The Widow Ridley said she had two tales to tell but had only told one of them. It was confused but it was about Henry and how he had brought in two mysterious bad-mannered strangers, man and master, eaten and drunk, talked for a long while and then gone. Money had changed hands, from the strangers to Henry. Henry had spent the night in her commonroom, along with his great tall horse. There was more but Widow Ridley had been tired and nodding off and so Janet sent her to bed.
“I cam to tell ye, missus, because I thocht ye’d want tae know what yer husband was at and that they were apothecaries or wizards or both and because I’m short of grain maself and could do with some money and I know ye’re a fair woman.”
Janet considered. Widow Ridley had walked all day to come and tell her and she didn’t like the story at all. Who were the men and what were they doing and where were they going and did the money that changed hands have anything to do with the new helmet Dodd had bought a day later? He said he had found the extra money in his doublet pocket after London, which she knew was a lie because she had checked the doublet for money before she brushed it and hung it up filled with sprigs of rosemary and wormwood to clean it out.
She could give Widow Ridley a shilling and she would, but she didn’t know what to do. There was nobody to ask. The Courtier was in Edinburgh with her husband, she couldn’t ask Lord Scrope because he would patronise her and then forget about it, she couldn’t bother Sir Richard Lowther who would probably refuse even to talk to her, Lady Scrope was now with the Queen in London and Lady Widdrington with her odious husband. Janet knew that most of her gossips, like Ellen or Bridget or Rowan or Kate Nixon or even Mrs Hogg, would know no better than herself what to do, while the other women around were mostly young and daft, or old and set in their ways.
She felt very lonely. Surely Henry was doing something dangerously stupid, quite possibly he was betraying the Courtier, possibly the Grahams had bought him completely to kill Carey. Possibly it was something utterly different to do with the Border.
If Dodd had been bought to kill the Courtier, what should she do? Henry was her husband. If the Courtier was her husband’s enemy now, then he was her enemy as well, surely. Except she liked the Courtier and it wasn’t just that he always called her Mrs Dodd, rather than Goodwife, or always bowed to her curtsey, and had helped all those months ago with her haying and had looked uncommonly pleasant in his shirt and breeks on her haycart. Well, not entirely.
She paced up and down the fighting platform with her spindle and suddenly realised she had filled it completely with a good thin, tight thread and needed to go down the ladder to get a new one and another couple of baskets of lambs-tails too.
She sighed and stared to the north and east. She could say she had come to Edinburgh to buy grain with some of the London money, because the prices in Carlisle were outrageous, and she could go to Richie Graham of Brackenhill and buy well-forged Scotch shillings at eight to the pound sterling, not four, which would help a lot even if the prices in Edinburgh were daft as well, which she suspected they would be. And she could be with Henry over New Year and maybe he wouldn’t be as grim and silent as he had been and maybe she could find out what he was up to.
She sighed. It was a serious matter to go to Edinburgh because she had to take the Widow Ridley, which meant a cart, which meant at least four men and herself which wasn’t enough for the Middle March, the state it was in. But she felt she must do it: inside her was something that was set like flint and said, “Go to Edinburgh with the Widow Ridley.” She hoped it was an angel and not a demon, and then laughed at herself for her phantasy and stepped quickly down the ladder to fetch another spindle.
***
Carey, or rather Anricks, had bought a high-crowned marvel of a beaver hat which he was now wearing and, Anricks had to admit, looked good in. This morning he had tried on the shell at the tailor’s, asked detailed questions, suggested a different way of working the armholes to allow easier movement. The tailor promised the new doublet shell by the next day and Carey had narrowed the swatches down to ten, including two possible taffetas for the lining.
Dodd was nowhere to be found which meant Carey was very watchful, was wearing his swordbelt and poinard since he was not in the presence of the King. He and Anricks sauntered along, enjoying the rare watery sunshine although it was cold, and the crowds—not nearly as close-packed as London which was a proper city and Westminster as well, but still respectable. Carey was looking at the way the people were dressed and finding it fascinating. The style was subtly different, especially among the richer merchants, a more Allemayne look. Carey saw many men wearing the peculiar multiply-split cannion breeches called something like plunder-hosen which you now only saw on beggars in London.
On which thought he turned aside to ask something of a storekeeper in such braid Scots, Anricks had to ask what he’d said.
“I’m trying to find a Deutscher for you,” said Carey, “but I think they’re all at Leith.”
As that was the seaport for Edinburgh, it made sense. Eventually they hired a couple of spavined nags at a branch of Hobson’s livery stables, and rode out through the New Port, along the northward road for about three miles, past the golf-course. Leith was pretty much all port and soon they found the Hansa Steelyard with its stockade and small wooden tower and its waterfront and cranes and little church. They had some argument at the gate but were let in and led to a comfortable house where a grave-looking solid man with greying short blond hair and a beard sat behind a desk. He took the letter, refused payment, and gave it to his clerk who hurried off to translate and presumably copy it.
Carey and Anricks sat peacefully on the bench while Carey wondered what form the next attack would take. Man with a knife? Gun? Crossbow? He didn’t like the feeling that he had a large white target painted invisibly on his chest, accustomed though he was to the Grahams’ antics. For most of that family, it was simply business, perhaps with the exception of Wattie Graham. Spynie seemed more malevolent.
Through the open door he looked at the businesslike people all busy bringing in cargo from the round-hulled ships, packing it onto carts and sending it south on the main road, to Edinburgh. There was only one ship that was taking on cargo, hides, unfinished cloth, some barrels. That was the trouble with Scotland. They didn’t make a lot that anybody wanted to buy. Everyone looked very respectable and serious and they clearly didn’t let any poorly dressed people inside the gate, which Carey approved of. Even the men operating the walking wheels for the cranes were decently clad in good hemp shirts, jerkins, hose, and usually boots.
Anricks was scribbling something on some paper with a piece of graphite. Carey took a squint at it from the side and was disappointed. More mathematics, damn it!
“Why is it taking so long?” Carey asked, wondering if they could find any tobacco to drink the smoke of.
Anricks looked up and blinked. “So that they can get it copied to send to their masters in Augsberg or Frankfurt.”
“Oh. You don’t mind?”
Anricks shook his head. “What can I do about it? I need it translated.” He paused and looked out the door. “Maybe I should learn Deutsch.”
After a while a younger man in very splendid split plunderhosen in yellow and blue came and bowed to them both and invited them into another office to discuss their document.
That was a larger office, lined with handsome oak panelling that glowed yellow with the sun coming through a glazed window. They were brought wafers and wine while a blond heavyset middle-aged man in a magnificent dark brocade and fur-lined gown sat and read both documents and the young man stood near the door.
“I am Herr Kauffmann Hochstetter, from Augsberg. Vere did you get this?”
For answer, Anricks produced his warrant from Sir Robert Cecil and Hochstetter took it and read it carefully. He gave it back. Carey was starting to feel uneasy. Anricks seemed placid enough but there was something wrong.
He started looking for avenues of escape. The prospects weren’t good: the little office building was in a fenced-off enclosure around the docks, with one heavy gate, the fence was high and sturdy. He concentrated on looking as elegantly empty-headed as he could.
“Yes,” Anricks was saying, “I am a pursuivant for Mr Secretary Cecil.”
“And the document?”
“Is from somebody I believe to be a spy but I don’t know who for.”
“And vat is your interest in this, Mr…ah…?” Hochstetter said to Carey.
“Sir Robert Carey, cousin to Her Majesty of England,” said Carey languidly, although in fact his ears were working hard. That had set the Allemayne back a little.
“Ja?” he said.
“I am accompanying my friend, Mr Anricks,” added Carey blandly, “who is the real expert in these matters…”
“But vere did you find this?” asked Hochstetter with a frown.
“Herr Kauffmann,” said Anricks, still patiently, “you already have a copy of it. May I have my own copy of the text back if you prefer not to translate it for me?”
Carey stood up. He had finally identified the sound that had been worrying him.
“Well well,” he said beaming fatuously. “This is all very pleasant, but I’m afraid I must be going along now. You’ll let us know about it when you’ve finished the translation, I’m sure, lovely meeting you Herr Kauffmann Hochstetter, very sorry but I must get back to Holyrood House where the King is waiting to play backgammon with me.”
Anricks opened his mouth to argue and then stood and bowed to the Herr Kauffmann and let Carey sweep him out into the smaller office, whisking past the young man at the door, across the yard, towards the gate, gently talking all the time while Hochstetter followed them but seemed at a loss to know what to do.
“Don’t look back,” said Carey in French while he sauntered to the gate, which was open to let some more carts in, and slipped through behind the horses with Anricks in front of him. There was a sound of multiple running footsteps behind them and Carey speeded up to a run, propelled Anricks to his horse, gave him a leg up without asking him, leaped onto his own nag’s back and whacked the reins across the animal’s withers to wake him up. Moments later they were galloping back down the road from Leith, not very fast admittedly, but at least a bit faster than the running pikemen behind them who soon gave up. Carey laughed uproariously at them and gave them two fingers and a fig over his shoulder, before whacking Anricks’ horse across the backside and speeding up. Anricks concentrated on hanging onto the saddle and trying to find the stirrups.
They got back to Edinburgh, returned the sweating animals to Hobson’s, and went straight to Holyrood House and to the rooms Carey was using. At least Carey’s room was locked, although seeing what had happened to Spynie’s man, Anricks didn’t place too much confidence in that.
He was still breathing hard and sweating as Carey unlocked the door, threw his brand new hat onto a chest, and poured himself some Italian red wine. “What made you…?”
“Marching footsteps in the distance, coming towards me,” Carey replied, downing his wine in one. Anricks did the same. “I’ve never liked that sound.”
“Me neither,” said Anricks, paling further. His fingers on his wineglass were gripping too tight and shaking.
“Next time there’s a riot against the Hansa, I’m going to be in it,” said Carey. “How dare they try to arrest us?”
“It’s urgent to find out what the letter says,” said Anricks. “At least I had Tovey make another copy of it…”
“Of course you did, you’re not stupid,” said Carey. “Come on, let’s find the King and break the matter with him.”
That was easier said than done—the King was hunting again, but only with his favourite lords and had given strict instructions that he was not to be bothered. Anricks had painstakingly copied out the letter again twice and they stood in an empty antechamber where there was a wealthy-looking man, staring grimly into space and drinking. Carey thought he was one of the Grooms of the Bedchamber.
“Well,” said Carey thoughtfully, “we go to the Queen.”
“But she’s a woman…”
“She’s the Queen and she’s Danish, which is almost Allemayne. Come on!”
Carey led the way with long impatient strides to the other wing of the palace, on the other side of the garden that had been the cloisters, where the Queen’s apartments were. He asked humbly at the guarded doors if he could speak to Lady Widdrington very urgently. After a lot of argument, the man-at-arms agreed to ask the lady and after about half an hour, Lady Widdrington appeared at the door with a young Danish girl they hadn’t seen before, wearing an informal pink English kirtle, who kept giggling.
Carey, of course, flourished a beautiful bow and Anricks did his best. Lady Widdrington curtseyed but the girl didn’t, which Anricks thought was rather rude of her.
“I am very sorry to disturb you, my lady, but I have a very serious matter to put to you.”
“Oh?”
Carey explained about the packet, the Deutsch text and the way the Allemaynes of the Steelyard in Leith had reacted. Lady Widdrington nodded and smiled. “Well, your…your Deutsch is good, isn’t it?” she said to the girl who was staring straight at Carey with great curiosity.
“Not so fery gut, but I vill look,” said the girl and took the paper from Anricks with a big smile. Anricks started looking anxious again.
The girl scanned the text, raised her nicely plucked eyebrows and read, “My dear bruder, quickly this is for say your…your plan, your idea of killing Solomon cannot verk and iss wrong and you must instantly stop. I know you my husband betrayed, which I do not forgive, but still my bruder you are and I must try. Do not kill Solomon. My love.”
Lady Widdrington blinked at the page. “What does that mean?” she asked.
Carey was looking thunderstruck and also pale. “Solomon?” said Anricks, “Who is Solomon?”
“It could mean the King,” he said slowly, “also of course, any wise man, but it could…”
“Solomon?”
“Well, the King is very wise, of course…”
“It iss zee old rudeness,” said the girl, looking haughty, “Zat my Royal husband is truly the son of David Riccio, Queen Maria’s secretary.”
“Your…” began Anricks and then found Carey’s hand on his shoulder, pressing him inexorably down to the rushes as Carey himself knelt on one knee.
“Your Highness,” said Carey, with his head bowed, “please forgive my intrusion and my stupidity…”
“Stuff ond silliness,” said the girl, looking highly delighted, “I made Lady Viddrington bring me with her for she should haf a woman and I vont see the man vat steal her heart and make her sad for she cannot haf you.”
Both Carey and Lady Widdrington had gone bright red.
“Now ve should talk, yes? I vil go back, put on a robe and come out viss my dear Lady Schevengen Vot speak Deutsch gut.”
She grinned at both of them and slipped through the door.
“We were playing cards,” said Lady Widdrington, a little helplessly. “Unfortunately, I got a bit drunk on flowerwater last week and…”
Carey was smoothly on his feet again. Anricks stood up and then turned aside as Carey stepped across the space between himself and Lady Widdrington and took her shoulders gently in his hands. “Please…” he breathed. “Please…” The man-at-arms was tactfully staring into space.
Lady Widdrington put her hands up to Carey’s neck and pulled his head fiercely down to hers. Anricks didn’t know what happened next because he made sure he didn’t see and stood staring at a painting of some Greek gods in the Italian style and thought longingly of his Rebecca with her plump belly and stretch marks and wonderful soft dark hair.
“Well,” said Lady Widdrington half laughing, “that tastes much be
tter than last time…mmmm…”
Carey hadn’t spoken and they were busy again until Anricks heard some noisy thumps on the other side of the door and coughed loudly.
By the time the Queen came through the door—in a magnificent purple velvet gown with her hair up and her cap arranged to show some of her smooth blond hair, followed by a stout matron in cramoisie who seemed to be complaining at length in Danish—Carey and Lady Widdrington were again at a decorous distance. There was only a distinct nibblemark on Carey’s lower lip to show that anything had happened at all.
“Now zen,” said the Queen, looking even more pleased with herself, “ve go in ze parlour.”
They went to a panelled room nearby, filled with chairs and cushions and some little tables and some of the Queen’s women were there, disposed gracefully. Carey smiled at all of them and bowed, told them not to bother getting up to curtsey because he was only paying tribute to their combined beauty and virtue. Some of them giggled at that.
The Queen called for sweetmeats and some Danish drink, as well as candles as the sky darkened, and sat herself down in the chair with arms that had the Scottish cloth of estate with the Danish royal arms impaled.
Carey and Anricks went back on one knee but the Queen told them rather irritably to stop all that English nonsense. They sat on padded stools instead and a girl brought round a tray with little Venetian glasses on it, filled with a clear liquid. Everyone took a glass, including Carey and Anricks, and then stood and clinked the glasses together, the Queen shouted “To my lord and King and husband!” and tipped it back in one.
Everybody else shouted “Prost!” and also tipped the liquid back, so Carey did the same as did Anricks. Simon found his throat gripped by a fiery hand. When he managed to breathe out again, he found there was a delightful scent of peaches that came with the fumes, as if he had become a dragon breathing a summer day.
A Clash of Spheres Page 18
