Leaving Jeronimo in charge to set watches and start the business of packing up, Dodd sheathed his sword and limped down the path back to the old woman’s bothy in the hope he could lay hands on some scraps of cloth or leather to wrap round his feet which were feeling even more sore and cold now the excitement was over.
He felt much better. Certainly when he first woke up in the forest, he’d been determined to kill all of them but it was better that he’d only had to kill three of them and now had eighteen men sworn to follow him. He had his sword on his hip again, the comforting weight of it across his shoulder and he had a nice new poinard as long as the courtier’s blade, which he’d envied. Carey would teach him how to use it properly, that useful-looking two-handed sword and dagger work. He’d wake up the old woman and tell her and Kat to be ready to move as well.
He paused. There was a commotion coming from the goats’ shed and something was wrong with the entrance to the cottage, there was…
He smelled the fresh blood before he saw it and felt rather than saw the battle axe coming down on him.
His body flung itself sideways and rolled, followed hard by a huge bear-like shape and another chop from the axe. Christ, that was Harry Hunks, taller even than Carey or his dad, broad and big as Richie Graham of Brackenhill and twenty years younger. Dodd rolled again and struggled up in a nest of nettles, panting.
Harry Hunks was named after a bear and was as big as a bear, but he fought like a serious man. No roaring, he was quiet as he came after Dodd again, battle axe in one hand, short sword in the other, teeth gleaming in a fighting grin, eyes catching little flashes of light in the dark of his eye sockets.
Dodd’s sword was in his right hand, the poinard in his left, he backed up, not at all liking what he saw. The big man wasn’t moving heavily, he was light on his feet, almost bouncing like a child’s pig bladder. And that axe…most Borderers only used an axe if they couldn’t afford a proper sword or billhook, it was a much harder weapon to get the mastery of and you needed to be big and strong.
Harry Hunks came after him again, Dodd dodged as the axe came whistling down past his chest, just missing his shoulder, you couldn’t block that with a sword. He turned, sliced sideways but Harry Hunks wasn’t there any more.
The goats were creating a bedlam of noise, there was a bit of starlight, occasional moonlight. Dodd’s mouth drew down angrily. It was his own fault. The night had been too easy, he should have realised that and no doubt Leigh had somehow got out and was even now re-establishing who was in charge of his troop of men, knocking heads together. So Dodd didn’t have long to kill this bear of a man and get away. And it had to be done because it looked like the bastard had killed someone whether the carlin or the child he wasn’t sure but he could smell the fresh blood on the man’s axehead…
Again, it was his body saved him, not quite ready for Hell yet. He dropped to his knees as the axe came whistling from nowhere exactly for his neck. He rolled again as one of his own boots tried to kick him in the face.
Goddamn it, Harry Hunks had his boots.
Dodd’s eyes narrowed and he finally stopped thinking. He came in and out a couple of times, feinting to see where Harry Hunks’ weaknesses were but he didn’t have any. Each time Dodd’s sword bit nothing but air as Harry Hunks moved just enough out of the way and while Dodd was off balance with the missed blow, he nearly lost an arm and then his nose. You didn’t get wounded by a battle axe, you got dead, there were no first bloods, no second chances.
Harry Hunks came after him again and he tripped, stubbed his foot on a stone and nearly had his crotch split while he went over his shoulder and up again behind a tree.
The tree took the full force of the battle axe again, the axe stuck for a second but when he tried to slice the man’s arm as he tried to free the axe, Dodd nearly ended spitted on a short sword.
Jesu, said the little cold voice at the back of his head, this one’s bigger and faster and stronger than you and he’s better. He’s going to kill you.
He dodged again behind another tree and ran, turned tail and ran like hell for the clearing by the old stone shed and the ruins of the monastery gatehouse.
Tuesday 19th September 1592, noon
Carey was just deciding that it had been a mistake to try quartering the alehouses of Oxford for any clues to Topcliffe or Dodd, mainly because there were so many of them and he couldn’t find the musician again. His head was pounding from the grey daylight in his eyes and his stomach turned at even the smell of wine. Nonetheless it was past time to get a horse and remount and go down the London road in search of his man.
As he turned his back on the High Street with its forests of scaffolding and hurrying men with ladders and hammering and sawing, a page in Cumberland’s livery came running after him. “Message, sir!” shouted the boy. “Message for Sir Robert Carey!”
The lad gave him a folded letter with the Vice Chamberlain’s seal. Carey opened it, skimmed the Italic.
“Sir Robert, I have just arrested your man Dodd on a charge of horsetheft and forgery. Please reply by this messenger, with your terms.” It was signed by Heneage.
For a second, fury scorched through him as he stood with his hand on his swordhilt. The boy read his face and stepped back nervously.
“Is there a reply, sir?” asked the lad. Carey stared at him for a moment. Heneage must have just caught Dodd and come straight over to Cumberland’s camp to gloat because otherwise, why would he send one of Cumberland’s pages?
“Yes, please tell him I will meet him at Carfax to discuss terms with him when I have consulted my father. An hour from now.”
The boy bowed and ran off, heading up the Cornmarket. Carey took a circuitous route but headed out of town for the Oxford lock-up, jingling what was left of Cumberland’s five pounds in his purse.
A little to his surprise, it wasn’t a trap. The guard was as bribable as usual and unlocked the little cell with great ceremony. Carey’s eyes still weren’t working properly and sunlight was coming in at the barred window so at first he only thought that the suit he’d lent Dodd had taken some damage and there must have been a fight, which made sense.
“Come on,” shouted the guard, “Get up to your master, Dodd, don’t sit about.”
The man didn’t turn his bare head, which was balding. “My name,” he said with dignity, “is Captain Leigh, I am a gentleman and I’ve never heard of anybody called Dodd. I demand that you set me free immediately.”
Carey nearly exploded with laughter. By God it was hard to keep a straight face. Then he thought to lean in and ask,
“Then how did you come by that suit?”
Leigh lifted a shoulder. “I won it from a man called Colin Elliot.”
Carey grinned and nodded to the man to lock up again. Then he went to visit the Jailer and made him richer by five shillings.
“No, sir,” he said, “By information laid. A small girl brought this letter from a Mr. Colin Elliot, informing the Sheriff’s man that this is Dodd, a notable horsethief and forger, wanted by Vice Chamberlain Heneage. We checked his horse and found it had the Queen’s brand though a bit coloured over to hide it and there was no proper warrant. His purse had several forged angels in it so the information was correct. Unfortunately his henchman got away, but we have informed Mr. Vice.”
Carey took the smeared bit of parchment decorated with blue flowers. The charcoal scrawl was Dodd’s horrible penmanship and Colin Elliot was his usual nom de guerre. Reading the script, Carey almost cheered at the elegance of its contents.
“Where’s the little girl?”
“She got away, ran south. Said she lived to the south of Cumnor Place.”
So at least until yesterday, Dodd had been alive and scheming to get someone else arrested for horsetheft in place of him. They must have been within a couple of miles of each other when he and Cumberland were poking about at Cumnor. Meanwhile he could rejoice at the splendid way Dodd had dealt with the problem of the horse he had stolen from Heneage’s stable.