn was delighted with his part in the business and kept quietly snickering to himself.
Pickering, Gabriel, and a couple of his upright men climbed into the gigs and the waterman who had piloted them through the bridge went with Ted Gunn to direct the them going upstream against the difficult flow of the Thames without being sucked into any of the whirlpools or grounded on a sandbank. Both gigs were low in the water, but one crossed the current to the South Bank while the other with Ted Gunn and the still sleeping Enys in it continued upstream towards Chelsea.
Saturday 16th September 1592, dark before dawn.
The boat kissed the boatlanding a little upstream of Heneage’s house so Pickering, Dodd, Gabriel, Briscoe, and a couple of upright men that had fought in the Netherlands could get out. The boat carried on softly to the steps that led up to the garden of the house. There would be a wall and an iron grill, of course, but the Cornish had brought crowbars. It was at least an hour after midnight, maybe two, and Southwark was asleep, although the bakers would probably be stirring in an hour or so to light their ovens. There were lights from some of the bawdy houses to be sure, but Gabriel popped his head in one of them and spoke to the Madam who came out to curtsey to Pickering. The Bishop of Winchester may have been her landlord, if what Carey said was right, but Pickering was her real lord. She listened to what he had to say and then nodded, went indoors and started shouting at the girls. A little later all of them who weren’t with clients came slinking out in their striped petticoats and elaborate hats and dangerously lowcut bodices. There was one striking redhead there with a cheeky grin and perfect white rounded tits that Dodd remembered from somewhere other. He had to swallow hard and pull his eyes away. He had always liked red-heads and the fact that the girl had a couple of freckles low down only made her more interesting…
Pickering elbowed him in the ribs. “If this lot works, Sar’nt, you only ‘ave to say the word and she’s yours.”
Dodd coughed. “Ay, but Ah’m a married man.”
“So what?”
“Ah, ma wife’s got some…eh…powerful relatives.”
“Oh. Well, never mind, they probably don’t come to London.”
That was true enough to be quite tempting. Dodd thought about it for a moment and then decided he’d better concentrate. The girls went with them as they quietly walked towards Heneage’s house, led by Gabriel. It was indeed closed—the door locked, the windows shuttered tight. At the back was a walled courtyard but there was nobody visibly keeping a watch. From the house came a series of howls and screams which then bubbled away.
“Jesu,” said Dodd, horrified. Nobody else took any notice. The girls fanned out and went and knocked on the doors of the nearby houses whilst Dodd and Pickering took a couple of the grenadoes that Trevasker had brought, lit them from a slow match that Trevasker had kept in a pot, and went round the back of the house.
Dodd hefted the heavy pottery ball filled with serpentine gunpowder and sawdust with the fuse coming out of the top. He hated grenadoes, always felt sick when he lit one because you never knew how long you had to throw it…Or whether someone brave might throw it back. But for setting fire to a roof, they couldn’t be bettered.
Dodd threw the grenado overarm onto the thatch of Heneage’s house where there was a dip between eaves. It landed, rolled, it was going to roll off the roof…And then it exploded—not as loudly nor as destructively as a petard which was the same thing made of iron rather than pottery—but well enough. A hole was blown in the thatch and the drier thatch inside caught alight immediately. Pickering’s lob went neatly onto the roof, but then fell off and landed and exploded in the courtyard where arose an immediate squealing of pigs and a dog started barking manically.
Dodd went to the gate at the front of the house. Somebody fired at him with a pistol which missed, of course, and an arrow clattered against the shutter next to him. Another arrow followed it. He left a grenado there and took cover until that exploded too. Then he ran up to it and kicked it in as fast as he could while arrows and bullets clattered into the ground a yard behind him. They were shite, really. Quite clearly they knew nothing about defending a place, their angles of fire were all wrong.
Behind him he felt Briscoe, who was completely silent with a veney stick in one hand and a poinard in the other, behind Briscoe the other upright men, and then Pickering and Gabriel. He charged his shoulder into the remnants of the door, found himself facing a boy with his mouth open and an empty crossbow in his hands, and knocked him down with his stave. There was a mill in the part of the courtyard penned off for pigs and the two dogs on chains were barking themselves hoarse at it. An older man came at Dodd, who dodged and knocked him sideways. Briscoe took a man with a bow who was aiming at Dodd. Pickering and Gabriel were already across the yard and at the front door of the house itself. Gabriel knelt down at it as if he was praying while Pickering stood in front of him with a throwing dagger in each hand and an intent expression on his face.
Dodd’s mouth turned down mournfully as he swapped blows with a swordsman, knocked the weapon aside, and sliced down through his shoulder. No jack. Was the man mad? On the other hand, Dodd had no jack on either and didn’t think a fancy doublet could do much to protect him from a better-wielded sword. Somebody else came running at him and without thinking he kicked the men’s legs from under him and knocked him out. Jesu, he’d never fought so gently in his life.
Gabriel was kneeling beside the lock with a hooked piece of wire in his fist and a grin on his face. Pickering opened the door, Dodd shouldered past him and spitted the man waiting with a raised sword.
Outside the harlots were helping to ring the firebell and shout fire. The next-door-neighbours were already forming a bucket chain from the Thames. Nobody had time to worry about the pitched battle around the house as the Cornish broke through the barred gate and into the garden.
Dodd knew he was in a dangerous state. The smell of the fire seemed to unroll the black rage in his belly and turn it into something like pleasure. He walked swiftly into the hall of the house which was already starting to fill with smoke, saw somebody start up from their sleep next to the fire, and hit him with his veney stick. It seemed a waste not to kill him, but Dodd was trying to do things the way Lady Hunsdon wanted them. There was somebody on the stairs so Dodd held his breath, burrowed through the smoke, grabbed him by the doublet front and threw him downstairs where Gabriel or Pickering coshed him.
Breathing as little as he could in the acrid smoke, Dodd slammed through several doors. Somebody shot a pistol at him again and by sheer luck the ball went into the wall not a foot from his face. Dodd’s mouth drew down as he kicked through the door where the man with the pistol lodged, dodged the downswing of the ball of iron on the pistol’s stock, knocked the arm aside, grabbed the front of the man’s doublet, and headbutted him right on the nose. The man dropped his pistol and fell back clutching his flattened nose and mewing so Dodd kicked his legs out from under him and stamped on his hand. Behind him was Portia Morgan with her hands tied to a bedpost, her doublet off and her trunk hose half pulled down. What he could see of her arse was as marred with pockmarks as the rest of her, though nicely shaped.
Dodd looked at her face with the bloody nose and the black eye and the split lip and something told him what to say as he sawed through the rope around her hands.
“Ay, Mr. Enys, can ye fight?”
She paused, gulped, nodded. “Where’s my sword?” She was making her voice deliberately deep. She was hitching her braces back over her shoulders, rebuckling her belt, coughing hard in the smoke. With shaking hands she caught up her doublet from the floor and slung it on, doing up the buttons quickly. Now he knew what to look for of course it was obvious; her hands may have been pock-marked but they were smaller than a man’s and very deft.
A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery Page 26