Young Hutchin went pink about the ears.
‘It wasnae for ye, sir,’ he said gruffly. ‘Only, I like the Lady, see.’
Carey looked shrewdly at Young Hutchin for a moment, causing further reddening around the ears, and then smiled.
‘All the better,’ he said. ‘That’s a perfectly honourable reason.’
Barnabus came hurrying back to the Queen Mary Tower from his errand and was surprised to see Carey still wearing his ordinary clothes. He would have expected the Deputy to be in helmet and harness and chafing to ride to rescue his beloved, knowing the man. Carey grinned at his obvious shock.
‘Barnabus, think,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no men around here; they’re all at the haymaking and even if they weren’t, seven certainly is not enough to match fifty riders. And we don’t know for sure what’s going on.’
‘But if Wattie Graham’s after Lady Widdrington, shouldn’t we get after ‘im, sir…?’
‘You’re a bit rash, Barnabus.’ Barnabus blinked at this outrageous instance of a kettle calling a brass warming-pan black. ‘I said, think. Nothing’s going to happen to her today because unless she’s been extraordinarily unlucky, she’ll be into Thirlwall Castle by now.’
‘Ain’t you going to send a message? Or talk to the Warden?’
‘No, I’m going to talk to Lowther first, he’s due to take the patrol tonight.’
Barnabus trotted after Carey as he strode out of the Castle and into the town where Sir Richard had a small town house on Abbey street.
Monday 3rd July 1592, afternoon
Carey was magnificently languid as he was ushered into the Lowther house and bowed to the dumpling-faced nervous creature who was Lady Lowther. Sir Richard came out and his face hardened with suspicion. After a few exchanges of airy courtesy, Sir Richard growled, ‘What can I do for you, Sir Robert?’
‘I would like to take your patrol out tonight.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve heard a rumour about where some of the King of Scotland’s horses are being kept and I’d like to investigate. Unfortunately, most of my men are out making hay and as it’s your patrol night tonight, I thought I’d ask you.’
He smiled guilelessly, looking remarkably dense for one so intelligent. Barnabus wondered uneasily what elaborate lunacy he was maturing now.
Lowther grunted with suspicion. Barnabus watched him considering the suggestion. Discourteous as ever, Lowther hadn’t even offered his master anything to drink, but Carey was standing there playing with his rings as if he hadn’t noticed, looking benignly enthusiastic.
Carey reached into his belt pouch and took out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I could…er…give you this back,’ he offered. It was Lowther’s note of debt for fifteen pounds.
Uh oh, thought Barnabus, he’s overdone it. Lowther will want to know why he’s so eager to take somebody else’s patrol.
Lowther did want to know. ‘That’s very handsome of ye, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘Why are ye willing to say goodbye to so much money for such a minor thing?’
Carey smiled. ‘King James is offering a large reward for his horses,’ he explained. ‘If I can find those horses and bring them in, I might make ten times that, besides pleasing the King.’
‘Ah.’ Lowther’s expression lightened slowly. This he understood, and he was only too happy to tear up his large losses at primero. ‘I’ll speak to Sergeant Nixon then.’
He reached for the paper but Carey put it away again.
‘You can have it when I get back,’ he said.
Aggravatingly, when they returned to the Queen Mary Tower, Barnabus was sent to find Young Hutchin and make sure he stayed near the stables where Carey could find him, though out of sight.
Carey arrived a little later with Long George and Bessie’s Andrew, all three of them wearing their helmets and jacks. Long George’s pink-rimmed eyes were looking amused and Bessie’s Andrew was swallowing nervously and biting his fingernails, whereas Carey was humming something complicated and irritating about springtime and birds going hey dingalingaling.
‘Barnabus,’ he said as he passed by. ‘Don’t try and wander off; I want your help as well.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Barnabus resignedly, making sure he had his dagger and the throwing knife behind his neck. The one he usually kept up his left sleeve was currently in pledge with Lisa at the bawdy-house. Then he climbed up one side of a box partition and sat on top of it with his legs dangling.
Lowther arrived, followed by his troop of men, including Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon, Billy Little and Mick the Crow Salkeld.
All the men bunched up in a disorderly rabble and stood picking their teeth while Lowther made a short speech explaining that Sir Robert Carey would take them out in search of some of King James’s horses and they were to render to him all the assistance they would to himself, etcetera and so on. Touching, Barnabus called it. Then Lowther departed, quite pleased with himself, while Carey looked them over. Considering the state of them, Barnabus wondered what he would say, but all he did was to ask, ‘Where are your bows, gentlemen?’
They looked at each other. Sergeant Nixon spoke up.
‘We havenae got none.’
‘Ah,’ said Carey. ‘Well, I want you to get some. I assume you can use them? Good. Sergeant Nixon, take your men down to the armourer’s in Scotch street and buy them all bows and a dozen arrows each.’
He tossed Sergeant Nixon three pounds to pay for them and nodded at him to be off.
‘If I’m not here when you get back, wait for me. You can drink the change, by the way, gentlemen, but not tonight. Fair enough?’
This seemed to thaw even Ill-Willit Daniel’s heart. He touched his hand to his helmet as he led his troop back out of the stables. Carey watched them pass and then said. ‘Mick the Crow.’
‘Ay, sir,’ answered the one with greasy black hair hanging out under his steel cap, a sallow skin and a lamentable jack.
‘I’ve got another errand for you, Mick; wait here a moment.’
‘Ay, sir.’
They waited, while Barnabus learned from Carey’s humming that springtime was also the only pretty ring time. The excited chatter of Lowther’s troop faded in the direction of the gate and out of earshot.
‘Well, Mick,’ Carey said in a friendly fashion, and nodded meaningfully at Long George and Bessie’s Andrew. Long George had moved behind Mick the Crow, examining a hobby’s forehoof. Now he whisked about and put his long arm round Mick the Crow’s neck. Bessie’s Andrew was slower but managed to catch Mick’s right arm before it reached his sword and twist it behind his back. Mick kicked wildly at Carey, so Barnabus leaned down from his perch and put his dagger point under Mick’s nose. Mick squinted at it and took breath to yell.
‘’Course you could get along wivout a nose, mate,’ said Barnabus conversationally. ‘But it wouldn’t arf’ urt your chances wiv women.’
‘Eh?’ gasped Mick the Crow. ‘What the hell are ye doin’? Lemme go…’
Carey leaned forward and pulled Mick’s sword out of its sheath, looked at it distastefully and dropped it in the straw. The dagger went the same way. Carey handed Bessie’s Andrew some halter rope and he and Long George tied Mick’s hands behind him.
‘What the…what’s goin’ on…’
‘Shut up,’ said Barnabus. ‘Think of your nose, mate.’
‘But I…Owch!’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
Carey pointed at Mick the Crow’s chest. ‘You’re under arrest, Mick the Crow Salkeld,’ he said. ‘For March treason.’
‘What? Wha’ are ye talkin’ about…?’
‘Question is, which March is the treason in?’
‘You’ll swing for his one,’ said Long George regretfully. Mick the Crow was beginning to look worried. He licked some blood off his moustache. March treason was the catch-all charge: if you couldn’t think what else to hang a man for, you hanged him for ‘bringing in of raiders’—helping raiders to cross the Border.
‘Ah�
��ve done nothin’…’
‘Shut up,’ said Carey. ‘All I want to know from you is where the Grahams are setting their ambush. They’ll have to lift her before she reaches Tynedale, because there are too many surnames there at feud with the Grahams to risk it. So where are they doing it?’
Mick’s eyes bulged. He croaked a couple of times.
‘My guess is by the Wall somewhere, because they can hide behind it, but I want to know the exact place.’
Mick the Crow was a good rider and a bonny fighter, but he hadn’t the brains for a traitor, Barnabus decided. His brow knitted and his lips moved as he tried to catch up.
‘Look,’ Barnabus whispered to Mick from his perch on top of the partition. ‘I know you’re wondering how he knows so much, but you’d be much better off wondering how you’re going to stop him making you look forward to your hanging. Right? I mean, he learned a lot from Walsingham’s boys, you know.’
‘That’s enough, Barnabus.’ Carey’s voice was curt.
‘Yessir,’ cringed Barnabus, enjoying himself greatly.
‘Also, Mick, I want to know who they’re planning to hit on their way back to make the trip worthwhile.’
‘But I dinna ken that, sir. How could I? All I did was, I took the message, that’s all.’
‘What message?’
Carey had pulled his dagger from the sheath hanging from his belt at the small of his back. It was a fashionable London duelling poignard, nine inches long, with a pretty jewelled hilt and an eye-wateringly sharp point, and he was using it to clean his nails. Mick the Crow watched him and licked his lips.
‘Ahh…he said Wattie could fetch himself a good ransom if he would foray out to the Roman Wall and catch…er…’
‘Catch whom?’
‘Er…Lady Widdrington, sir.’
Carey trimmed his thumbnail carefully and then fixed Mick the Crow with a blue considering stare. He tossed the poignard up in the air while Barnabus winced a little. As far as he was concerned, showing off with blades like that was a good way to get religious-looking holes in your palms.
‘Who sent you?’
Mick licked his lips again. ‘Er…who, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Carey with dangerous patience. ‘Who sent you?’
Mick’s face twisted in panic. ‘I canna say, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ah…’ Inspiration struck him. ‘I didna ken who he was, sir. It were dark.’
‘You took a message into the Debateable Land, for a man you don’t know?’
‘Ay, sir. He give me a shilling for it.’
There was an awful pause while Carey considered this. Mick was shaking like a mouse in a cat’s mouth.
‘Give me the message,’ Carey said at last.
Mick shook harder. ‘It was writing and Wattie burnt it.’
‘What was in it?’
‘I dinna ken, sir. I canna read.’
Carey was tossing the dagger again. ‘You carried a letter to Netherby for a man you don’t know.’
‘Ay, sir.’ Mick the Crow was sweating.
Carey squinted at him in the light from the open top door and the poignard flashed and slapped hilt-first back in his hand. ‘If it makes you feel happier, I’ll regard any obscenity dealing with my Lady Widdrington as being of other authorship.’
Mick’s eyes bulged again with bewilderment.
‘He’s saying, he won’t kill you for being rude about the lady; he’ll kill the man what sent you,’ translated Barnabus helpfully.
‘But I canna tell ye what was in it, I dinna…’ There was a rising note of panic in Mick’s voice.
‘You knew they were planning to take Lady Widdrington,’ snapped Carey.
‘Ay, sir, he let it slip an’…an’ they could call in on Archibald Bell by the way, sir, for he hasnae paid his blackrent. That’s all. As God’s my witness.’
Carey stared coldly at the shaking sweating creature before him, and his mouth made a small twitch of distaste.
‘You’re very frightened of this man, aren’t you, Mick? The one you don’t know.’
‘Ay, sir,’ said Mick hoarsely, licking blood off his lip again. ‘I’m a married man, see ye, and I’ve three small weans.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Carey remotely, ‘that entirely too many of you are married men. Will you tell the Lord Warden what you’ve just told me?’
Mick closed his eyes and moaned softly. ‘They’re ainly little, sir,’ he said pleadingly.
Carey sighed and put his poignard back in its sheath.
‘Would it help if I put you in gaol for refusing to tell me the man’s name?’
Mick opened his eyes again.
‘Oh, ay,’ he said pathetically. ‘It would so. Only not the Lickingstone cell, please, sir. It’s sae dark in there.’
‘Come along,’ said Carey sadly. ‘We’ll do it before I see the Warden.
***
The really damnable nuisance of it, Carey thought, as he rode out of Carlisle with Sergeant Nixon and the others (except for Mick the Crow) in a bunch behind him, was that this wasn’t even the raiding season. July was one of the few times of year when you could be fairly secure from raiding because the nights were too short and too light and any sensible man with a square foot of meadow was out getting his hay in. There was never enough hay for the number of horses on the borders, although the hobbies could get by on about half of what Thunder needed to survive. The Borderers sent cattle skins and salt beef and cheeses south and north to pay for the horsefeed they needed, but it was expensive bringing it in, so whatever you could grow was pure profit. Despite what he had said, even reivers made hay because while cows, sheep and horses had legs and could run, haystacks did not. All this activity in high summer was most irregular.
The result of the unseasonable nature of Wattie Graham’s raid was that Carey had practically no men to meet it with and not enough horses. Carlisle was almost a ghost town. Carleton’s troop of men were with Carleton and his relatives in Thirlwall; they certainly weren’t in Carlisle. Carey’s men were scattered to the four winds, on condition they turned up at the Keep by tomorrow night when he was officially due to take a patrol out. Lowther’s men…well, they were at least with him and might possibly fight for him, but he had a private bet with himself that Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel had been given strict instructions to put a lance through his spine if he ever turned his back on the man for long enough.
After deep consideration and with some worry, he had sent Young Hutchin Graham on a fast pony out ahead of him on the road with a letter for Captain Carleton in Thirlwall, telling him on no account to let Lady Widdrington out of the gates the next morning. He thought it very unlikely the boy would get through in time to stop her, assuming—which was highly unlikely—Hutchin’s Uncle Wattie hadn’t put fore riders in place around the castle to guard against such things. At least if the Grahams caught Young Hutchin, they wouldn’t kill him as they might Long George and certainly would Bessie’s Andrew Storey, with whose surname they had a feud. Young Hutchin could say convincingly that he had no idea what was in the letter he was carrying since he couldn’t read and would probably end up at Wattie’s side during the raid. That might even give Carey a card to play if everything went horribly wrong. He would have liked to send Long George off with a letter for the Middle March Warden, Sir John Forster, since the raid was actually due to happen on his ground, but he didn’t dare. Firstly, Long George was more than likely to end with his throat slit, and secondly, Carey didn’t like the thought of being alone on the road with Sergeant Nixon and his thugs and no one to guard his back but Bessie’s Andrew.
The situation was actually worse for him than it would have been for Lowther or Carleton because he didn’t know the ground well enough. He was beginning to get a rough shape of it in his mind from his hunting expeditions of the previous week, but nothing like the detailed knowledge of someone born there. He knew the land round Berwick far better from living there as a boy; in Carlisle he was a
foreigner. As a result he didn’t know what route Wattie Graham would take from Netherby, nor where he would lie up for the night, nor where on the old road he might be planning to take Lady Widdrington.
Take Lady Widdrington. Damn it, how dare they! How dare Graham try to salve his wounded pride with a raid of fifty riders against one woman and five men? God damn them all for bloody cowards, if he could catch them red-handed he’d string them up on the nearest trees, by God he would, and to hell with giving them a fair trial…
He pulled his mind back from that train of thought, simply because he knew that if he followed it he would end up too enraged to think straight.
Sergeant Nixon was riding beside him with an ingratiating expression on his face. Carey looked sideways at him; he was a strongly built ugly man with bulging cheeks like a water-rat’s and a long pointed nose, and the blackest beard on a pale face Carey had ever seen. He was not a man you would willingly buy a horse from, nor anything else, and the surly competence in the way he rode and carried his lance implied that you would be wise not to fight him. Which made him probably near enough to Lowther’s ideal of a henchman.
‘Did you want to ask something, Sergeant?’
‘Ay, sir.’ Unlike Sergeant Dodd’s miserable drone, Sergeant Nixon’s voice was the most attractive part of him. ‘I was wonderin’ how ye got word of the twenty horses ye say are at Brampton.’
‘Ah,’ said Carey opaquely. ‘Now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it, Sergeant?’ He had in fact deduced it from the fact that nobody at Brampton had rendered a complaint about horses reived from them. He wasn’t sure there were twenty there, but it was as many as he thought their pasturage could stand.
‘Would we be getting any of your fee, sir?’
‘You might.’
‘Only we heard ye’d paid Dodd and his men their backwages…’
And you thought I might be a soft touch, Carey thought but didn’t say. ‘Perhaps you had better talk to Sir Richard Lowther about that.’
Sergeant Nixon sniffed. ‘Ay, sir.’
Sunset was coming, a slow beacon setting light to half the sky and turning the clouds to purple. There were still people working in the fields, which astonished Carey. He asked the Sergeant about it.
2 A Season of Knives Page 8
