Christmas was a worry to him so he went to the handsome St Giles’ cathedral in Edinburgh and checked every inch. He was still looking for gunpowder and so he also checked the crypt; he drew a blank there as well. Carey thought that the King’s constant hunting was paradoxically a good thing, so long as he didn’t break his neck by accident, since a moving target is always hard to hit.
On Christmas Eve all the young men of the Court went out to the woods and found a magnificent oak tree to be the Yule Log, a large and heavy tree the foresters had already selected and cut down and trimmed. They sang songs around it and tied a ribbon round it and then roped it up and hauled it slowly but steadily to Holyrood House, across the empty winter fields, drinking very large quantities of lambswool and ale as they went. It took them several hours so everyone was magnificently drunk by the time they hauled it past the walls of Edinburgh.
Edinburgh’s gates were closed because Edinburgh and especially Edinburgh’s ministers did not approve of Christmas which they held to be a Papist feast. You could see the heads of children peering over the wall as the gentlemen of the Court sweated the Yule Log the last half mile and a few gave cheers before they were hushed by their mothers. Carey was with them, hauling on a rope with the best of them, in his hunting doublet and drinking slightly less than everybody else. It took a lot of trouble to get the tree through the old abbey gate and across the courtyard, partly because nobody could pull steadily in one direction anymore. Some of the watching woodsmen and servants had to help at that point, smiling broadly.
Once they got the tree into the great Hall, the women were waiting to decorate the Yule Log with more ribbons and little cakes and nuts glued to string and they cheered as the sweating men hauled it in. Everybody danced then, except Carey who said he didn’t know the measures. While the young men handed the women round and spun on the spot, he stayed by the tree and examined it minutely, tapping it all over to be sure there were no hidden compartments full of gunpowder. The King was there, next to the Earl of Huntly, clapping and cheering with the rest of them, but Lord Spynie was nowhere to be seen: he had caught a mysterious fever after Carey visited his apartments and was seeing nobody at all except Jeremy and the boys. None of the lads looked worried, though, and he was eating plenty. Carey had tried to get in several times but had been turned away each time, which irritated him immensely because it stood to reason Spynie knew something he wasn’t telling.
Once they had the fire sharpened enough, they rolled the Yule Log into the fireplace with the tactful help of the woodsmen, and the enormous tree lay there, filling it nearly completely, and gradually its lower parts started to burn. The wood was dense and hard: it would take at least a week for the whole of it to burn through.
They all toasted the Yule Log in whishke bee and then they sang it another song, very ancient and with nonsense words in the chorus and a haunting tune, before some began leaving to go into the audience chamber with the King for a very late supper. Carey stood in the hall with the woodsmen for a while, looking at the tree and sipping his whishke bee. Would it be worth seeing the Queen’s scryer to track down whatever was being plotted against the King? Carey didn’t approve of that kind of thing, apart from astrology of course, which was perfectly scientific. Although with the new picture of the Heavens he was still trying to get used to, he couldn’t think how astrologers would deal with the fact that retrogrades were just a trick of perspective. Did it mean that when your life went wrong, that too, was just a matter of perspective? Surely not.
Huntly was still there and seemed to be in an uproarious mood, a large pink faced, red-haired man in his early thirties, whose track record was lamentable: in only February of that year he had knifed the Earl of Moray and set fire to his house. He had been caught in active treason times without number but the King let him go…
Carey almost stopped breathing. Did he speak Deutsch? Surely he could employ a clerk if he didn’t, since he certainly couldn’t read?
Quietly, Carey moved through the people until he was close enough to the Earl of Huntly to hear him guffawing at something the Maxwell had said. The King had already gone to the audience chamber for supper.
“Och, that’s funny is that,” Huntly was saying and then he saw Carey and deigned to notice him. “How now, Sir Robert, how’s yer bum?”
Carey’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Well enough, my lord,” he answered, “Why?”
“Only I wis thinking of when ye took that fall in the hunt, did ye hurt yerself?”
“Oh no, only I got spiked by the jealous holly. The poor horse had to be killed for his leg was broken by my Lord Spynie’s wire.”
“Spynie’s wire?” Huntly roared with laughter. “There’s an excuse for yer falling off.”
Carey smiled thinly.
“Why were ye tapping the Yule Log, were ye looking for sweetmeats?”
“Not exactly, my lord. I was looking for hidden compartments holding gunpowder.”
“What?” More loud laughter. “To kill ye?”
“No, my lord, the King.”
“What makes ye think that, eh, Sir Robert? We’re no’ at the Queen’s Court here.”
“Nonetheless, I have evidence that His Highness’ life may be in danger and I would be exceedingly grateful to you, my lord, if you could tell me of any suspicious men at Court.”
Huntly looked thoughtful and nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Ay, I can think of one man, right now, keeps creeping aboot the Court, asking questions in the kitchens and the Queen’s rooms and he wis tapping the Yule Log not five minutes ago, looking for a secret compartment for to hide gunpowder in.”
Carey sighed.
“Ay,” said Huntly, with a fatuous grin, “he’s English too. Ah wouldna put naething past him!”
Carey was annoyed but didn’t show it. “I’m afraid I have no idea whom you mean,” he said coldly, “apart from yourself, being such an excellent candidate.”
“Och no,” said Huntly, leaning over Carey, breathing alcohol. “I dinna need to kill the King, cos he fancies ma bum.”
“Ah,” said Carey, moving away, “how fortunate for your lordship.” He had reached the other side of the hall by the time the earl had worked out the double meaning, which got him an ugly scowl to which he smiled blandly.
At least one thing was clear. The murderer, the man who was giving the orders, was clearly the Earl of Huntly. Who was working for him was not clear—perhaps he would do the deed himself, since he seemed to have a taste for murder. But Carey relaxed slightly. It’s always good to know who your enemy is, and the Catholic Earl was certainly in it up to his neck, probably along with his usual friends, the Earls of Erroll and Angus.
He noticed Young Hutchin standing near, also gazing at the Yule Log and clearly thinking of something else, his horn cup of whishke bee empty. He hadn’t seen him recently so smiled and nodded at the lad.
“How are you liking Edinburgh, Young Hutchin?”
“Ay,” said the lad, now no longer a boy but not yet even a youth. “It’s…interesting.”
“Have you scouted out Lord Spynie yet?”
“Ay.” The line of Hutchin’s jaw hardened. “He’s no’ easy to get to and being ill means he’s impossible.”
Carey nodded sympathetically. “He didn’t even come out to bring in the Yule Log.”
“Sergeant Dodd said I shouldna kill him because he didnae kill nor hurt me, just insulted me. I should let it be or some such. I canna understand it.”
“Ah,” said Carey, “I can see why you’re confused.”
“And I’ve thought and thocht of a way to get intae his rooms and there isna,” Young Hutchin said with frustration. “They’re even on the second floor so ye canna get in by a window, if they were open, which they arenae, or big enough, which they are, just.”
Carey considered this. He had seen Jeremy on the end of another rope, around the tree, wit
h two of Spynie’s henchmen and he knew all of them would be in the audience chamber tucking into venison pasties.
“What would you do if you did get in?”
Young Hutchin stared at him in mystification. “Whit?”
“All right. Just as an exercise, how would you get in?”
“Ay, the jakes is an old one wi’ a hole that just lets out onto the wall and there’s a nice bit of ivy…”
“It’s a garderobe…”
“…I could climb but somebody might see me before I got ma head out the seat of the jakes, if ye follow.”
“I do. May I suggest doing the climb in a shirt only so you can wash yourself off afterwards?”
“Whit?”
“And if you got into Spynie’s apartments, what would ye do?”
Young Hutchin obviously hadn’t thought about this. He frowned heavily. “Ah…mebbe I wouldna knife him, sir? Cos Sergeant Dodd said I’d hang for it and it’d take me a long while tae die?”
“A very good point.”
“So…ah…mebbe I’d tell him what a bastard he is?”
Carey looked at Hutchin with grave disapproval. “I’m disappointed in you, Young Hutchin Graham, surely you can think of something better than that?”
Hutchin stared back at him for a moment and then a slow evil smile lit his features. “Mebbe I could take him a little present, eh?”
“Hm.”
“Like a knife stuck in an apple, ye ken, tae mean his heart or…”
Carey too had an evil smile on his face. “I have a much better idea.”
***
Spynie hated being cooped up in his apartments, he was drinking too much and the King hadn’t asked after him once, which broke his heart. He had a few books but wasn’t good at reading and anyway, he preferred hunting in one form or another. His henchmen did their best to keep him entertained but the boys had run through their repertoire of lute music three times and he was tired of it. He heard the celebrations in the hall and the audience chamber and longed to join them, but…he was frightened. He had let Jeremy and Paul and Peter go because if he hadn’t, he knew they would just have gone anyway, so he had the two littlest boys with him and one guard.
So when there was a firm knocking on the door, it was almost a relief. Perhaps the King had come to visit, as he always used to do when Spynie took sick, even when Spynie had a dose of the clap after visiting the tarts to the north of Edinburgh, His Highness had come to see him and suggested all sorts of doses and arcane medicines. Not now though, and Spynie missed him.
When the door was opened by the youngest boy—was that Eric? Spynie wasn’t sure—he was very disappointed when that bastard Sir Robert Carey strolled in, carrying a jug of lambswool and two silver cups. Carey set the tray down and served them both with the mixture of hot cider and egg, lifted his cup and gave the toast of “His Highness’ good health and confusion to the Spanish” which meant Spynie had to drink. He only sipped, being cautious about poison in drinks he hadn’t seen made or that had been made by someone other than his own servants.
“I was sorry to hear that you were ill,” lied the Deputy Warden.
“A flux, that’s all,” lied Lord Spynie who in fact felt he was going mad with boredom.
“Do you have any ideas about who the Deutsch speaker might be, the one who received the letter about Solomon?”
“None at all,” lied Lord Spynie. Carey watched him gravely for a minute.
“Who was the man who arranged the killing of the person who tried to kill me on my first hunt with the King?”
“Ah…I don’t know what you mean.”
“The plot was yours, and a remarkably clumsy one. The unfortunate servant whom we had locked up was dispatched efficiently and without leaving any clues, from which I conclude that the man who did it was not yourself, my lord, but a…a consultant.”
“Sorry, canna help ye.”
“And quite possibly the man who is planning to assassinate the King. Of whom you said, my lord, and I quote, I would die for him. At the least I would like to talk to your…consultant.”
Spynie fixed a ghastly grin to his face.
“No idea.”
Carey thought about drawing his poinard and using it on the ex-favourite until he bloody opened up, but decided that Spynie would just scream for help and he would end up arrested again. In any case, he was not going to kill an eight-year-old and a ten-year-old boy to cover his tracks.
“So what are your plans after the King is dead?”
Spynie didn’t answer that.
Carey started wandering around the room, looking at the paintings and the statues and Spynie watched him, hating him, wishing he could come up with some clever answer, and deep inside him the panic was growing again, along with the paralysis.
“Of course, my lord, I know you’re a good Protestant, so much less likely to be plotting against His Highness,” said Carey, after contemplating a picture of Leda and the swan in which the swan seemed more enthusiastic than strictly necessary.
“I am,” said Spynie, “I would never…”
“Then perhaps you could help me with the man I think is the most likely plotter of them all. He’s a Catholic, first and foremost, he has done it before, many times and he…”
“The Earl of Huntly?”
“Exactly.”
“Ah.” Spynie thought hard and fast. Anything to keep Carey from thinking of Hepburn—and in fact there had been rumours of something in the wind, and the Earl of Huntly was in very high spirits this Christmas, which he normally was when plotting. “Ay, now ye mention it, I’ve heard rumours mesen.”
“What kind?”
“Och, the usual, he’s in with the Jesuits, he’s in with the King of Spain, he’s planning to bring Spanish troops to the West Coast…Nothing hard and fast, ye ken, just servants’ talk.”
Carey nodded and came and sat on a chair by the bed where Jeremy sometimes sat. “Is he staying at Court this Christmas or in Edinburgh?”
Spynie shook his head. “He hates Edinburgh and the ministers hate him back, so no. He’s at Court with a few of his henchmen and the rest are at Falkland.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where at Court is he staying, my lord?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Carey simply regarded Spynie gravely, like a schoolmaster wondering how stupid a boy could be. Spynie coloured up.
“He’s on the other side of the courtyard, in the Queen’s old rooms, before they refurbished the abbey for her.”
Carey nodded. “And how many of his men will be there this evening?”
Spynie shrugged. “Most of them will be attending him at Court, he likes to make a good show.”
Carey smiled at him, an alarming smile, all teeth and sparkling blue eyes. “Now, my lord,” he said quietly, “I wonder if you could help me? Nothing hard. Just invite the Earl of Huntly to play cards with you tonight.”
Spynie looked mutinous. “Ay, but then he might guess and he’s awfy big and loud, is Huntly…”
“I’m asking very little of you, my lord,” said Carey, “considering that I’m wondering if the Earl of Huntly is planning to kill the King somehow. Yes, I want to search his rooms while he’s not there and you can make that easier. You don’t even have to die for the King, just bloody play cards.”
Spynie contemplated the floor with its smart white rushmats. Perhaps he could do that, perhaps that wouldn’t be too difficult. And perhaps it was Huntly at that…Although…no, he wouldn’t think about it. But he could play cards with Huntly.
“Ay,” he said, “I’ll do it. Tonight. I’ll send Eric to him now to ask him, say I’m feeling better but I’m bored.” And he beckoned Eric who came trotting over, looking nervous, told him the message, listened to him repeat it back and then watched him
struggle to open the big door and trot off down through the interconnecting rooms. He was a pretty boy, though a little easily scared.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Carey. “I expect I will see you tomorrow, since you seem so well recovered. His Highness was saying he would like to see you when he goes to church on Christmas morning.”
“He would?” said Spynie and then calmed his beating heart because, probably the Englishman was lying again.
“He would,” lied Carey. “He wanted me to tell you particularly. If he has to live through an interminable sermon by Chancellor Melville on the sins of the flesh and the sinfulness of Christmas, you can suffer too.”
Spynie grunted. He had to admit that sounded like the King.
“So,” said Carey, gathering the cup from the table at Spynie’s elbow, putting all on the tray and picking it up, “Merry Christmas to you, my lord. And to you, young henchman as well.”
Sandy, the ten-year-old who was showing regrettable signs of acne, opened the double doors for him and he tipped the lad a Scotch sixpence, paced out. Spynie scowled moodily at the fire. You had to admit, you could see what the King had seen in him. Thank God, he hadn’t replaced D’Aubigny for whatever reason, or Spynie would have remained forever just another impoverished minor Scottish nobleman.
Half an hour later, the Earl of Huntly came bounding into the rooms, followed by a number of ruffianly Gordons. He made Spynie’s elegant chambers suddenly look quite small, and stood with his fists on his hips demanding to know what game Spynie wanted to lose at, Gleek or Primero, and bellowing with laughter.
It was only when Spynie went to bed several pounds poorer at about three o’clock that he found the dead rat lying in its lifeblood between the sheets in his four-poster bed. It made his heart thud and was very upsetting, because what was a rat doing in his bed and did it have plague? He slept in the uncomfortable truckle bed and had the two boys with him but didn’t even feel like doing anything because he was so frightened of the plague.
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