crime?”
“No, my lord.”
“What religion are you, Sergeant?”
Dodd blinked a little at this although Carey had prepared him for it. “My lord …eh…I am a good English Protestant and attend church whenever my duties at Carlisle permit it.” Dodd had practised saying this. It wasn’t strictly true—like most English Borderers, Dodd worshipped where and how he was told to and concentrated on avoiding the attention of a God who was so terrifyingly unpredictable. It was only powerful Scottish lords like the Maxwell who could afford to go in for actual religions such as being a Catholic.
“No dealings with Papist priests?”
“No, my lord,” Dodd said, then ventured, “I might have arrested one once, a couple of years back. For horse-theft.” He had never been quite sure whether the man had been a priest or a spy or indeed, both. Lowther had been doing a favour for Sir John Forster.
Carey coughed, Enys blinked, and the judge looked down at the papers for a moment.
“I see, thank you, Sergeant.” The judge was rereading the papers in front of him. He snorted.
More silence. Dodd stole a glance at Enys to see if he was going to say anything, but he wasn’t. He was watching the judge carefully.
“On the face of the case and on the facts here presented to me, Mr. Enys, we have here a quite shocking incident. Ergo…” The words degenerated to foreign again.
Enys’s face split in a delighted grin.
“You may take two of the Court bailiffs when you go to execute the warrant, Mr. Enys.”
Enys bowed low. “Your lordship is most kind, thank you.”
The judge scribbled a note on the warrant and passed the pleadings to his clerk who was looking alarmed. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Enys,” said the judge in a chilly tone of voice. “You have been admirably succinct.”
A flush went up Enys’s neck as he bowed again, muttered more thanks and then led the way out of the court. As he threaded at speed through the shouting crowds, Carey called,
“And now?”
“Time to arrest him.”
Wednesday 13th September 1592, late morning
The Court bailiffs were two stolid looking men who took the warrant and went down to the Westminster steps where two of Hunsdon’s boats were waiting. The second was low in the water with the weight of some large and ugly Borderers. Among them Dodd recognised jacks from the Chisholms and the Fenwicks which reminded him that Hunsdon was also the East March Warden. The Berwick tones were now pleasantly familiar to him, mingled with the rounded sounds of the incomprehensible Cornish who made up the other half of the party in the first boat.
Dodd, Carey, Enys, and the bailiffs got in the first boat and they headed upriver, past leafier banks, straining against the flow, to the oak spinneys of Chelsea where Heneage maintained his secluded house on the river frontage.
Dodd’s heart started beating harder as they came near. He looked about him to spy out the approaches to what he couldn’t help thinking of as Heneage’s Tower. There was a boatlanding and a clear path heading up through market gardens and orchards. Not bad cover, no walls to speak of, no sign of watchers on the approaches. He jumped onto the boatlanding with the rest of the men, loosening his sword, then felt Carey touch his elbow and draw him aside.
Some of the men went round the back of the house while the bailiffs strode up to the main door, surrounded by the largest of Hunsdon’s men.
“You and I stay out of this,” said Carey to Dodd.
“Ay sir. I wantae see his face when…”
“You’ll see it but from a distance. I don’t want any risk of a counter-suit if you whack him on the nose. And you’re definitely not allowed to kill him.”
“I know that,” said Dodd with dignity. “This isnae a bloodfeud yet. But…”
“No. It’s bad enough that I lost temper and hit him myself after I found you. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”
“Och sir,” moaned
“No, my lord.”
“What religion are you, Sergeant?”
Dodd blinked a little at this although Carey had prepared him for it. “My lord …eh…I am a good English Protestant and attend church whenever my duties at Carlisle permit it.” Dodd had practised saying this. It wasn’t strictly true—like most English Borderers, Dodd worshipped where and how he was told to and concentrated on avoiding the attention of a God who was so terrifyingly unpredictable. It was only powerful Scottish lords like the Maxwell who could afford to go in for actual religions such as being a Catholic.
“No dealings with Papist priests?”
“No, my lord,” Dodd said, then ventured, “I might have arrested one once, a couple of years back. For horse-theft.” He had never been quite sure whether the man had been a priest or a spy or indeed, both. Lowther had been doing a favour for Sir John Forster.
Carey coughed, Enys blinked, and the judge looked down at the papers for a moment.
“I see, thank you, Sergeant.” The judge was rereading the papers in front of him. He snorted.
More silence. Dodd stole a glance at Enys to see if he was going to say anything, but he wasn’t. He was watching the judge carefully.
“On the face of the case and on the facts here presented to me, Mr. Enys, we have here a quite shocking incident. Ergo…” The words degenerated to foreign again.
Enys’s face split in a delighted grin.
“You may take two of the Court bailiffs when you go to execute the warrant, Mr. Enys.”
Enys bowed low. “Your lordship is most kind, thank you.”
The judge scribbled a note on the warrant and passed the pleadings to his clerk who was looking alarmed. “I shall look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Enys,” said the judge in a chilly tone of voice. “You have been admirably succinct.”
A flush went up Enys’s neck as he bowed again, muttered more thanks and then led the way out of the court. As he threaded at speed through the shouting crowds, Carey called,
“And now?”
“Time to arrest him.”
Wednesday 13th September 1592, late morning
The Court bailiffs were two stolid looking men who took the warrant and went down to the Westminster steps where two of Hunsdon’s boats were waiting. The second was low in the water with the weight of some large and ugly Borderers. Among them Dodd recognised jacks from the Chisholms and the Fenwicks which reminded him that Hunsdon was also the East March Warden. The Berwick tones were now pleasantly familiar to him, mingled with the rounded sounds of the incomprehensible Cornish who made up the other half of the party in the first boat.
Dodd, Carey, Enys, and the bailiffs got in the first boat and they headed upriver, past leafier banks, straining against the flow, to the oak spinneys of Chelsea where Heneage maintained his secluded house on the river frontage.
Dodd’s heart started beating harder as they came near. He looked about him to spy out the approaches to what he couldn’t help thinking of as Heneage’s Tower. There was a boatlanding and a clear path heading up through market gardens and orchards. Not bad cover, no walls to speak of, no sign of watchers on the approaches. He jumped onto the boatlanding with the rest of the men, loosening his sword, then felt Carey touch his elbow and draw him aside.
Some of the men went round the back of the house while the bailiffs strode up to the main door, surrounded by the largest of Hunsdon’s men.
“You and I stay out of this,” said Carey to Dodd.
“Ay sir. I wantae see his face when…”
“You’ll see it but from a distance. I don’t want any risk of a counter-suit if you whack him on the nose. And you’re definitely not allowed to kill him.”
“I know that,” said Dodd with dignity. “This isnae a bloodfeud yet. But…”
“No. It’s bad enough that I lost temper and hit him myself after I found you. I don’t want to give him any more ammunition.”
“Och sir,” moaned
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