Carey didn’t disappoint her. The door unlocked, opened and there he was in his shirt with his naked poignard in his hand.
“Mrs Dodd,” he said, utterly surprised.
“Ay, Sir Robert, can Ah talk to ye? Now?”
“Now?”
“Ay.”
He frowned, but after a moment’s thought, he closed the door, and re-emerged wearing a fur dressing gown, slippers on his feet. Under his arm was some kind of rug from the bed.
“It’s freezing,” he said conversationally. “Wrap this round you. Come in. John’s taken to sleeping down in the stables with the other men. Apparently I snore loud enough to wake the dead.”
She crept in, and sure enough Carey was alone in the small dusty room, sleeping all by himself in the half-testered bed, not even a dog with him, poor man. It must be hard to sleep alone like that.
She sat on the truckle and he sat on the bed.
“Well?” he said at last, wrapping his fur dressing gown round his knobbly knees.
She looked at him, his chestnut hair messed, his blue eyes intent. Inside her a great tidal wave of tears threatened to rise up and overwhelm her, but it didn’t. She pushed it away.
“Courtier,” she said, “ye ken how I’m placed. I’ve nae childer fra Henry and now I’ll get none which means Gilsland will be taken fra me, the freehold will revert. But…but now I’m a widow…if Ah can find a man…And I could…I mean i…if ye were willing…tae…er…”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Some men might have laughed or made some smutty comment. Carey silently poured her a cup of whatever it was in his flask and she gulped it down, lighting a grateful fire in her belly.
“Ye ken I wouldna…”
“If the freehold of Gilsland wasn’t at stake.”
“Ay.” She gulped more of the strange drink and blinked down at it, since she had never tasted the stuff before.
“Whishke bee,” he said, before she asked. “Mrs Dodd, are you certain?”
“Ay. Ah would ha’ asked his brother Red Sandy but I didna think he’d be able for it. Then I thought o’ you. Henry said chances were that the babe that musician woman in London was carrying was yourn.”
“It might be my father’s,” said Carey with a smile.
“I’ll ask naething else of ye,” said Janet seriously, “I’ll ask nothing if there’s a babe, nothing for myself. He’ll be a Dodd.”
Carey also looked serious. “But, Mrs Dodd, are ye sure?”
She took a deep breath, stood and dropped the rug and the shawl round her shoulders though the room was cold enough that she could just hear the water in the washbowl creaking as it froze.
Carey took her hand and brought her to sit beside him on the bed, and now his blue eyes were nearly black and he was smiling.
“Sir Robert, if he does come back fra the dead, ye willna tell him…”
“I’m not an idiot, Mrs Dodd, and I don’t want to die.” He poured some more whishke bee for her and she drank. The fire inside did seem to help.
Carey was stroking her hair and she shuddered a little at the familiarity. “I’ve wondered so many times why women always hide so much of their beauty. Caps on their heads, stays to hide their breasts, endless skirts and petticoats to hide their beautiful legs…”
He leaned down and tried to kiss her but she pulled back instinctively. That was too personal. Only Henry had rights to her mouth. He paused and she wondered if he would be offended, but somehow he wasn’t and she ran her hands down his shoulders and back, smiled a little at him, feeling as if she was a maiden again. And, indeed, this was only the second man she had bedded in her life. He was breathing hard now and his hands were on her breasts, gently circling her nipples in the fine linen she had woven.
She had liked the look of him on her hay cart in the summer and now, as he stood up, dropped his dressing gown and despite the freezing air stripped off his shirt, she liked the look of him even more and had her curiosity satisfied for his lower beard was chestnut too and his shoulders had pleasing dimples in them. There was the mark of a bullet graze on his shoulder blade and the scar of a dagger marred his stomach, but she couldn’t have loved a man without battle scars. She was an Armstrong, after all.
He undid the ties of her shift, found a breast and put a hot mouth on her nipple and started to suck while his hands went fluttering down to her own fur below.
Janet arched her back and pulled her legs up. It was over quite quickly but then Carey grinned at her and stayed where he was and sucked her other tit until she felt him in her again and that time was altogether better.
Carey dozed while Janet stared at the tester and wondered at it all. Gently she moved him off her and kissed his cheek. His eyes opened and he smiled at her, a smile full of satisfaction and complicity. She smiled back. Then she got up, pulled her shift back down and put her shawl round her shoulders.
“Thank ye, Sir Robert,” she said formally.
“Thank you, Mrs Dodd,” Carey said, equally formally, “for honouring me with your request.”
She ducked her head, thrust down the tidal wave again, and went to the door. Carey came with her to the door and locked it after her. But first he took her hand, bowed over it and kissed it as if she were the Queen.
She walked back quietly with her burned-down watch candle through the maze of the sleeping Court, wrapped bodies everywhere there were bundled rushes. She outed her light before she came to the little room where the dairy maids were still sleeping, and climbed into bed where Mrs Ridley was sleeping quietly, a warm body that Janet was careful not to touch until she had warmed up a bit.
She lay and thought of Mrs Hogg and what she had said after Ellen lost her babe, back in the autumn. How if a man caught the mumps when he was grown, it did something to the stuff in his balls so that he couldn’t make a baby, according to Mrs Hogg’s long ago ’prentice-mistress, Mrs Maxwell. And Henry had caught the mumps when he first came to soldier in the Carlisle guard, to get him out of Tynedale, back in 1582. And although they had rejoiced in each other as a married couple should, it had been nearly ten years and there were no children. So she had followed Mrs Hogg’s advice as she had said she would not, and she had done what she could and now she felt strange to herself, as if her body was somebody else’s. Henry was dead but perhaps…
To her astonishment, Janet dozed off quickly, the damp happiness between her legs making her feel like a traitor, and the print of Carey’s mouth on the back of her hand like a Queen. But at least she might get a babe. Maybe.
In the morning, when he knelt to say his prayers, Carey wondered if the whole encounter in the night had just been a more than usually erotic and vivid dream. Lord knew, he had dreamt of Janet before…No, he saw the rug dropped on the rushes. By the time he was eating his morning bread and beer and cheese, he knew that it had been real. Extraordinary. Had it been another of his many sins of fornication? Well, yes, technically, but oddly he didn’t feel like he had sinned: he felt he had done a favour for a friend, had helped Janet with something that was easy for him but hard for her. Of course she had chosen carefully and well. He didn’t quite understand why Red Sandy was not suitable—perhaps he would have been too shocked at the idea—but failing Dodd’s own brother, in accordance with the Bible, he felt he was by far the best man to father Janet’s child. He could keep his mouth shut, he understood discretion and…well, clearly he was the right man. Henry VIII’s Blood Royal ran in his veins and he didn’t even have the French pox. And yet he wasn’t quite sure why, but there was a tincture of sadness to his normal happiness after a night spent doing what he had, but there it was.
He was still staring into space and remembering, when a pageboy came up to him and said that the King of Scotland wanted to see him and would he come to breakfast?
If such an invitation had come from the Queen he would have run back to his chamber to shift his
shirt and put on a clean ruff at the very least.
James VI of Scotland was not nearly so particular, to put it mildly, and in fact rarely shifted his own shirt and had never been known to bathe. So Carey simply followed the boy to the King’s privy parlour where he found the King eating partridge and venison and manchet bread and a dish of fried exotic roots from the New World, washing the whole down with red wine which he preferred to ale.
Carey took three steps in and went immediately, gracefully to his knees, partly out of habit, partly because there was nothing wrong with keeping up a little flattery. Many of James’ own subjects barely bent their necks to him and also tended to harangue him about sin and vestments if they were ministers, and sometimes, even if they weren’t.
“There ye are, Deputy Warden, how are ye, have ye braken yer fast? Guid, guid, here, have some wine.”
The King waved expansively at a table with a flagon and silver goblets on it. Carey stood, bowed, went over and served himself some wine, took the napkin on his shoulder, came back to pour wine into the King’s own goblet. He then lifted and tasted his goblet, found nothing there but surprisingly reasonable Italian wine, so he bowed again and drank more.
“Now, now,” said the King genially, “sit ye doon, Sir Robert, and have a read o’ this.”
Carey sat on the stool, took the letter handed to him which had several grease stains on it and a wine blot. The King’s black velvet doublet had grease spots from the venison too.
Carey sipped the wine and focussed on the letter. It was from Sir Robert Cecil in London, probably dictated to Mr Phelippes, thanking King James for his confidential explanation of the doings over Christmas and the New Year at his Court, and their connection with the northern Armada of the ailing Spanish king. Cecil didn’t feel the danger was fully averted, seeing that the guilty Catholic earls were still at large, etc., and so on.
“Ah wrote tae my brother-in-law of Denmark to warn him in case Jonathan Hepburn turns up there. I’ll wager he’s gone tae the Netherlands to get back into Spanish sovereignty.”
“Quite possibly.”
“And it seems Hepburn was really an Allemayne fra the miners at Keswick. Did ye ken that, Sir Robert?”
“Hepburn told me himself on Christmas Day,” said Carey.
“He did? Hm. No plans to go back there, perhaps. Now whit was it I…ah yes, here’s a letter to ye fra Cecil himself.”
Carey took the letter which was also in clear. “You are hereby warranted and ordered to go to Keswick and investigate the Dutch strangers there and find out how serious is their treason and sedition, whether Her Blessed Majesty should expel all of them. She is most unwilling because of the gold she receives as her share from the copper mining there, although it has gone down in quantity in the last ten years.”
There was a second warrant, giving him authority as Deputy Warden to inspect the mine workings in Keswick and anywhere else in Cumberland that he thought fit. Carey nodded thoughtfully.
“It’s impossible to know where Hepburn went on New Year’s Eve.”
“Not sae very hard,” said James with a twinkle. “Ainly three ships left the whole of Leith that night, one was a Sea Beggar, one was a Danish ship, one was French.”
“He probably went in the Sea Beggar. They would ask the fewest questions.”
“He’s a Catholic.”
“How would they know that? He probably wouldn’t tell them.”
“My brother-in-law tells me he wasnae aboard the Danish ship.”
“He might have taken the French ship as well.”
“Ay,” James sighed, “d’ye think he might have gone back tae Keswick?”
“No,” said Carey positively. “Why go there? It may be in England and so out of your authority, but I think Cecil does not want someone who tried to assassinate Your Majesty twice anywhere on English soil. Jonathan Hepburn, or whatever his name is, can work that out too. And furthermore he actually told me he was from there. No, he’s gone to the Netherlands.”
“Ay, but Keswick is home ground to him. According tae his cousin at the Steelyard who has just spent a couple o’ days in the Tollbooth for the guid of his soul, tae warn him, ye follow, he’s a full Hochstetter, son of the man who first came over with the miners in the 1560s. D’ye not think he’d run to earth?”
“I don’t. I don’t find it at all likely: he’s an engineer, he can make a good living anywhere in the world. Why not go to the New World and work at Potosi, for instance? Or the Netherlands, or the Spanish Netherlands or France…”
James sighed again. “Ah really want him dead. I dinna like the thought of him running about the world.”
“Nor do I, Your Majesty. I would infinitely rather see him dead.”
“Ay, and I could ha’ done without the days of fasting and abstinence the ministers ordered in thanks for my escape by God’s grace,” said James gloomily. “It disnae exactly encourage my people to rejoice at my deliverance, especially as nobody has explained what from.”
“A policy with which I wholeheartedly agree, Your Majesty.”
James waved a hand. “Ay, o’ course, we canna let the Catholic earls know how close they came, but still.”
“A wise decision, Your Majesty.”
“My Lady Widdrington is still at Court, ye ken?” said the King with his sleepy canny eyes hooded. Carey said nothing to this. “She’s a fine woman, and my Queen is verra happy wi’ her.” Carey inclined his head. The King was appallingly nosy and loved gossip, everyone knew that. “Her husband isnae happy though. He’s leaving for Widdrington on the morrow but I’ve asked if she can stay here as one of my Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“I’m sure Sir Henry is sensible of the honour you and Queen Ann do him.”
“Ay well, he says, he’ll leave her here only if ye’ve left the Court before he goes himself.”
Carey bowed a little. “Your Majesty, I came to ask your leave to depart in any case. I must escort my late Sergeant’s widow home with her woman and her cart—I was only waiting until the roads were a little easier.”
“I shouldnae think they’ll get easier than they are now, with the hard frost. And I can help with that, nae problem, I’ll lend ye a couple of my draft horses and ten men to see to it that naebody raids her—though I’d gae the long way round by the Faery Road, even so, with the Borders as tickle as they are.”
“That’s wonderful, Your Majesty, thank you very much.”
It was not wonderful. It meant he would have to say goodbye to Elizabeth again, which took more and more effort to do each time. At least she would be safe at James’ Court. He could concentrate on that.
He had already written to Cecil with an account of the New Year’s attempts on the King’s life, carefully filleted. Now he decided to write again and explain what had happened to Dodd and Hughie Tyndale, in case Cecil felt inclined to shed any light on the matter of Hughie and Mr Philpotts, and also to make it clear that he would go to Keswick as soon as he could, although he thought it more likely that Hepburn would make for the Netherlands. The King called a clerk for him and he dictated his letter while admiring the book on the Venerie of Twytie which he had apparently given to the King for his New Year’s present, thanks to Mr Anricks.
Very early the next morning, before anybody was up and about except the bakers and the other Hochstetter brothers, but not his mother, Joachim rolled out of bed, dressed himself in the good dark grey wool suit from his chest that was five years out of fashion but still eminently respectable. He had refused to help his brothers with the midnight pack train, but had still woken about an hour before, unable to sleep any longer, and had spent the time thinking about what he needed to do today. He was looking forward to it.
According to David, the hue and cry had found nothing and the Mayor had adjourned the inquest. Everyone was speculating on what had happened with wild tales about a secret gang of
reivers from Carlisle scaring everybody. The sooner he could get Long Tom out of Keswick, the better.
He took a boat in the dark from the boat house and rowed himself to the Keswick landing, tied up and hopped out. He had forgotten what a bloody nuisance it was to live on an island, but at least he could still row quietly and tie up by feel. He walked up the cobbled path to Packhorse Court and took a couple of his family’s ponies. They had just come in from the usual long walk from Scotland and the Debateable Land, carrying heavy packs, carefully tied up in cloths so they wouldn’t chink. The packs had been unloaded in the middle of the night by his brothers Emanuel, Daniel, and David, and by Mark Steinberger, because they were contraband. The Grahams who came with the ponies were put up at the Thistle alehouse because the Oak wouldn’t have them, and were paid extremely well in new-minted silver.
The ponies were deeply displeased at being taken out again when they were trying to sleep after their long trip. Joachim tacked them up with saddles and bridles, rather than packs. Then he went to the Oak where Long Tom was supposed to meet him in the common room where the packpony drovers congregated. Joachim had given Tom enough money to spend the night with Frau Magda, if he chose, and the man was tucking into pork collops and fried sippets with a vigour that boded well.
“It’s kind o’ ye to show me the way tae Workington,” said Long Tom. “Or are ye coming wi’ me overseas?”
“No,” said Joachim, “better not. I’ll be leaving later, probably to Dublin.”
“Are ye no’ scared o’ King James?”
“Not at all,” said Joachim. “The man’s a notorious coward. Has he even executed any of the earls who were involved in the Spanish King’s plot? Probably not. He didn’t execute them the last time they committed treason. His writ doesn’t run in England anyway.” Even if he hadn’t had business with the Devil’s Gift to finish, he wouldn’t have been in any hurry to leave Keswick. So what if he was at the horn in Scotland? He wasn’t outlawed in England or Amsterdam or New Spain, for that matter.
A Suspicion of Silver Page 9