“Damnation,” he said to Dodd. “It’s Henry Widdrington the younger. I hadn’t realised he was in it or I’d have put all my money on him.”
“Good, is he?” asked Dodd with gloomy satisfaction that Carey was going to get a set down. Of course, Carey was craning his neck, looking about in the crowd: no sign of Lady Widdrington or her husband, thank God, thought Dodd, though Carey was disappointed.
“Too good, and he has a decent gun as well.”
“Who’s the lad standing by him?”
“His brother Roger, I think.”
They watched the competition in an atmosphere of deepening dismay, shared by the rest of the crowd who disliked watching an Englishman beat a Scot at any martial exercise. To scattered applause and some booing, young Henry Widdrington easily bore away the bell which was presented by the King’s foster-brother and erstwhile guardian, the Earl of Mar.
Carey sighed deeply, counted about twenty pounds out of his purse and went off to pay his debts. He wound up in the knot of men congratulating Widdrington on his shooting, and when Dodd wandered over nosily to find out what they were about, discovered that Carey was being persuaded to come into the football match and steadfastly refusing.
The King arrived at that point, announced by appalling trumpet playing, surrounded by a crowd of brilliantly dressed men and riding on a white horse from which he dismounted ungracefully and stumped to his chair. Lord Spynie was there, a little back from the main bunch about the King, talking intently with the wide balding figure of Sir Henry Widdrington. Elizabeth paced stately at her husband’s side, curtseyed poker-backed to the King and took up a place nearby. Spynie laughed at some comment of Widdrington’s, then went and stood by a stool beside the carven chair.
Dodd stole a look at Carey’s face as he watched Lady Widdrington. Unguarded by charm or mockery, for a moment the Courtier’s heart was nakedly visible there as his eyes burned the air between him and the woman. It was the face of a starving man gazing at a banquet.
Dodd elbowed the Courtier gently. “Sir,” he growled. “If I was Sir Henry, I’d shoot ye for no more than the look of your face.”
Carey blinked at him, evidently not all there. Dodd tried again.
“Sir Robert,” he said, gruff with annoyance at feeling sorry for the silly man. “Ye’ll do her more harm if ye stare like that.”
For a moment the blue glare was ferociously hostile and then Carey coloured up and looked at the ground. He cleared his throat.
“Er…yes, you’re right. Quite right.”
Watching the way he settled himself, it was exactly like watching a mummer put on a mask. Dear Lord, thought Dodd, he’s caught a midsummer madness to be sure. Carey was moving again, to the background noise of the Dumfries town crier announcing the King’s pleasure at the football match to be held and making a hash of it.
When the sheep-like bleating had finished, Carey moved up to the awning, swept his hat off, muttered quickly to the town crier and genuflected on one knee to the King. Sweat shining on his face the town crier shouted something incomprehensible about Sir Ronald Starey, Deputy Warden of the English West March.
King James squinted his eyes suspiciously for a moment as he looked down on the Courtier and then his face cleared and lightened with a surprisingly pleasant smile as he spoke. Against his will, Dodd was impressed: it seemed the King of Scots did know Carey and was willing to acknowledge him. Carey held out the other letter he had brought from Carlisle. The King took it and read it with heavy-lidded boredom and let Carey stay there with one knee in the damp grass for a considerable time while he sat and talked to Lord Spynie and the Earl of Mar on his other side about the contents. Eventually the King nodded his head affably and said a few words. Carey rose to his feet, backed away, bowed again.
This time Dodd watched Lady Widdrington. She looked once at Carey, when his attention was on the King, and for a moment, if Dodd had been Sir Henry, he would have shot her too. Then her lips compressed and she stared into the middle distance instead.
Carey arrived, busy undoing the many buttons and points of his fine black velvet doublet. He unbuckled his belts and shrugged it off his shoulders, handing it to Young Hutchin.
“I wouldn’t lay any bets on this match,” he said conversationally to Dodd as he rebelted his hose, rolled up his shirtsleeves and undid the ties of his small ruff, which ended coiled in his hat. “Not with the number of Johnstones on the one side and Maxwells on the other.”
“Ye’re not going to play at the football, are you, sir?” asked Dodd, appalled at this further evidence of the Deputy’s insanity.
“Well, I can hardly refuse when the King asked me to, now can I? Even if he told me to play for the Johnstones, since they’re a man short.”
“Have ye played at the football?”
Carey’s eyes were cold and surprised. “What do you take me for, Dodd? Of course I have, and in Scotland too. The King likes watching football. He has a notion that it promotes friendliness and reconciliation.”
“Friendliness and reconciliation?” Dodd repeated hollowly, remembering some football games he had played.
“That’s right.”
“Och, God.”
Carey nonchalantly handed over to Dodd what was left of his winnings from Maxwell, which felt as if it amounted to some eighty pounds or so and was much more money than Dodd had ever met in one place in his life before. Wild thoughts came to him of slipping away from the match and riding like hell for Gilsland to give it to his wife and calm her down, but Dodd was not daft. He slung the purse round his own neck and felt martyred.
Dodd looked across at the young laird Johnstone who was disaccoutring with his men. The Lord Maxwell was stripping off as well. Silks, velvets and brocades piled one on top of the other, producing two anonymous herds of men in shirts, hose and boots, who glowered at each other across a grassy chasm of competitive rivalry and family ill-feeling. Carey spoke briefly to Maxwell, who laughed and shrugged. Then he sauntered over and joined the other lot.
Dodd shook his head and stepped back with the crowd. Young Hutchin was sitting up on a fence. The Earl of Mar stood on a small hillock in the middle of the field and announced that the holes dug at each end of the pasture were the goals and no man was to touch the ball with his hands or run with it under his arm. And further no weapons of any kind were to be used or even brought on the pitch.
King James smiled kindly from his carved seat, said a few words about playing in a Godly and respectable way, raised a white handkerchief. Lord Spynie threw the ball into the middle of the crowd of men, the handkerchief dropped and the game began.
***
Elizabeth Widdrington stood beside her husband near Lord Spynie and stared at the field full of desperately struggling football players, trying not to squint in order to focus on one particular man among them. She could feel her husband simmering with spleen beside her, waiting for her to make some slip he could punish her for. She prayed automatically for strength, but could not help thinking that it was very unfair of God to put Robin Carey across her path so persistently when it hurt her heart to look at him and know she could never speak to him again. Her husband had decreed it and backed his orders with the threat, which she had no doubt he was capable of carrying out, that he would personally geld Carey if she disobeyed. She would have obeyed him in any case, naturally, since that was her duty, or she thought she would, but…She trembled for Robin’s impetuosity, his odd contradictory nature: he could plan and organise as wisely as an old soldier or the Queen of England herself, and then suddenly he would take some wild notion and throw himself into the middle of hair-raising risks with blithe self-confidence and trust in his luck. She loved him for it but she was certain that Sir Henry could use his daring to outmanoeuvre and destroy him very easily. And even though she felt as if a stone was hanging from her heartstrings in the middle of her chest at the thought of never talking to him or smiling at him, there was some comfort at least in his still being alive, whole, runni
ng like a deer over the rough grass with the ball at his feet, his elbows flying and his face alight with laughter at the pack of Maxwells behind him.
Christ have mercy, she could not take her eyes off him.
Sir Henry’s fingers bit into her arm. “Enjoying the match, wife?”
She could feel her cheeks reddening, but she managed to look gravely down at her grizzled husband. Remotely she wondered if her life would have been easier if she had been of a more womanly height: it had been the source of the first contention between them, the simple fact that she was taller.
“No, my lord,” she said evenly. “It has always seemed to me much like watching a herd of noisy cows lumbering from one end of the field to the other.”
Sir Henry snorted and peered at her, looking for deceit. There was none; how could she enjoy the match? What if Robin was hurt or killed?
“Do you want to go back to our lodgings?”
She thought for a moment, what her answer should be. The words were kind and solicitous, but the tone of voice was ugly. She ducked her head humbly.
“Whatever you wish, my lord,” she said eventually, taking refuge in pliancy. It didn’t mollify him. His fingers bit deeper, hurting her. He might be short, but her husband was very strong for all his ill-health and his gout.
“Ye can stay,” he hissed. “Stay and watch. And keep your countenance, bitch.”
She curtseyed to him and said, “Yes, my lord.” The stone hanging from her heart swayed and chilled. He was planning something ugly, and he wanted her to see. Oh, my God, Robin, take care, be careful…Lord Jesus, look after him, guard him…
The courtiers were enjoying themselves, cheering on either the Johnstones or the Maxwells, depending on their affinities and their wagers. There was a blurring in Elizabeth’s eyes and she stared at the field in a general way, trying not to focus on Carey. The herd of two-legged cattle thundered past them again, shouting confusedly. Occasionally a faster runner than the others would burst from the ruck and run in one direction or the other with the ball bobbing at his feet and then generally two or three of the other side would launch themselves at him, punch him or wrestle him down, the ball would run free and a yelling shouting heap of men would struggle for possession until somebody else burst from the ruck and the process began again, leaving the occasional body prone on the broken sod behind them. She couldn’t help but catch sight of Carey every so often, generally kicking the ball away from him to James Johnstone and on one occasion leaping in, fists flying, to a more than usually vicious contention for the ball near one of the goal-holes.
She couldn’t warn him. She could only watch helplessly and pray.
When it did happen the thing was so confused she had no clear idea how. One moment the ball was in the air and Carey was in the centre of a pyramid of men all trying to leap and head it one way or the other. The next moment, the ball was in play down the other end of the field and Carey was lying on his side with his knees up to his chest, writhing silently. She saw Sergeant Dodd and the rather beautiful fair-haired Graham boy run out from the crowd and bend over him solicitously, then help him off slung between their shoulders, his face still working and his legs not seeming able to support him.
Sir Henry trod heavily on her foot and combined both a satisfied grin and a scowl.
“I said, keep your countenance, wife.”
Elizabeth looked down at him and for a moment felt strangely remote from him and herself, as if she was staring down at an ugly squat creature from some mountain peak. If she had had any kind of weapon in her hand at the time, she would have killed him and burned for it gladly. Sir Henry seemed to recognise her hatred, paused, perhaps even recoiled a little.
She could no longer see Carey, who seemed to be sitting by the fence with people round him. She had seen no blood when he was helped off the field, but she knew enough not to put reliance on that. Please God, let him not be hurt badly.
“Did ye hear me, bitch?”
She looked back at her husband, the man she had been so determined to serve dutifully as a good wife when the match had been arranged ten years before, the man she had tried so very hard to please because God required it of her. Quite suddenly, like a lute string tuned too far, her loathing broke and transmuted itself into cold, indifferent distaste.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, not bothering to hide her weariness of him and his posturing.
“I paid one o’ the Johnstones to grab his bollocks,” said Sir Henry. “That’ll learn him to keep his gun in its case.”
“Did you, my lord?” she said tonelessly. Sir Henry’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you got Lord Spynie to convince the King to have him play?”
“What are friends for?”
“Yes, my lord.” She turned slightly away and swallowed a yawn—from nervousness, not boredom, but Sir Henry didn’t know that and she could feel the anger vibrate in him again. He told her to keep her countenance, but in fact he wanted her to break down and weep and beg him to have mercy. She had even tried it years before, but she never made the mistake of repeating experiments that failed. He sneered at her sometimes for being as stiff-necked as a man, and she thought bitterly that no man would stand for what she stood for, no, not a galley slave in the French navy. No man would have to.
He will beat me again tonight, she thought, still distant from herself, her body gathering and shrinking inside her clothes with well-learned fear, her mind strangely unmoved. Perhaps she was at last getting used to it.
Instead of bowing her head as she usually did, consciously trying to placate him, she turned and looked in Carey’s direction though she couldn’t see him since he was still sitting on a rock. What was the point of trying to placate someone who enjoyed beating her? She carried on looking, ignoring the fingers bruising her arm and shifting her feet to avoid Sir Henry’s, until she saw Carey standing, still pale, still coughing, but not obviously dying. He was shaking his head.
This is a stupid thing to do, she thought to herself; I don’t even like football.
“My lord, I am feeling a little faint with the heat,” she said to her husband in a voice loud enough to be heard by the other courtiers nearby. “By your leave, I’ll go back to our lodgings now as you so kindly suggested.”
She knew the King would have no interest at all in the few women attending him, unlike Queen Elizabeth. She also knew that now she had seen what Sir Henry had brought her to see, he would be less insistent.
Sir Henry looked briefly pleased at having made an impression and then hissed, “Ye can stay and watch till the end.”
She curtseyed gravely to him, as if he had said yes. “My lord is very kind.”
Without pausing, she turned and curtseyed to the King in his carven chair and then walked away over the Brig Port and back into Dumfries. Obedience to Sir Henry had never made any difference as far as she could see, so she would try pleasing herself for a change. Besides, she wanted to get some sleep before the evening. Behind her the football match continued with much shouting.
Wednesday 12th July 1592, dawn
Carey had slept very badly, partly because his balls were sore. In the long run, though, he had been well out of the football match which had descended into a pitched brawl at the end amid such confusion that nobody could tell which side had won. The King had been very displeased. The other reason for wakefulness was the fact that the truckle bed Lord Maxwell’s servants had found him was alive with fleas and six inches too short for his legs which dangled off the end even though he lay diagonally. On waking up he found that one of Maxwell’s enormous Irish wolfhounds had curled up next to him at some time during the night and could thus explain the strange hairiness of the dream women he had met in his sleep.
“Good morning, bedfellow,” he said politely. The wolfhound panted, yawned and slobbered a vast tongue lovingly over his face. There was shouting in the next room, something about a surgeon.
It seemed Lord Maxwell was already awake. He came in, drinking his morning beer while
he put on his jack.
“The King’s gone fra the town for the hunt already,” he said without preamble as Carey swung his legs over the bed and sat up scratching and wiping dog drool off with his shirtsleeve. “I’m riding out to join him, if ye care to come?”
“I said I would, my lord,” Carey answered after a moment as he put on his hose.
Dodd appeared in his usual foul dawn mood, Red Sandy and Sim’s Will at his back, but there was no sign of Young Hutchin.
“Not again,” said Carey. “Did you see anything that…?”
“He slipped off when he woke, said he wanted to find his cousins and to tell ye not to be afeared for him, he willnae fall for it twice.”
“Bloody Grahams,” muttered Carey as he put on his doublet and began buttoning the front. “Will it be safe to leave our packponies and remounts here, my Lord Maxwell?”
Lord Maxwell was already on his way down the stairs, irritable about something. He gestured.
“They’ll be as safe as mine own. Are ye coming?”
Carey hurried to pull his boots on and follow the new lord Warden down to the courtyard, still rubbing his face and wishing he could shave. The wolfhound came padding softly after him, shaking herself occasionally. There was no doubt about it, Maxwell was in a temper and was looking at him with suspicion under those sooty eyebrows of his. What had Carey heard when he woke, something about a surgeon? Ah. Inspiration suddenly flowered.
“The guns,” he said aloud.
“Guns?” asked Maxwell, eyes like slits.
“The two hundred-odd mixed calivers and pistols you have in Lochmaben, along with ammunition and priming powder,” Carey enlarged coolly. “If you like, I’ll inspect them for you and tell you if they’re bad or not.”
It wasn’t how he had planned to find out for certain whether Maxwell had the guns from the Carlisle armoury, but springing it on him that way certainly got an answer. Maxwell was bug-eyed with surprise.
3 A Surfeit of Guns Page 14