‘Ye’ll not be sleepin’ in yer boots again,’ nagged Dodd’s voice from the door. He was standing there, stinking only slightly now, holding a trencher of bread and cheese and a jug of beer and looking embarrassed.
‘Er…no, Sergeant,’ said Carey, starting to undo his laces slowly.
‘Ay,’ said Dodd dubiously. ‘Well, I brung ye some vittles, seeing ye dinna have the sense of a child that way.’
‘Well, I…’
‘Nobbut a fool sleeps in his boots if he doesnae have to,’ continued Dodd in an aggressively sulky tone. ‘And even a fool will eat occasionally.’
He put the food on the largest chest, came over and helped Carey take off his armour, shook it and hung it on the jackstand to drip. The feeling of lightness and freedom that came with the sudden removal from his body of about fifty pounds’ weight of iron plates and leather padding, almost made Carey’s head spin. With the dour expression that said he was a free man doing favours, Dodd helped Carey pull off his riding boots, always a two-man job if they fitted properly. Then he lit a couple of tapers off the watch-light, went to the bed and started to draw the still shut curtains aside.
‘Och,’ he said in a strangled tone of voice.
Carey was pulling off his smelly dank shirt streaked with brown from his wet jack. He went to look at what Dodd had found. Could it be worse than the corpse of Sweetmilk Graham which had welcomed him to Carlisle a couple of weeks ago?
It could. The yellow lymer bitch who had been his bedfellow earlier lifted her head and growled softly in her throat. She had pupped on the bed; there were three yellow naked ratlings squirming in the curve of her belly.
Carey looked at her and blinked. ‘Oh God,’ he sighed.
‘Shall I have her off there?’ asked Dodd, obviously working hard not to laugh.
Carey had to smile. It was funny, in a perverse sort of way.
‘No. Leave her.’
He turned to put on his fresh shirt and then paused, looked again, having difficulty focusing his eyes. The bitch was whining softly, nosing at her tail end. Her flanks heaved, but nothing happened.
‘There’s something wrong here,’ he said.
Dodd frowned and looked closer. ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘She’s havin’ difficulty.’
He put out his hand to touch her and the bitch snapped at him warningly. Carey came close and tried as well, but she only sniffed at him and whined heartrendingly.
‘There, there,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all right, sweeting.’
Dodd brought a lit taper and put it on the watch-light shelf in the bedhead.
‘Bring me another taper, an unlit one,’ Carey said, kneeling down and peering at the bitch’s rear end. That was another counterpane ruined, he thought absently—would Philadelphia have a replacement?
He could see something in her birth passage, but another heaving effort from the bitch moved it no further out. Dodd gave him the unlit taper and had a cautious look.
‘It’s stuck,’ he said.
Carey nodded. He had seen what you did when that happened because he had spent a great deal of his boyhood in Berwick earning beatings for running away from his tutor to play with his father’s hunting dogs in the kennels.
‘Shell I fetch the kennelman?’ Dodd asked.
Carey was using the tallow from the taper to grease his fingers. He yawned and shook his head to try and wake himself up a bit more.
‘I’ll have a try. She looks as if she’s been straining for hours,’ he said. ‘Would you hold her head in case she snaps at me?’
Dodd did as he was asked. Carey lifted her tail and gently put his fingers in. The pup had a big head which was the reason for the trouble. Very carefully, he slid his fingers round the head, waited for the next straining heave from the bitch, and pulled. For a moment his fingers were being crushed and then the pup’s nose came free and straight, and the little body shot out onto the bed. The bitch panted and sighed and licked Dodd’s hand, then turned and started licking the puppy. It looked dead. Carey felt in its mouth, cleared out the bits of caul and the pup hiccupped and started to breathe. Its mother carried on licking it firmly while Carey had another feel in her birth passage.
‘I think that was the last one,’ he said, standing up and wiping his hands on his mucky shirt which he dropped in the rushes. ‘Bring the taper out and shut the curtains for her; she can stay there and I’ll have the truckle bed.’
Dodd had shut the curtains; now he went and brought the food to Carey.
‘Eat,’ he said.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Ay, well, I canna make ye,’ said Dodd, putting the trencher on the chest again. ‘Never mind. I’ll see ye in the morning, sir, and we can talk to Andy Nixon. Good night.’
Dodd walked to the door looking mightily offended.
‘Er…Dodd,’ said Carey, ashamed of himself. ‘Thank you.’
‘Iphm.’ Dodd nodded and clattered down the stairs.
Wondering what on earth had given Dodd the idea he needed cosseting like a baby, Carey put his clean shirt on, absent-mindedly drank some of the beer and munched down most of the bread and cheese. Barnabus’s truckle bed was too short for him by several inches, and smelled pungently of Barnabus, but Carey finished undressing and climbed in anyway. Seconds later he was fast asleep.
Wednesday 5th July 1592, dawn
When the light in his chamber began to change with dawn, Carey’s eyes opened and he looked straight up at the ceiling beams, instead of the tester of a four-post bed. His legs were sticking unrestfully over the end of a musty straw mattress. For a moment he was confused, wondering if he was at Court or on progress, and then he remembered the dreamlike incident of the puppies. Although he could hear the shouts of the stable boys as they began work, the bedchamber was quiet. How peculiar to be the only person sleeping in it. He got up, scratching at a lot of new flea bites, yawned jaw-crackingly, finished the beer from last night and padded across the rushes in his bare feet to have a look between the bedcurtains at the bitch. She was fast asleep with her tumble of four puppies, the biggest one lying on his back with his paws in the air. As Carey watched he whined and twitched.
‘You’re mine,’ Carey told him. ‘As rent.’
‘Eh, sir?’ came a boy’s voice from the door. It was Ian Ogle, the steward’s eldest son, standing with a tray and looking alarmed.
‘It’s all right,’ Carey said to the boy. ‘Where’s Simon Barnet?’
‘He’s coming, sir, only I was up before and he asked me.’
‘Well, go and get him; I want him to help me dress.’
‘Ay sir.’
Simon, when he arrived, had to be told what to do, which was irritating since he had watched his uncle attend Carey so many times before. It appeared he had paid no attention, and he fumbled maddeningly with the points at the back of Carey’s green velvet doublet until Carey pushed him away with a growl and did them up himself. Neither the doublet nor the wide padded green brocade Venetians were quite fashionable, being a year and a half old, but as they hadn’t been paid for yet, Carey felt obliged to wear them. When they were finished, Carey gave him a long list of things to do which included taking his shirt to the laundry and his leather fighting breeches to be brushed, finding sponges and cloths to dry and clean his jack and polish his helmet after he’d taken it to the armoury for a new chinstrap, and further bringing the kennelman in to inspect the bitch and her puppies and also making sure there was food and water for her.
Carey listened patiently while Simon falteringly repeated his list. ‘Simon,’ he said gently. ‘You weren’t paying attention. What would you do if I asked you to take a message for me? You’d forget it. You missed out cleaning my jack and morion, which is one of your jobs anyway.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Simon, still looking longingly at the rising sunlight outside.
‘Go through it again.’
Screwing up his face with the effort, Simon managed to repeat it correctly.
‘That’s b
etter. Off you go then.’
Carey went into the second room he used as his office and sat down. He had to write the report for Scrope about his actions against the Graham raid the day before. And that was before he even began to deal with the sudden muster asked for by King James of Scotland. The depressing prospect daunted him far more than a mere half-hundred armed Grahams. Considering the amount of paperwork generated by a simple muster, Carey’s heart failed him at the thought of how much might be involved in a full Day of Truce. There was food and beer to be organised, although Philly and Ogle, Scrope’s steward, did most of that, lodgings urgently needed for the more prominent and remote gentlemen, the Carlisle racecourse made ready for the purpose and a few races arranged as entertainment, horsefeed and troughs to be provided. Someone also had to sort out the keeping of order, which meant careful attention paid to the sequence in which surnames were mustered to make sure no two families at feud were too close to each other. He hoped there was no question of keeping the men there overnight; it beggared belief what could happen in the dark between all those long-experienced and accomplished reivers.
He picked up his pen, wondered self-pityingly how much longer Richard Bell would take to find him a suitable clerk to be his secretary, and began writing his report.
He was halfway into his second paragraph when someone lumbered into the bed chamber and sneezed fruitily. He looked up in irritation. Long George was peering behind Carey’s bed curtains at the lymer bitch.
‘What the devil do you want?’ Carey snapped.
Long George leapt back guiltily and touched his forelock, wiped his streaming nose on his sleeve, then took his blue statute cap off his round head and plumped it back and forth in his hands.
‘Well?’ growled Carey who hated being interrupted when he had settled down to paperwork—simply because he longed for an excuse to stop.
‘Er…see, sir,’ said Long George. ‘Only I heard ye arrested Andy Nixon yesterday for killing of Jemmy Atkinson.’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought I’d best tell ye what we were at on Sunday night, see,’ explained Long George.
‘And what was that?’
‘Ah…well, we give Andy Nixon the hiding of his life that very night round about midnight.’ Long George sneezed again, apologetically.
‘We?’
‘Ay, sir. Me, my brother Billy Little, Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon and Mick the Crow Salkeld. Y’see, Jemmy Atkinson paid my brother and his mates to gi’ him a beating and warn him away from Kate Atkinson, an’ I spotted them and joined in.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In the alley by his lodgings, St. Alban’s vennel; ye ken, the wynd that’s a shortcut between Fisher street and Scotch street.’
‘Did he know who paid for the beating?’
Long George nodded and sniffed vigorously. ‘Ay, sir. Ill-Willit Daniel tellt him and he wis to stay away from Kate or he’d get worse.’
Carey put his pen down. ‘Well, that certainly is interesting, Long George. When did Jemmy Atkinson pay you off?’
‘Right after, sir, at the Red Bull.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Naebody but us. Lowther looked in for a couple of minutes, but he went off again.’
‘Lowther?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘What did he want?’
Long George shrugged and snortled again. ‘I dinna ken, sir.’
‘Did he quarrel with Atkinson?’
‘Nay, ’twas all smiles. He gave Mick the Crow a message.’
‘Hm.’
‘So ye see, sir, mightn’t that have made Andy Nixon want to take revenge on Atkinson?’
‘It might. Was that when he hurt his hand?’
‘Ay, I think I trod on it, sir, unintentionally.’
‘Of course.’
‘I thought I’d tell ye sir, in case there was a reward.’ Long George’s watery pink eyes peered at him hopefully.
Carey sighed. ‘Long George,’ he asked. ‘Do you realise you have just admitted to assault, battery and riot?’
Long George’s face with its inadequate frill of beard looked shifty. ‘Er…well, we were working for Mr Atkinson,’ he said.
‘It’s still against the law to beat people up.’
This was a novel idea to Long George. ‘Oh,’ he said, and thought. ‘I wouldna like to speak to it in a court of law, sir, if y’see what I…’
‘Never mind. Thank you for coming, Long George. It’s useful information.’
Long George nodded, glanced fascinated at the bitch and her puppies who were suckling enthusiastically, crammed his hat back over his ears and clattered down the stairs, sneezing as he went.
Carey stood and peered out of the slit window down into the yard. There was Long George greeting Bangtail and Archie-Give-It-Them who were waiting for him. And yes, as expected, Bangtail was clearly settling a bet with Archie.
Shaking his head, Carey returned to the duties which he really hated and dipped his pen again.
By the time he had finished the report Simon Barnet had come back with the kennelman and two bowls for the bitch’s food and water.
The kennelman’s face was bright red with emotion. ‘I wis looking for her all night,’ he said, his broad hand on the lymer dog’s head. ‘How did ye come by her, sir?’
‘She followed me up here and pupped while I was out on patrol. She can stay there for the moment until she’s ready to move down to the kennels again. Had a bit of trouble with the last one but we sorted it out.’
‘Ay,’ said the kennelman gently rubbing the bitch’s ears. ‘Ye’re a stupid woman, Buttercup, and no mistake.’ He nodded confidingly to Carey. ‘She allus pups in somewhere strange. Last time it were the bakery and the time afore that she were in the tackroom. And there’s a beautiful big pupping kennel all ready strawed for her, but she’s a liking for luxury, this old girl…’
They set out the bowls for her on the rushes and she drank long and deep before jumping onto the bed and flopping herself down by her squirming blind little pups again. They squeaked and latched on greedily.
‘I’ll tell my lord she’s turned up,’ the kennelman said. ‘He wis right worried about her. She’s a good bitch and her pups are fine hunters.’
‘Do you think he’d give me the big one?’ Carey asked.
‘Why not, sir? I’ll ask him.’
Carey picked up the report and decided he could do some more letters later. He also took up a purse fat with money from his winnings of the Sunday and decanted some coins into his belt-pouch. The rest he put back in his heavy locked chest.
‘I’ll leave her in your capable hands,’ he said to the kennelman. ‘You can draw the curtains when you’ve finished so she isn’t disturbed.’
Carey took Simon Barnet with him to see Andy Nixon in the dungeons, by which time Dodd had finally woken and appeared, scratching and yawning and foul-tempered for some reason. It passed Carey’s understanding how anyone could oversleep past dawn unless they were ill or injured. They all went under the Keep steps and through the ironbound door.
Carey lifted Simon Barnet up to look through the Judas hole in the dungeon door. The boy stared gravely for a while until his eyes had adjusted to the small light from the lantern in his hands and nodded.
‘Ay.’
‘Is that the man that wanted my glove?’ Carey asked, putting him down again.
‘Ay, it’s him, sir.’
‘When? What time of day did he come to you?’
‘Afternoon, sir, on Monday.’
‘You’re sure? I may want you to testify and swear on the Bible that it’s him. Can you do that?’
‘Ay. My word on it,’ said Simon with dignity.
They went to check on Barnabus in the lower of the two gatehouse cells, looking through the barred window.
‘At least Scrope had him moved,’ Carey muttered.
‘Is that you, sir?’ came Barnabus’s forlorn voice from inside. The effects of Lowther’s
persuasions the day before had flowered to a glorious purple riot across much of Barnabus’s ugly little ferret face. The rest of it was worryingly sickly. Carey frowned.
‘I don’t like the look of you, Barnabus. Are you all right?’
‘Don’t feel very well, to tell you the truth, sir.’
Carey turned to Simon Barnet. ‘Go and fetch my Lady Scrope and some food for your uncle,’ he said. When the boy had gone, he called on William Barker the Gaoler on the other side of the Gatehouse. Carpenters refitting the place for the Scropes passed by him on the stairs with their bags of tools. Barker took him across unwillingly and let him into Barnabus’s cell.
It smelled bad, and the floor was slimy although Barnabus had been careful to do his business as near to the drain as he could get. Carey frowned.
‘Who chained you?’ he demanded.
Barnabus looked dolefully at the chain from his ankles to the wall.
‘Sir Richard Lowther.’
‘I might have guessed. When did he do it?’
‘Yesterday, after they moved me from the ‘ole.’
Just after I had that argument with him, Carey thought, biting down hard on his anger; damn him. Barnabus was sitting on the wooden bench bolted to the wall which was the only other furniture of the cell, with his arms wrapped around his body.
‘I’m working on getting you out but you must tell me everything you can. For a start, can you think of any reason why Andy Nixon might hate you enough to try and get you hanged for a murder he did?’
‘I dunno, sir. Never met him.’
‘All right, what about Sunday night.’
‘Sunday night, sir?’
‘Yes. Where were you at midnight on Sunday when you should have been lighting me home?’
‘Oh well…er…’ Barnabus looked shifty.
‘How did you manage to get so stinking drunk you passed out by the gate until morning?’
2 A Season of Knives Page 17
