“Where was he headed?”
“Oxford, of course, he says if the Queen ain’t there yet, she will be and his master is at Court to get money and a warrant out of her because he hasn’t any, no tower nor land, he’s just a bloody courtier with a smooth tongue.”
Leigh nodded carefully. The Court was at Oxford and so was the Earl, only ten miles away. Holed up in this old monastery for the last few weeks, it had been hard to get news. But perhaps at last, at last they could move.
Kat was still speaking. “…and he hurt his leg or it got hurt when you was kicking him, he says it’s broken, so he can’t work much…He says ‘canna,’ you know, and he’s good with his hands and with stock so he says he’ll help as much as he can until he’s well and his master’s father will give a reward for him if my granny will send me off to Oxford to tell him.”
“He’s a good fighter,” slurred John Arden whose black eye was flowering well, “took five of us to take him down. Could we get him to join us?”
Leigh shook his head. He didn’t want another fighter, he wanted someone who had connections with the Earl of Essex. And that, thank God, despite all his doubts, he seemingly had at last. Now how could he parlay the Northerner into what he really wanted much more than a simple reward or ransome?
“Katarina, carina,” said Jeronimo, “who is the father of this courtier the man serves?”
“He told me not to tell the robbers but it’s my Lord Hunsdon, the Queen’s Chamberlain.”
Leigh blinked in awe at Jeronimo. “You were right,” he said. “His master is Captain Carey.”
Jeronimo nodded, took a deep breath, then winced and rubbed his stomach where it was swollen.
“We’ve got him this time,” he said in French so the child wouldn’t understand. “You can ask him for an audience with the Earl.”
The Earl of Essex owed him a large amount of back pay, owed all of them, and Leigh intended to get it. If necessary he would have marched his remaining men down Oxford High Street in their once-fancy tangerine-and-white livery and demanded his rightful pay from the man he had trusted while that man was in the act of licking the old Queen’s arse for her. In fact that had been his original plan.
“All right, Kat,” he said to her, handing over a bag of bread and apples from the remains of the monastery orchard. “I’ll likely come and take a look at him myself, so don’t be alarmed.”
Kat’s face looked cunning. “Will you be fierce?”
“Roaarrr!” Leigh shouted, showing his teeth as he used to at his little brothers and sisters. This unnatural child didn’t even flinch. “I’ll be fierce, Kat, so make sure you tremble and run away.”
She nodded disdainfully, hefted the bag, looked in it and scowled.
“I want paying. I want money, not just food.”
“Kat,” said Leigh, pulling her nose to nose with him by her kirtle, though not roughly, “I told you, we’re only here because we fought and died for the Earl in France for eighteen months and got not a penny of the shilling a day he promised us, not one penny, though he spent plenty on pennants and livery and feasting.”
She glared straight back at him. “I want a shilling like you promised. You got all the money from that Northerner, give me some.”
“What if you’re lying? What if he’s lying?” Leigh was still nose-to-nose with the child.
“Can’t help it if he’s lying but I’m not,” retorted the child, “and he said he’d lost the suit his master gave him to look more respectable than his homespun and he wished he hadn’t looked so rich and there’ll be the devil to pay for that too and there was money in it too, plenty of money.”
Nick Gorman was wearing the man’s suit now because it fit him best and it was certainly a gentleman’s suit. Smithson had his hat, being in most need of one. The money was Leigh’s now, naturally, as captain.
He let go of the fistful of rough kirtle he’d been gripping. Kat straightened herself and her apron with a brow of thunder.
“Give me my shilling,” she said shrilly. “You’ll just drink it and I need it for my dowry.”
“Don’t make me angry, Kat.”
“I’m angry! I bring you things you didn’t know that are important like he’s a Northerner and who his master is and everything and you won’t even give me a shilling like you said!”
“We could burn you and your old hag of a grandam out of your hovel!” Leigh shouted, outraged at being defied by a little girl. “I could send Harry Hunks down to you, do you want that?”
The ferocity of the child’s glare actually stopped him.
“Don’t be like that, sweeting,” he said after a moment in the kindest voice he could muster. “Of course, we won’t burn you out, you just made me cross.” Nothing. Stony brown eyes stared steadily back at him. He gave her a comfit of sugarpaste taken from a rich packtrain a week before. She held it in her fingers and didn’t even taste it, curtseyed silently and went out of the monastery parlour where Arden was waiting for her.
Jeronimo was shaking his head. “You should have paid her,” he said in the French he found more comfortable. “She’s right, she needs a dowry. It was only a shilling.”
Leigh shrugged, he was the captain, not the Spaniard. “I need it more than she does. How am I going to afford the ribbons we need otherwise?”
Jeronimo said nothing, only winced and drank more of the brandy after adding laudanum that he kept in a small bottle in his doublet pocket. He only had one arm, his right had been taken off above the elbow with the sleeve neatly folded and sewn up. Perhaps the arm that had been broken by a musket ball and cut off many years ago still pained him as sometimes happened. His doublet had once been a very rich silk brocade and had worn well, but his shirt and falling band were as frayed and grubby as everyone’s was. Perhaps he was ilclass="underline" his dark skin had a greyish tinge that Leigh didn’t like, though he had no fever.
They finished the brandy and Leigh decided that he, John Arden, and Harry Hunks, the biggest man they had who was nursing bruised ballocks from the Northerner’s final headbutt, would go and chat to this Colin Elliot they had caught. Jeronimo he left in charge of the rest of the men, despite the fact that he was Spanish, because after you had fought together for a while, things like that didn’t matter anymore and the Spaniard was owed money by the Earl of Essex too. And the Spaniard had certainly been a captain in the past and knew how to do it, which was more than Leigh felt he did, even now.
So with the cold autumn sun already westering, they sauntered down the overgrown cobbled path to the cottage. Leigh knew that they could follow the path northwards for a couple of miles and find the village of Cumnor with its haunted almost empty manor house, then three miles north of that would take them to the city of Oxford. The Spaniard had found the place for them and it couldn’t be bettered.
The dog set up a-baying at Harry Hunks, whose real name was Percival but had been given the name of a famous London fighting bear because of his size and ferocity. Harry Hunks growled back at the dog and showed his teeth, at which the animal whined and hid behind the cottage.
The old woman came out still toothlessly chewing some of the bread her granddaughter had brought. Kat however was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is he?” shouted Leigh at the old woman, for general effect. “I know you’ve got him hidden, where is he?”
“Backyard sir,” she quavered. “He’s mending the chicken coop.”
Stupid old bat, why had she given him a job that involved a weapon? They tramped round the tiny cottage, Harry Hunks deliberately squashing some of the winter cabbages already planted, out into the little yard where the chickens pecked and the muckheap teetered.
The Northerner’s face and swollen nose was colouring nicely and he held his right leg awkwardly out to one side, tied with long hazel poles to keep it straight. He was weaving withies in and out to darn a gap in the side of the chicken coop. He stopped to look at them, didn’t stand but did duck his head. Leigh couldn’t see a hammer in his hands but assumed he’d have a knife to cut the withies.