A Suspicion of Silver

by P. F. Chisholm

  Emanuel said nothing but drank ale unhappily. “Then why are you still here?”

  “If I had tried to assassinate the King and failed, I would be safely in the Netherlands by now,” Joachim said. “But I might be falsely accused and I wanted to come home to my family, who, of course, would back me up.”

  “I would rather you went to the Netherlands as well,” said his brother. “You’ve been here for a week, why not go to Workington tomorrow and take the ship that brought the charcoal, the Swan of Dublin, which is leaving in a few days?”

  “Why should I?” asked Joachim, very quietly. “Yes, I probably will go back to Amsterdam but I’ll go when I choose, not you.”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  Joachim tipped his tankard to Emanuel and tutted. “Mutti was very happy to see me,” he said which made Emanuel frown. As far as their mother was concerned, Manny could never do anything right, although he had spent his whole life struggling to make their mother love him, poor fool. “I will go when I’m ready and not before and I’ll come back if I want to, when I want to.”

  “That can change.”

  “You mean when my beloved mother dies?” Joachim hooted at him. “She’ll outlive you by decades.”

  Emanuel looked into his beer as if it could tell him something, his lined forehead creased. It wasn’t just that he had had all the responsibility and worry about the complex business of the mines since their father had died, it was that he couldn’t admit that their mother was the most annoying woman on the Devil’s Earth, and utterly determined to have her way, which was very unsuitable to a woman. It seemed he loved her and was still trying to get her to love him, whatever that meant.

  “Look at you,” Joachim went on because he couldn’t help it, “you’re going bald, you look fifty though by my reckoning you’re thirty-eight, and you never have any fun, ever. What’s the point of a life like that? Harassed by Mutti, harassed by your wife—if I ever felt sorry for anybody, I’d feel sorry for you.”

  “Why are you so scoffing, Joachim?”

  “Why are you so dull, Emanuel?”

  Emanuel’s jaw clenched. “I may be dull, but at least I am not a murderer.”

  “Phooey,” said Joachim confidently. “Have you been talking to Mark Steinberger? The silly bitch committed suicide, that’s all, even the inquest found that.”

  “Don’t you care about anybody except yourself?”

  “Why, who else should I care for?”

  “Us. Your family.”

  “You care for me, do you? Well that’s wonderful news, Emanuel and I’ll look forward to receiving some of my dividends soon. In the meantime, I suppose I had better tell you that the man who actually made an attempt on the life of the Scottish King, Sir Robert Carey, will possibly be arriving here with a cock and bull story about how I did it, not him.”

  “Lord Jesus, Joachim, did you really try and assassinate the King…?”

  “No,” said Joachim loudly and patiently, “I told you, Sir Robert Carey did and is trying to make me into the villain. If he arrives I want you to keep him in the dark and hide me from him until I can…get rid of him in some way.”

  Emanuel was silent, and looked like he wanted to cry, the pathetic old stick. “Or?”

  “The usual terms, my dear brother, the usual terms concerning silver.”

  Emanuel shook his head slowly from side to side, like an old man. “Dear Christ,” he said, “don’t you have any fear of Hell?”

  Just for a moment, Joachim played with the temptation to tell his idiot brother what he really thought of Hell, now he had worked it all out—Emanuel would surely have a nervous breakdown, which would be fun to see. He almost heard himself saying, you fool, Emanuel, I don’t worship anyone. I certainly don’t worship God nor the insipid madman, Jesus, and certainly not the Theotokos, the little tart who bore Jesus. He could just see the shock, the grief, the fear on Emanuel’s face, the shaking voice, the horror of it…Yes, it was very tempting. But he resisted because he did need them to shelter him from Carey until he could kill the man and then leave Keswick again. Or perhaps stay and take over the mines from Emanuel…Yes, but could he stand to live here for two, three years, with his mother fussing over him and Emanuel worrying? No, he didn’t think he could. Once the fuss had died down, and he had done more chiselling for gold, he would be off again.

  Well, in any case he couldn’t tell Emanuel the truth about his beliefs or the Devil’s Cave, and that was that. He wasn’t going to be stupid the way he had been when he had chatted to Carey at Christmas. He just shrugged.

  Emanuel said nothing for so long that Joachim got up to go. He was bored of the whole conversation anyway but then Emanuel said in a voice thick with frustration, “Why are you here? What is there here for you?”

  Joachim shrugged again. “I’ll tell you when it’s all over,” he said, finished his ale and walked out of the shed.

  He stood outside for a while, undecided, while Emanuel went to talk to the mine captain about the problem of getting new tools since the sad and mysterious death of John Carleton, the Keswick blacksmith. The funeral would be on Sunday, at Crossthwaite church, and Joachim knew he would be expected to attend. He did not like the prospect of a long dull service with more ridiculous emotion and weeping and wailing from the women, but if he was going to be respectable for the moment it was necessary.

  Eventually he strode off in the direction of Keswick, letting the action of walking a couple of miles along the packpony paths move his mind towards seeing Carey killed in some way that would in no wise implicate himself. He spent some time thinking about ladders in the mine, but abandoned that as too likely to kill one of the miners instead, or even himself, then considered an elaborate trap designed for the stupid English courtier specifically, so he would be unable to resist it. Joachim had no plans whatsoever to confront the man directly—he wanted something that wouldn’t put himself in danger.

  At least he had an idea about the bait for the trap—if there was anything that was reliable about courtiers, it was their attitude to gold.

  Crossbow? Gunpowder? A tragic fall from a high place, like Tom Graham? A gun? All I have to do, Joachim thought, is stay hidden while he’s here, if he dares to come here, and then act boldly and unseen. The thought of that pleased him, a sense of being godlike again, looking down on the world at the ant-men and snuffing them out as he chose.

  Carey and his party creaked tediously along the Giant’s road. Nothing else happened all day except several other travellers attached themselves to them and the front axle on Janet’s cart predictably gave up the ghost and died just as they were climbing a hill, splitting with a loud crack as the wheel rolled over a stone. Carey was delighted with himself for investing in the spare axle, instead of believing the Court wheelwright. They had to fetch a wheelwright from Hexham, but after that, replacing it only took a few hours—unloading the wagon, turning it upside down, taking the broken axle out, putting the new axle in and reloading the wagon again.

  At nightfall they stopped at Thirlwall castle, which belonged to Sir Thomas Carleton and, short of an attack by massed cannon, was pretty much impregnable. King James’ men camped in the bailey which was stinking full of cattle and Carey dumped Skinabake and the other lad into the convenient old cellar. Red Sandy, Bangtail, and Leamus organised themselves in the stables, Janet and Widow Ridley went into one of the rooms on the top floor, and Carey and Tovey got the best room with a four-poster bed and old-fashioned bastard swords and big shields on the wall, since Captain Carleton wasn’t there. The steward was used to men-at-arms turning up and needing shelter and even recognised Carey, to judge by his grunt. Carey paid him with a harbinger’s warrant signed by Thomas Lord Scrope, Lord Warden of the English West March, which made his expression even sourer.

  After seeing to his horses and swallowing a meal of pottage and gritty bread, he went to take a look
at Skinabake.

  The reiver had eaten some bread and pottage and was sitting sulking on a stone in the little cellar. He hadn’t even bothered to help his follower put a splint on his arm. Carey found this annoying and so took the lad out and gave him to Janet and Mrs Ridley to deal with, came back to find Skinabake still sulking. He was rubbing his ear which had snaggled toothmarks in it.

  He tried a few questions on general principles and got nothing except grunts and scowls, so left Skinabake and went to find his men who were drinking horrible ale in the hall and boasting about how they had taken on and bested Skinabake Armstrong’s famous outlaw gang.

  Leamus was sitting near the fire, staring into it. He had his boots and hosen on again. Apart from his lanky way of moving and the plait of dark hair down his back, he looked quite normal and almost Christian. He wasn’t drinking much, just a sip of ale now and again.

  Carey was curious about him and sat down near him, on the bench. Leamus made way for him and filled up his beaker without a word.

  “Thank you for your excellent scouting today, Leamus,” Carey said.

  “Sorr,” said Leamus, tilting his head.

  The fire crackled in its enormous fireplace.

  “I’ve never met an Irish kern before,” said Carey. “Or a gallowglass. Well, I have if you call it meeting, in France, and killed some too. I’ve never talked to one.”

  Leamus didn’t say anything but he smiled.

  “How did you come to be fighting with my lord Earl of Essex’s men?”

  Leamus didn’t say anything for a while and Carey was about to give up the attempt, when he said softly, “I was wounded and they captured me. When he found I spoke English, the Lord Essex promised me money if I would scout for him and I said yes because I needed a surgeon. And he offered more than the Guises. I got the surgeon but otherwise it was a mistake, sure.”

  Carey said nothing. His lord, the Earl of Essex, was notorious for promising the world to his soldiers and never paying up.

  “When some of them decided to head for England to try and get their backpay from the man who had left them to die in France, I thought that was a fine idea and so I went with them.”

  “Why?”

  Leamus shrugged. “It’s closer to Ireland,” he said after a while.

  “Would you really have eaten Skinabake’s heart?” asked Carey, only half-joking. There were some nasty rumours about the Irish.

  Leamus looked sideways at him and smiled slowly.

  “My ancestors might drink his blood, but only if he was a brave man, to get his…his strength, his virtue for themselves. They drank the blood of kin dead in battle to keep their virtue. So even if I was one of the pagan Irish, I would not drink Skinabake Armstrong’s blood since he has no strength nor courage nor virtue. But my ancestors would take his head as a…what is it? A prize?”

  Carey lifted his eyebrows. “A trophy? Like a stag?”

  Leamus nodded once. Then came a flood of incomprehensible Irish.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am Leamus of the clan Maic Rom. Most of my brothers and sisters’ sons are harpers and singers and once we sang for Niall of the Nine Captives and we are descended from Lugh Longhand, the Sungod of old. But my singing and playing is not good enough and so I fight.”

  “I can sing,” said Carey. “I still fight. I like it.”

  “Myself too.” Leamus said something else in Irish but didn’t translate. He went back to studying the fire as if it were telling him stories.

  Later that night, Carey was alone on the top of the keep, looking out over the businesslike battlements to the north and east where Elizabeth was. Then he felt someone’s eyes on him and turned. He recognised her at once, despite the darkness of a night that promised more snow, stepped towards her and stopped, uncertain. Would she..?

  She smiled slowly at him, took his hand and led him into the little turret where they kept the tallow and the rocks to drop and one small and ancient cannon, pointing due north. Carey lifted Janet up and propped her on the cannon, fumbled at his laces while she held her petticoats up and out of the way in a bunch. Neither of them said anything, word or grunt, though he thought he had made her happy again. When it was finished, Carey lifted her down from the cannon, helped her to rearrange her kirtle, kissed her hand again and they walked separately out of the turret. He nearly tripped on a rammer lying on the floor.

  The next morning they continued along the road that paced close to the remains of the Giant’s Wall and Carey sent Leamus out ahead to scout again. For convenience they tied Skinabake’s hands to the cart and he walked along at its side, alternating between sulking and complaining to Widow Ridley that he should ride beside her while his nephew should walk, despite his broken arm. The nephew dozed the whole way and Widow Ridley kept on knitting and occasionally saying, “Fancy!” Janet ignored him.

  Finally, some sixteen miles from Carlisle they topped a rise and found the Giant’s Wall below them like a giant snake and some of Janet’s cousins taking stones from it and piling them into another cart. Leamus was sitting on the wall, his legs clad again, playing a small whistle with a sprightly little tune. Janet’s tower and its bailey was full of wintering animals; they could smell it from a mile away.

  Janet rode straight up to the open gate where her Armstrong brother was arguing with Big Clem about the best place to put the new goatshed.

  “It’s going there, in the corner near the postern gate where the little girls can milk the goats in the morning,” she said to them as she slid from Shilling’s back.

  “Janet!” shouted her brother and hugged her.

  Janet pushed him away.

  “Did ye hear what happened to Sergeant Dodd?”

  “The Border’s full of rumours about him, that he’s dead, that the Elliots have him, that he was taken by the Fae on New Year’s Eve.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Jock shut his mouth with an effort and stammered, “B…but are ye sure?”

  “He wis ambushed fra behind by Hughie Tyndale wi’ a crossbow, out on the moors a day or two after New Year’s and there was a heavy fall of snow that night. We’ve not found the body yet, but…”

  “Then mebbe he’s still alive?”

  Janet shook her head and said sadly, “Jesu, Jock, I hope so but it’s no’ likely, is it?”

  Jock set his jaw. “Where’s this Hughie Tyndale then?”

  “Lying out on the moors for the crows,” said Janet. “The courtier found him wi’ his crossbow discharged and Henry’s knife in his calf.”

  “What killed him?”

  Janet pointed at Whitesock who was pulling at his tether and showing the whites of his eyes. “He did, Whitesock. Ye mind, Henry reived him in London? He kicked in Tyndale’s chest, there wis hoofprints on it.”

  Jock’s eyes were wide. “Ay?”

  “Be careful on him, Jock, he’s no’ the sensible beast he was, he’s wood.”

  “Small wonder,” said Jock, shaking his head. “I’ll see to him last and maybe get some oat mash intae him.”

  “He’s not short of fodder, is Whitesock,” said Janet cynically. “Red Sandy’s been feeding him like a king.”

  Red Sandy smiled wanly and nodded.

  They opened the main gate wide so they could get the cart in and Janet’s cousins and brother started unloading it and the packponies. Despite the loss of the Sergeant, some of them couldn’t help smiling as they carried the heavy grain sacks into the half-empty storage huts.

  Carey took King James’ men into the keep where the remains of the huge Yule log were coals in the great fireplace. Two girls came in and started piling on kindling and small logs to get it going again. At least they could thaw out before they went to Carlisle the following day, though Carey thought he would send King James’ men home to Edinburgh over the drover’s roads since he did not ne
ed an escort to get to Carlisle. The five packponies could stay until they had loads to take to Berwick or Newcastle; he saw them being led out to the infield where they set to finding something to eat among the pawed snow and sour grass.

  The girls came trotting back with piles of bread trenchers and jugs of ale, which was promising. Widow Ridley brought Skinabake in behind her, his hands still tied in front of him, and now they were chatting like old friends. She came right up to Carey.

  “Tell the courtier what ye said about the man the day after New Year’s Day,” ordered Widow Ridley. “It might save yer neck.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it and dinna argue.”

  Carey sat down in Dodd’s own chair with the carved arms. Dodd had carved them himself with his knife, or said he had.

  “Ay, the carlin says, but whit does the courtier say?” grumbled Skinabake.

  “Information might save your neck,” said Carey. “Luckily it doesn’t have to be very valuable information, to match the neck. Let’s hear it first.”

  “Och, I dinna ken why she thinks it’s important.”

  “Or we could just hang you, which frankly I’d prefer.”

  “It was naught but summat my lads saw a day or two after New Year’s, which was a man by hisself on a good horse, riding fast.”

  Carey shrugged. “What was special about him?”

  “Ye mind what the weather was like hereabouts, snowing again. Not even the Queen’s messengers were riding. He had a remount too.”

  “And where was this?”

  “We wis staying with some…er…friends for New Year,” said Skinabake, “and the lads had only gone out to fodder the horses and they didna like it, and they didna stay out long and all three of them saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “About ten miles south o’ Carell city.”

  “Ten miles south of Carlisle?”

  “Ay,” said Skinabake. “And he wis heading south and west.”

  Grahams, Carey thought instantly, a lesser branch, possibly Bangtail’s family or cousins. So this man hadn’t been heading for Carlisle, which was at least interesting especially as the weather was so bad.