Dodd was listening to the learned judge asking Mr. Irvine if he had ever heard of the relevant law and precedents to this case, and if he had, why had he quoted the wrong ones? Enys had an appreciative grin on his face.
“He sounds a terror,” said Dodd.
The bailiff gave mournful tongue with their names five minutes later as Irvine and his clients fled with their case adjourned until the lawyer could learn to read.
With a spring in his step and an expression on his face that looked remarkably like Carey’s before he launched into some insane battle or gamble, Enys led the way into the little booth and bowed to the judge. Watching Carey out of the corner of his eye and seeing him uncover and bow, Dodd scrambled to do likewise, dropped his new beaver hat on the disgusting floor, and had to grovel to pick it up again before somebody stood on it.
“Mr. Enys,” growled the judge, “I had heard you had thought better of the law and gone back to Cornwall?”
“No, my lord,” said Enys surprised. “Who told you that?”
“Evidently a fool,” snorted the judge. “Well?”
Enys handed over the sheaf of pleadings and the warrant written in a fine clear secretary hand. The judge paused as he saw who was named as the Respondent and shot a piercing grey stare over his spectacles at Enys who stared straight back, not a muscle moving in his face. Not that you could have told if it had, thanks to the scarring, thought Dodd. That lawyer would be a nightmare opponent at primero.
The judge turned to the warrant. Very briefly, something like the ghost of a smile hovered near his mouth.
“You have started proceedings in the Old Bailey?”
“Yes, your honour. Not wishing to waste any time, I briefed a solicitor to file the necessary criminal indictment about an hour ago. We are here because although the crimes were committed in the City, Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage is in fact resident at Chelsea which is for our purposes in the borough of Westminster.”
Another small smile. The judge turned to Dodd. “Mr. Dodd…”
Dodd coughed hard with nervousness, but he was not going to go down in the record as anything other than what he was and what he was came to more than a mere mister.
“Sergeant Dodd, my lord,” said Dodd. “Beggin’ your pardon.”
“You’re not a lawyer, surely?” said the judge, his brow wrinkling.
Crushing his immediate impulse to challenge the man to a duel over the insult, Dodd coughed again.
“Nay sir, Ah’m Land-Sergeant o’Gilsland, in Cumberland. On the Borders, sir.”
The judge’s lips moved as he worked this out. “Really? My apologies. How do you come to be in London, then, Sergeant?”
“Ah come with Sir Robert Carey, my lord.”
The judge transferred his attention to Carey who stepped forward and swept him another Courtier’s bow.
“Carey? Is my lord Baron Hunsdon involved in this matter, Sir Robert?”
“Yes, your honour,” explained Carey with a face so open and innocent, Dodd felt the judge was bound to get suspicious. “My most worshipful father is outraged that Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage should have falsely imprisoned and assaulted Sergeant Dodd who serves under me in the Carlisle Castle Guard where I am Deputy Warden under my Lord Warden of the West March. My father is very kindly helping Sergeant Dodd seek redress for his injuries and the insult.”
Even Carey shifted slightly under the impact of the judge’s skewering glare and silence. “Is this a matter of Court faction, Sir Robert?” he asked at last.
“No your honour, of course not. It is a matter of seeking justice for an abhorrent and illegal assault and…”
“Yes, yes, Sir Robert, thank you,” sniffed Judge Whitehead. “Mr. Enys, I suppose you had better open these pleadings.”
This Enys did with verve and in detail, not seeming to need to shout to be heard quite clearly in the court, quoting various laws in parliament against which Heneage had offended and various legal precedents establishing the same. More than half of what he said was in Norman French but Carey, who spoke French, whispered a translation for Dodd. Enys came to the end and Dodd was surprised to find he had understood most of what had been said that wasn’t actually in foreign.
“Sergeant Dodd,” said Judge Whitehead, “are those the facts as Mr. Enys has related them? You were arrested in error instead of Sir Robert on a warrant of debt and not believed as to your true identity. You were shortly after removed from the Fleet by Mr. Heneage who was fully aware that you were not in fact Sir Robert Carey since he complained of it. You were then falsely imprisoned by him in his coach and interrogated by him therein, during which time he himself as well as his servants and agents laid violent hands upon you?”
“Ay, my lord.” Dodd felt himself flushing with anger, enraged again at being beaten like a boy or a peasant of no account and not able to fight back.
“Mr. Heneage produced no warrant and did not accuse you of any 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.