4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm Page B

knows who you are or what a Land Sergeant of Gilsland might be, or who your family connections are or anything about you. That means that if you want to be treated right, you have to look the part. What you’re wearing is no fancier than what any middling London merchant would wear and that puts you at about the right level.’
    ‘I’m not a gentleman, thank God, sir.’
    ‘Nor is a middling London merchant. You’re not wearing anything approaching fashion; what you’re wearing is respectable, no more. It’s actually one of my own old suits, so please try not to drop anything on it. All right?’
    Dodd growled inarticulately. Carey grinned.
    ‘It also ups your price if anyone wants to bribe you. Now if I discharge my dag out the window, will you promise not to hit me?’
    Dodd scowled at him. ‘I’m no’ stupid, sir.’
    ‘No, of course not. You can hit me tomorrow, if you must, but just for tonight bear with me.’
    Carey opened the window, peered out at the reddening sky, pointed the dag upwards and fired. ‘Come on. The guests are arriving.’
    Dodd followed him awkwardly, suddenly understanding where some of Carey’s swagger came from—it was the only way you could walk if you were wearing great stupid padded hose round your thighs.
    ***
    Afterwards, when Dodd tried with all his might to remember the details of that long summer evening, he found it had disintegrated in his mind to a whirl of brilliantly dressed ladies and gentlemen who greeted him politely enough, addressed a few words to him and then slipped away to laugh and talk with Carey.
    The Courtier was clearly in his element, flirting extravagantly with all the women, gossiping delightedly with the men about the doings of Sir Walter Raleigh, regretting that the South Bank theatre was shut as punishment for a riot over a glover, and, with total disregard for truth, reprising events at the King of Scotland’s court. They sat down to more unrecognisable food, including a swan dressed in a full suit of white feathers and stuffed with a pheasant, and finished playing primero at separate tables under blazing banks of wax candles until the sweat ran down Dodd’s back in rivulets.
    Will was there, serving at table with the other liverymen, standing with his back to the wall next to the sideboard loaded with a glittering display of Hunsdon’s plate, dividing his time between glowering at his shoes and staring like a motherless calf at Mistress Bassano.
    She was radiant in black velvet and grass green silk, her neck milky with pearls, her hands dancing on the virginals’ keys while the wealthy Londoners played at cards.
    Dodd spent most of the evening watching, since he simply could not bring himself to play for entire shillings at a time. Eventually he tired of the heat, noise and sense of being completely out of place and chokingly wrapped in finery that suited neither his body nor his mind. He put down his cards, bowed to Lord Hunsdon who was roaring ‘eighty-four’ at the other end of the room, and went blindly out into the garden, where the summer air was a strange tapestry of flat salt and dirt from the Thames, overlaid with roses and herbs, and a familiar whiff of horses and dogs from the stables.
    He stood on the grass, blinking up at the stars. Though it was a balmy summer night not all of them were visible, but he could make out the North Star right enough and he looked at it with longing. That was the way home. That was where there would be doings tonight; on such a clear night, the reivers’ trails would be busy with soft-footed horses and their bridles padded with cloth to stop any jingling. He sighed.
    ‘Mr Dodd,’ came a voice in the darkness, and Dodd tensed, dropped his hand to his sword.
    ‘Ay,’ he said, noncommittally, taking a quick glance over his shoulder in case anybody was coming up behind him.
    ‘I have a message for you from Mr Heneage.’
    Dodd squinted, saw somebody wrapped in a cloak who didn’t look very large, and