Read Online 4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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all he cared, to be told sharply that that one was in Westminster, didn’t he know nuffing?
Tomb after tomb was knowledgeably pointed out, one with a lot of reverence as Sir Philip Sidney’s, and they made the circuit of the nave where pie-sellers, stationers and the apple-women cried their wares. It all seemed crowded and noisy enough for Dodd.
At least the Londoners seemed to be friendly folk. Overfriendly, perhaps. Twice Dodd was hailed as an old friend by men he had never met before, one of them a southerner from Yorkshire by his speech.
The third time a complete stranger clasped his arm and demanded to know what he was doing in London, bless him, Dodd decided to play along with the game.
‘Och, good day,’ he said with as big a smile as he could muster. ‘If it’s no’ Wee Colin Elliot himself,’ he added, naming his family’s bitterest enemy. ‘What are ye doing here?’
The man, who was as tall as Dodd and by his speech had never been north of Durham in his life, laughed and bowed.
‘I could ask the same of you, friend.’
‘It’s too long a tale to tell,’ said Dodd who couldn’t be bothered to make one up. ‘How’s yer wife and the bairns?’
‘Well enough,’ said the man. ‘Well enough indeed. I thought it was you; I was just saying to my friend here, that’s him to the life and it was.’
‘Ay,’ said Dodd, still smiling unnaturally until his face ached with the exercise. The friend was shorter and darker and both were well-dressed in wool suits trimmed with velvet.
‘It does ma heart good to find a fellow Berwick man here in this nest of Southerners,’ said the shorter of the two in a passable imitation of the Berwick way of talking. ‘Mr Dodd, you must have a cup of wine with us. Will ye do that? Us northerners should stick together, after all.’
‘Oh ay, we should. O’ course,’ said Dodd, glancing across at Barnabus who was deep in obsequious conversation with an elaborately taffeta’d young man. Dodd shrugged. If he wasn’t feared of the Bewcastle Waste or the Tarras Moss, why should he be feared of London, strange place though it was?
He went along with his two new friends, smiling and laughing like the Courtier, and making out that he was there to deal wool. Oh and that was lucky, because they happened to dabble in the wool trade themselves, and the one that was calling himself Wee Colin Elliot had a number of sacks in a warehouse near Queen’s Hythe just begging for a buyer since they’d missed the fair…
Dodd’s heart began to beat hard as they went out of a side door he hadn’t noticed, through the churchyard. It seemed they were heading for a narrow alleyway. A little bit late it occurred to him that actually, when he was on his own with neither his kin nor the men of the Carlisle guard to back him, he was feared of both the Waste and the Moss because they were normally full of robbers.
‘They serve the finest wine in the world just around this corner…’ said the smaller man, hurrying him into the alley.
Suddenly Dodd decided he’d had enough of the game. He balked just inside the alley, felt a hand clutching at his elbow, ducked instinctively, swung about and caught the arm of the bigger man who was bringing a small cudgel down on where Dodd’s head would have been. Dodd snarled. This was something he understood. He headbutted the man so his nose flowered red, bashed the hand holding the cudgel up against the wall until the weapon dropped. There was a metallic flash in the corner of his eye, so he kneed the man to put him down, whirled around sweeping his broadsword from its sheath and caught a rapier on the forte of his sword. The rapier flickered past his ear a couple of times and terrified him by nearly taking out his eye. Dodd knew that a rapier which could thrust had all the advantage over a broadsword, especially when he wasn’t wearing a jack, so he pulled out his dagger and went properly into the attack, crowding the smaller man up
Tomb after tomb was knowledgeably pointed out, one with a lot of reverence as Sir Philip Sidney’s, and they made the circuit of the nave where pie-sellers, stationers and the apple-women cried their wares. It all seemed crowded and noisy enough for Dodd.
At least the Londoners seemed to be friendly folk. Overfriendly, perhaps. Twice Dodd was hailed as an old friend by men he had never met before, one of them a southerner from Yorkshire by his speech.
The third time a complete stranger clasped his arm and demanded to know what he was doing in London, bless him, Dodd decided to play along with the game.
‘Och, good day,’ he said with as big a smile as he could muster. ‘If it’s no’ Wee Colin Elliot himself,’ he added, naming his family’s bitterest enemy. ‘What are ye doing here?’
The man, who was as tall as Dodd and by his speech had never been north of Durham in his life, laughed and bowed.
‘I could ask the same of you, friend.’
‘It’s too long a tale to tell,’ said Dodd who couldn’t be bothered to make one up. ‘How’s yer wife and the bairns?’
‘Well enough,’ said the man. ‘Well enough indeed. I thought it was you; I was just saying to my friend here, that’s him to the life and it was.’
‘Ay,’ said Dodd, still smiling unnaturally until his face ached with the exercise. The friend was shorter and darker and both were well-dressed in wool suits trimmed with velvet.
‘It does ma heart good to find a fellow Berwick man here in this nest of Southerners,’ said the shorter of the two in a passable imitation of the Berwick way of talking. ‘Mr Dodd, you must have a cup of wine with us. Will ye do that? Us northerners should stick together, after all.’
‘Oh ay, we should. O’ course,’ said Dodd, glancing across at Barnabus who was deep in obsequious conversation with an elaborately taffeta’d young man. Dodd shrugged. If he wasn’t feared of the Bewcastle Waste or the Tarras Moss, why should he be feared of London, strange place though it was?
He went along with his two new friends, smiling and laughing like the Courtier, and making out that he was there to deal wool. Oh and that was lucky, because they happened to dabble in the wool trade themselves, and the one that was calling himself Wee Colin Elliot had a number of sacks in a warehouse near Queen’s Hythe just begging for a buyer since they’d missed the fair…
Dodd’s heart began to beat hard as they went out of a side door he hadn’t noticed, through the churchyard. It seemed they were heading for a narrow alleyway. A little bit late it occurred to him that actually, when he was on his own with neither his kin nor the men of the Carlisle guard to back him, he was feared of both the Waste and the Moss because they were normally full of robbers.
‘They serve the finest wine in the world just around this corner…’ said the smaller man, hurrying him into the alley.
Suddenly Dodd decided he’d had enough of the game. He balked just inside the alley, felt a hand clutching at his elbow, ducked instinctively, swung about and caught the arm of the bigger man who was bringing a small cudgel down on where Dodd’s head would have been. Dodd snarled. This was something he understood. He headbutted the man so his nose flowered red, bashed the hand holding the cudgel up against the wall until the weapon dropped. There was a metallic flash in the corner of his eye, so he kneed the man to put him down, whirled around sweeping his broadsword from its sheath and caught a rapier on the forte of his sword. The rapier flickered past his ear a couple of times and terrified him by nearly taking out his eye. Dodd knew that a rapier which could thrust had all the advantage over a broadsword, especially when he wasn’t wearing a jack, so he pulled out his dagger and went properly into the attack, crowding the smaller man up
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