They left, making their bows and complimenting Philadelphia until she was alone in spirit, even if not in body. Thomas was adrift on seas of music, his spidery restless fingers become wizardly and loving as they coaxed long rambling digressions and ruminations ad libitum from the virginals. Philly kissed the top of his head and bade him good night and knew perfectly well as she went to her chamber and woke Alyson her tiring woman to unlace her stays, that he had forgotten altogether anything except the music. She slept with the waves of it carrying her into dreams as if she were a boat.
Thursday, 22nd June, before dawn
Coming as he did from the only respectable branch of Grahams, Bangtail had not been in jail before, not even as a pledge for somebody else’s good behaviour. The noise of singing from upstairs came down to him somehow fiendishly magnified by a quirk of the stone, the bench was hard as a rock because it was rock and the thin straw palliasse he had been given because he was one of the Guard also contained some voracious lice and fleas. Scratching, deafened and uncomfortable, he felt the blackness of the cell as a demon on his chest and woke half a dozen times out of a dream of being pressed to death for not pleading at his trial. It was no comfort to him that if Carey did press charges of March treason against him—and if he was found guilty, which might be a foregone conclusion with this new Deputy—he would hang for it. In which case he would struggle for breath on the end of a rope rather than feel his ribs and pelvis crushed under the weight of twenty flagstones…
Sitting on the bench, rubbing his sandy eyes, and trying to convince himself that the walls were not really coming towards him, Bangtail ventured to call out to his half-brother Ekie, in whom the Graham blood had run true and who was certain sure to hang, if only for the various bills against him that had been fouled in his absence.
“Ekie?” he asked, “Ekie, are ye there?”
“God Almighty,” growled Ekie, “the bastard Courtier’s shut his goddamned screeching at last and now you wake me up. What is it, Bangtail?”
“What should I say, Ekie?”
“Eh?”
“Shut up,” yelled somebody else, “some of us want to sleep.”
“I mean when the Deputy comes to question me, should I tell him about Netherby and the Earl?”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t care. Tell the git what you want, it willna make no odds.”
“I think he thinks the horses are for a foray into England.”
There was a moment’s silence and then somebody snorted with laughter, Young Jock’s voice by the depth of it.
“Does he now? Well, let the man think what he likes.”
The others laughed.
“He’ll want to know,” persisted Bangtail.
Ekie sighed. “Bangtail,” he said, “a’ your brains are in yer balls. D’ye think we know where the Earl of Bothwell’s planning to raid? D’ye think he’d tell us when he knows fine half of the men he’s got would sell him out sooner than fart? All anybody kens is it’s a long way to ride and there’s fighting and treasure at the end.”
“Oh,” said Bangtail sadly.
“Tell him ye don’t know where we’re going and leave it at that and let him plump up the watches and guard all the fords and passes and tire himself out while we do the Earl of Bothwell’s business, whatever it is.”
Young Jock Graham didn’t know Carey very well, of that Bangtail was sure, but he didn’t dare ask any more and lay down on the pallet again. After a lot of scratching he slept.
He woke blearily when the door clattered and crashed open and Carey came in, followed by Dodd with a lantern. Jesus, wasn’t sunrise early enough for them, it was still black as pitch outside. Bangtail was too tired and miserable to protest when Dodd picked him up by the scruff of his jerkin’s neck and propelled him through the door so hard he banged his head painfully on the opposite door. He kept his feet and heard the protests from the other prisoners.
“Go back to sleep,” said Carey, “I only want to talk to my friend Bangtail here.”
There was a great deal of unsympathetic laughter.
“Tell him nothing, Bangtail,” said Ekie.
“You got your pinniwinks on you, Courtier, you’ll need them for Bangtail,” said Young Jock.
“Ay,” said Ekie, “but I know where I’d put them, I’d crack his nuts for him, that’s what I’d do…”
“Shut up,” yelled Bangtail, beginning to shake as Dodd clapped his wrists in manacles and Carey motioned him out the thrice barred door behind the Sergeant.
They wound up in Carey’s own office chamber where his servant, looking as heavy-eyed as Bangtail felt, was just on his way to fetch some morning bread and ale from the buttery. Carey sat at his desk and looked sadly at Bangtail.
“What the devil are pinniwinks?” he asked.
Bangtail’s mouth was too dry to answer so Dodd said grimly, “Thumbscrews.”
It was impossible to say what Carey thought of thumbscrews by looking at his face. Bangtail supposed it was too much to hope that the Courtier was one of those eccentric folk who disapproved of torture.
“Are there any in the castle?” asked Carey casually.
Dodd sucked his teeth. “I dinna ken,” he said, “there might be. There’s the Boot somewhere in the armoury.”
Please God, thought Bangtail incoherently, don’t let them give me the Boot, oh please God…
“Good,” said Carey. “In fact I think I tripped on the frame when I was in there, though the wedges and the mallet were missing.”
“We can have the carpenter find ye some,” said Dodd helpfully. “Do ye want me to go and ask him, sir?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God, thought Bangtail, wondering if they could see his legs shaking.
“No,” said Carey slowly, “no need to waken the man just yet. There’s plenty of time, after all.”
“Ay sir.”
“And it’s possible we may not need them?” At last he looked at Bangtail, his eyebrows making a question.
“N–no sir,” Bangtail managed to say.
“What can you tell me, Bangtail.”
I’m a Graham, he thought desperately, we’re tough and stubborn folk…Oh God, oh God, oh God…
“Wh–what do ye want to know, sir?”
“Tell me what you did after you saw the horse Janet Dodd bought.”
“W–well, sir, I knew it was Caspar right away, though somebody had put a few extra white patches on him so he looked piebald, but ye could niver mistake the face of the animal, it were so noble and his legs and his…Anyway, I was in a state, so I did the first thing I thought of which was to ride to Netherby tower to tell…er…to tell Ekie.”
“Why not go directly to Jock?”
“I wasn’t sure I should do it, sir, I knew what might happen, I wanted to talk to Ekie first, but Ekie said I should tell him since Sweetmilk was riding Caspar when he disappeared. He was allus the favourite, you know, sir, best dressed, best mounted.”
“Was Young Jock or any of the others jealous of him?”
“Well they might have been, sir, but Sweetmilk is…was so sweet-natured, ye couldna help liking him even if he did talk too much. So I talked to Jock of the Peartree and he thanked me and said he’d remember me if we ever met in a fight and I went back to Carlisle but the gate was shut. I was sleeping outside in a bush, but then the bell rang and ye all went riding out on the hot trod so I slipped in behind ye and went to Madam Hetherington’s.”
Bangtail tried to spread his hands to show he’d finished but the manacles stopped him.
Carey had steepled his long white fingers and rested his chin gently on them. There was silence for a while, during which Barnabus Cooke came yawning back with a platter of bread and ale. Bangtail looked at it longingly, not having eaten since the previous morning, but Carey sank his teeth into a hunk of fresh white bread, spread with butter and a sliced sausage, and it didn’t seem to occur to him to offer any to Bangtail. Dodd drank some of the mild ale and ate a sausage on its own, rather ostentatiously
, Bangtail thought, who was drooling at the smell of fresh-baked bread.
“Well?” said Carey, swallowing, drinking and dabbing his moustache and beard with a napkin like the pansified southerner he was.
“Well, sir?”
“Shall I fetch the Boot?” asked Dodd.
Carey sighed. “I hate to cripple a strong well-made pair of legs like his, but…”
“Wh–what else do you want, sir, please, I…”
“What’s going on at Netherby?”
“S–sir?”
“Who’s there, why do they want horses?”
Bangtail gulped and tried to think. Carey watched him patiently, his usually humorous face unreadable.
Dodd growled. “You’re with us, or agin us, Bangtail.”
What would Ekie do to him? Was it even a secret who was at Netherby? Anyway, what could the bastard Courtier do about it?
“Th–the Earl of Bothwell.”
There was a flicker of something on Carey’s face. Dodd made an mmphmm noise in his throat.
“Who else?” demanded Carey.
“Och, his own followers of course, like Jock Hepburn and Geordie Irwin of Bonshaw, and there’s Johnstone and Old Wat of Harden and a fair few broken men from Liddesdale and the Debateable Land like Skinabake Armstrong and his lot.”
“And what does he want all these men and horses for?” enquired Carey softly from behind his fingers.
Bangtail’s face twisted in despair, “I dinna ken, Deputy, I wish to God I did and that’s the truth, but nobody knows except the Earl himself and his man Hepburn and Old Wat, and not me that’s certain and I’d tell ye if I knew it, I swear to God I would, but I dinna and if ye put me in the Boot I’ll know no more…Oh God.”
He put his face in his hands and tried not to cry. “Ekie said none of them know, but he could be lying…”
“If you’re lying to me, Bangtail…” said Carey menacingly.
“Och no, sir, I’m not lying, I got no reason to, I’m not in the rode, see ye, and it’s no gain to me whatever they do, though I heard tell that Captain Musgrave’s helping out with a few remounts for Young Jock and Long Nebbed Robert, on a share, ye know, but that’s all I know and I tellt ye the truth, as God’s my judge…”
“All right,” said Carey, “no need to take the Lord’s name in vain any more.”
“It’s not in vain, sir,” said Bangtail, shocked, “I dinna swear sir, not falsely, my word’s as good as any other man’s in the March.”
“I thought there was a complete dispensation for that on swearing to the Warden or his men.”
Bangtail blinked. “Eh?”
“He means,” translated Dodd, “that he knows fine ye’ll swear your oath till you’re blue in the face to the Warden but it doesna count in men’s minds if ye go and break it the next day. Not the way it would if ye swore to Jock of the Peartree or some other man that was your equal.”
“Well, it’s not false, I swear by God and the Holy Bible, I told you all I know and that’s that,” said Bangtail sullenly. “If ye dinna believe me, then ye can fetch in the Boot and go to hell.”
Surprisingly Carey smiled. “Well said, Bangtail.” He nodded to Dodd, who grabbed Bangtail’s arm and led him to the door.
“Will ye let me go?” he asked hopefully.
“Not yet, Bangtail,” said Carey, the bastard Courtier, while his bastard servant finished what was left of his bread and sausage and the ale, God damn him. “When I’ve checked your story. Not that I don’t believe you, but you could be mistaken, and you don’t know the most important thing. Perhaps you could find out for me?”
“In jail?”
“Where else? I can hardly lodge Young Jock and Ekie in the town, they’d be out of the place in an hour.”
“I doubt they know, sir,” said Bangtail, “And they willna tell me if they see me come back…er…”
“Untouched, as it were,” said Carey. “We can arrange that.”
“Well no, sir, I didna mean…”
“No hard feelings, Bangtail,” said Sergeant Dodd as he pushed Bangtail down the stairs and punched him on the face, “I wouldna want you under suspicion from Ekie.”
Thursday, 22nd June, 10 a.m.
Thomas the Merchant had been seriously considering a quiet trip to his newly bought manor in Cumberland, but he knew a man in a hurry when he saw one and so he let the finely ruffed green-suited gentleman and his servant come sweeping into his study and called his own servant to fetch wine.
“How may I serve you, sir?” he asked.
The gentleman smiled. “Do you know me, Mr Hetherington?”
“I have not had the pleasure…”
“I am the new Deputy Warden.”
“Ah,” said Thomas the Merchant, smiling in perfect understanding, “I see.”
“I am in search of some help.”
“Of course,” murmured Thomas the Merchant, pulling his ledger from the shelf, the one that gave details of his interests in the Carlisle garrisons. “I am delighted to see you, sir. Who was it recommended you to see me? Captain Carleton or Sir Richard?”
Carey opened his mouth to answer and then shut it again, wondering if Thomas the Merchant was carrying on the same conversation he was. Barnabus solicitously pulled up a gracefully carved chair that was standing by the wall and he sat down in it.
The two of them looked at each other for a moment. “Well,” said Thomas the Merchant, dusting his fingers, “As you know, I have always been very generous when it comes to the gentlemen who protect us from the Scots.”
Carey’s eyebrows went up but he said nothing, which made Thomas the Merchant a little uneasy. Thomas’s servant entered with the wine, served it out and made his bows. Carey drank cautiously, then drank again looking pleased and surprised.
Let’s get on with it, thought Thomas, surprised that the conversation was taking so long. “Have you a sum in mind, sir?”
“For what?” asked the Courtier. Behind him his servant was looking nervous.
“For your…er…pension, of course,” said Thomas, astonished at such obtuseness, “I must warn you that business has been very bad this year and I cannot afford to pay you as much as I paid Lowther while the old lord was sick. Shall we say three pounds a week, English?”
“For me?” asked Carey slowly.
Thomas sighed. “And of course, for your servant, I can offer one pound a week—really sir, I can afford no more.” Thomas was hoping wildly that Lowther hadn’t told him the truth about what he was really getting from Thomas the Merchant.
He noticed that Carey’s fingers had gone bone white on the metal of the goblet. Well, happiness took people differently, perhaps Thomas had made the mistake of offering too much. Alas, too late now. Carey’s servant had backed into a corner next to the door and was looking terrified. Good, thought Thomas, that’s the way to deal with serving men, keep them in fear of you and then they have no time to be plotting rebellion or…
“Have I understood you correctly, Mr Hetherington?” asked Carey in a soft, almost breathless voice. “Are you offering me a free gift of 156 pounds per annum?”
Thomas the Merchant beamed. This one would last about three minutes; what possessed the Queen to send someone so naïve into the cockpit of her kingdom?
“Well, nothing in this life is free, sir, except the Grace of God,” he said. “I naturally hope to gain your…er…goodwill, perhaps even your friendship.”
“And on the right occasions a little blindness, perhaps even the occasional tip-off.”
Did he have to spell it out so baldly? “Yes,” said Thomas, embarrassed at such crassness, “of course.”
Carey put the goblet down on the little chest nearby so carefully you would think it made of Venetian glass, “And you have the same arrangement with Lowther, Carleton? Any others in the castle?”
“Naturally, although of course the matter is in confidence.”
Carey longed to bring his fist down on Thomas’s desk hard enough to make the
windows rattle and the ledger hop in the air like a scared goat. He didn’t do it, though he knew Barnabus was tensed ready for him to roar. The insult of it! How dare the man? How dare he even think of buying the Queen’s cousin for less than ten pounds a week? And how dare he do it with such arrogant presumption, as if he were discussing no more than a business partnership.
Carey held onto his wrath because he had learned to his cost how it put men against him. In any case people had offered to buy his services often enough before, after being filtered expensively by Barnabus: at Court his friendship with the Queen, although it lacked the intensity of men like the Earl of Essex or even Sir Walter Raleigh, was still a valuable commodity. The Queen herself, when he was tactfully putting in a good word for some striving office seeker, would caustically ask him how much his words were priced at now and to be sure to make a profit. It never made any real difference so far as he could see, the Queen listened gravely to his request and would then decide for herself. Still people were occasionally willing to pay for the influence they sought so desperately.…And yet in over ten years of attendance at Court, he had never been approached so crassly or arrogantly by anyone.
“Mr Hetherington,” he began, and then changed his mind. He was up off his chair and had crossed the room to Thomas the Merchant’s desk and swept the ledger out from under his long thin nose before the Merchant could do no more than take in a gasp of surprise. Carey flipped quickly through the pages, squinting at the crabbed Secretary hand, lighted on a few names and laughed. “I’d be in noble company, I see. I wonder, does her Majesty know you have the Wardens of the West and Middle Marches in your pay?”
“Er…?” began Thomas the Merchant.
It was tempting to throw the ledger in the greasy skinny man’s face and march out, but Carey saw a better way of continuing to call his own tune. He shut the ledger and tapped it.
“I want information, Mr Hetherington, much more than I want money. And it’s not my way to enter into this kind of…business arrangement.” His servant made a desperate little whimper. “And so, I’ll thank you to tell me all you know about the horse that Janet Dodd bought, the one that came from Jock of the Peartree’s stable. To begin with.”
1 A Famine of Horses Page 14
