Dodd risked a peek round the door. Carey had sat himself down on one of the settles by the fading fire with his right leg propped on his left knee and a mannered right hand placed just so on it. Standing nearby with a strange expression of mixed fear and amusement on his face was Marlowe. In front of Carey at an angle from the door, arms folded, dark gown with hanging sleeves trailing off his shoulders and men behind him, was an old man with a sword. At odds with the lines on his face was his hair and beard which was a sooty black colour. Dodd didn’t know him.
Marlowe was staring straight at Dodd and must have seen him. Infinitesimally he moved his head to right and left at Dodd, then lifted his brows and his gaze went over Dodd’s shoulder. He turned back to the black-bearded man.
Dodd’s stomach froze twice. First when he knew Marlowe had seen him, once again when he realised what Marlowe was urgently trying to tell him.
A click of the safety hook coming off a crossbow trigger. Dodd sighed softly, let the door shut, and turned with his hands up.
One of the henchmen was standing there grinning gaptoothed, a beer mug in one hand and a crossbow in the other. That was the nuisance of crossbows. Unlike firearms you couldn’t hear them because there was no match to hiss.
“Ha ha!” said the henchman, “Got yer.” He took a pull of beer from his mug and waved the crossbow slightly. “Wotchoo doin ‘ere, yor sposed to be watchin ve coach.”
Dodd paused for a moment, completely mystified then said as near to London-talk as he could get, “Ah wis ‘opin to find booze.”
It didn’t work. The man’s eyes narrowed so Dodd gave up on subtlety and kicked him as hard as he could in balls, hoping he wasn’t aiming the crossbow straight. The man’s eyes crossed, he slowly started to crumple up. Dodd’s hand closed on the crossbow and took it off him to find the thing wasn’t properly loaded and the bolt had stuck fast. There were too many men backing the black-bearded man in the common room, so Dodd changed his plan.
He ran back through the kitchen where the kitchen boy was methodically helping himself to meat hanging up in a larder while the spit dog yipped excitedly. He grabbed the boy by the ear. “Ah tellt ye to run, now run!” he growled and propelled the boy out the door in front of him, followed by the spit dog, still yelping.
The boy ran across the courtyard, slammed open the gate, and disappeared into the alley. The tied-up goats set up a loud bleating and the chickens clucked. Dodd sprinted round the side of the lean-to, found a water barrel, and climbed up it onto the slippery wooden-shingled roof.
He watched with interest, counting under his breath, as a stream of broad men in jacks came rushing into the yard, across it and through the gate, followed by the black bearded man who was pointing with his sword and shouting furiously as he hobbled after.
Wishing again, pointlessly, for Barnabus who would have been very useful with his throwing daggers, Dodd stayed as flat as he could and listened for the sounds to die down. Then he climbed up a little to a balcony, hearing the whispering and giggling of the urchins down in the yard.
It was a struggle to get over the rail thanks to the stupid stuffed hose he was wearing. He tried the door to the best bedroom but it was locked. He used his dagger to attack the hinges of the window shutters where the wood was old and a moment later after some stealthy cracking, managed to lever the shutter back and off, leaving a space large enough for him to climb through and into the empty bedroom. He hoped. He held the useless crossbow out and waited for the shout and scrape of steel but there was no sound of breathing in the room.
The corridor was also empty. Dodd clattered down the stairs with his sword in his right and the crossbow in his left, and came upon a fascinating picture.
Two men must have been left to guard Carey but they were both in crumpled heaps on the floor. Marlowe and Carey were standing over them. Carey looked up as Dodd came down the stairs, slightly breathless no doubt because of the tightness of his doublet.
Carey beamed at Dodd. “Excellent, Sergeant, I told Kit you wouldn’t be long.”
Dodd crushed the impulse to grin back like some court ninny. They were very far from being safe and in fact he could smell smoke already. He went over and checked the men on the floor and was happy to find a pouch of quarrels on one of them, which he took. He then carefully discharged the crossbow in his hands which popped the bent bolt out onto the floor, put his toe in the stirrup, rebent the bow and hooked it so he could slot in a new bolt. Much happier, he shook his head at Carey and Marlowe’s move for the kitchen and instead went straight for the main entrance to the inn where the coachman was sitting on the coach driving seat, looking worried.
Dodd pointed the crossbow at him and he froze and sat back down again.
“Ay,” said Dodd. “Ye didna see nothing.”
The coachman nodded wildly. Carey and Marlowe looked at each other.
“Shall we steal the coach?” asked Marlowe, giggling slightly.
Dodd sighed. This was a serious business, not a boy’s escapade. “Ah wouldnae advise it,” he said coldly.
Carey looked over his shoulder. “Somerset House,” he said.
They bunched together and headed up to Ludgate and then left into Fleet Street over the Fleet Bridge that stank to high heaven. Dodd’s eyes were itching with tiredness.
Behind them were heavy running feet and shouts. After one glance to see the black-bearded man’s henchmen coming after them in a close-packed crowd and several crossbows being raised, all three of them picked up their heels and sprinted along the Fleet, running like hell for Somerset House or one of the little alleys leading into the Whitefriars if necessary. After about half a minute of serious running, Dodd was starting to feel breathless and tightchested. A crossbow twanged and he ducked instinctively, was outraged to see Marlowe drawing ahead of him as they pounded up the cobbles and wondered, in some cranny of his skull which was not in a panic, what had happened to his wind?
There was the rumble of coach wheels on the cobbles behind him, changing to scraping as they came onto the rutted muddy disgrace of the Strand. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the black coach hammering after them, the horses nearly at the gallop, then the sound of clattering as it turned to avoid the margins of the dungheap. There was a crack and an ear-jangling crunch and crash as the wheels on one side of the coach tilted inwards and fell off. The coach toppled over sideways in a heap as the coachman leaped desperately for safety and landed on a soft pile of rotten marrows. Now that was a highly satisfying sound. Dodd had taken a great dislike to that coach and he risked another glance to see it in its splintered ruin, half on the dungheap with the coachman climbing groggily out from the muck. The horses had come to a stop with their traces trailing and were eating a London wife’s herbal windowsill.
Then he heard another cry and squinted ahead and his heart sank: up ahead was another large body of men jogging towards them, torches held high. Dodd immediately swerved left to the awning of the Cock Tavern and eyed the red-painted shutters with a view to climbing them for a good vantage on the roof. Marlowe too dodged behind a stone conduit. Carey however picked up speed and kept running forward.
“Mr. Bellamy!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot…”
There was a shout and the group of men stopped, Carey was among them, and Dodd heard his voice carolling, “How very good to see you.”
“Likewise sir,” said Bellamy, and Dodd recognised the voice of Hunsdon’s deputy steward.
Men in Berwick jacks and black and yellow livery were fanning out into the street to block it. They raised an interesting variety of weapons. The black-bearded man’s henchmen came to a halt and the two parties stared at each other across a gap of a hundred yards.