A Chorus of Innocents

by P. F. Chisholm

  And then war came and Agnes rode away with her aunt from Bad King Henry’s men, she rode and rode, all day and night she rode for there was no telling which way to go, and all you could see was the smoke by day and the fire by night and she didna know what had happened to Ralph and Jock and Hughie nor any of her family, for Bad King Henry’s men were burning and killing all the way up the Merse to Edinburgh, the Rough Wooing they called it, for it was to get the little Queen to marry the little Prince Edward.

  And one day Agnes was in a wood and she had been riding and riding with her aunt’s people and the men around her frightened, and she fell asleep for she was very tired and when she woke up she was all alone. That was frightening for she didna ken which way to go, didna ken even which way was north nor she had no horse neither for her palfrey had wandered off. She wandered for a while and so she came on a pavilion and in the pavilion was a sleeping knight wearing white samite and gold. She went away from there and found a man shooting arrows at a target in a red coat. She went away from there to a cave and the King of Elfland came to her. He was in disguise, of course, as an English archer and he treated her gently enough and he was kind to her and he gave her a beautiful collar of gold with emeralds and sapphires in it and showed her the way back to her aunt and…

  At that point Lady Hume started snoring, leaving Elizabeth wondering just how gently the King of Elfland in disguise as an English archer had treated her in fact. It took her a while to go to sleep, with not being accustomed to sleeping with anyone else since she usually took the truckle bed when Sir Henry was home so she wouldn’t accidentally bump him in the night and hurt his gouty leg.

  Sunday Morning 15th October 1592

  Elizabeth woke before dawn as she usually did, lay for a while listening to Lady Hume’s snores and wondering why she had no woman with her. You’d expect at least one to help her with dressing and undressing and to do necessary things like emptying the jordan. It seemed the Lady Hume had come from whatever she was doing, straight to Wendron without even stopping to change her clothes. That was odd as well.

  She got up into the freezing dawn, used the pot and wiped her face with a napkin from the cupboard, then she dressed herself in her old riding habit again and put on her riding boots before kneeling to pray as she always did.

  It always took a lot of effort now to bring her mind to God. It was as if her mind was a tent and outside it was Sir Robert Carey, in a sportive mood, poking his head between the tent’s walls and smiling at her with that wonderful smile of his, that curled up on either side and had a little bit of danger in it for salt.

  She sighed and brought her mind back to the Lord’s Prayer again. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. She always tried to forgive Sir Henry for the way he treated her since he had a right to do it as he’d told her many times.…But he did it without justice, that’s what made her angry. She tried to smooth out the anger, pat it down, but there it was living inside her and making her feel contempt for her husband. She knew that was wrong. She may not love him, and indeed she didn’t, but she should respect him as her lord. She could respect Robin, despite his love of finery, which kept beggaring him, and despite his tendency to come up with crazy dangerous schemes that could get him killed in dozens of different ways.…The way he kept finding excuses to come north to see her, for instance, despite the fact that Sir Henry hated his guts even before he had any idea that Elizabeth had lost her heart to the man. That crazy wager of his a few years ago, when Carey had seemingly bet everyone at Court that he could walk to Berwick from London in ten days and had done it with a day to spare by running some of the way where the road was good—he did that so he could come upon her unexpectedly while she was dealing with the very stinkiest part of the flax harvest and…For a moment she thought about how near an escape that had been for her virtue. The lord he had riding behind him to make sure he didn’t get on a horse had kept tactfully back at a distance. And she had been so surprised and pleased and flattered at how Robin had come to her, she had let him kiss her and been utterly overwhelmed by the…the happiness of being kissed. The utter pure joy of it.

  She sighed again. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. That was the line from the Lord’s Prayer she always had trouble with, and for good reason. Robin Carey was temptation personified. Robin Carey was every married old man’s fear. She wanted to be tempted by him.

  She finished her prayers while Lady Hume still snored and went out into the dawn to see what needed doing. It was Sunday but there was no minister to give the church service so she supposed that would go by the board. For instance, would the Burns want some kind of funeral feast? If they did she had no idea how she could provide it without a trip to Berwick to get supplies and more money than she’d brought for the journey.

  Jock Burn was there, practising a veney with a young lad who was enthusiastic but rotten at swordplay. He stopped and had a drink when he saw her and pulled his cap off a bit.

  “Good day, Mr Burn,” she said, as always promoting him above his proper rank which was goodman. Robin had taught her that as a quick and cheap way of flattering people.

  “Ay missus,” he said, “m’lady.”

  “I was wondering about the funeral meats,” she said without preamble. “Would your family be wanting to go to Berwick…?”

  “Ay,” he said, with a broad smile, “we thocht of that last night and my little brother Jemmy and his son Archie and some of our cousins went out the night to…ah…to find some sheep.”

  She glared at him in annoyance. “From our ain herds,” added Jock, “our ain herds and…And our friends’ herds…”

  “I hope,” she said freezingly, “that you weren’t planning a raid into the East March of England.”

  “Nay, nay,” he said hurriedly, “ainly the Middle March…ah. Where our friends live, ye follow?”

  “Well, I hope, if your friends miss any beasts, that you’ll pay for them.”

  “Och aye, we will, missus. Sir John Forster’ll see us right.”

  “Hmf.” She didn’t doubt that the deeply corrupt and ancient Middle March Warden would want paying; she was thinking of the families that owned the herds.

  She thought about that and although it was probably too late, she went over to the alehouse and found Young Henry out in the front on the village green with the targets, practising archery.

  “We should send a message to John Carey and Sir John Forster, the Burns are out looking for funeral meats.”

  Henry looked annoyed. “I should have thought of that,” he said. “I haven’t got a man to send but I’ll find a boy.”

  “So should I,” Elizabeth agreed. “I think Forster in the Middle March is more urgent.”

  Young Henry nodded, handed his bow to a cousin and went into the alehouse. Elizabeth went to enquire among the women about beer and found they only brewed for themselves and their families and none of them could supply anything like enough for a funeral. She went back to the manse and up the stairs and found Lady Hume sitting on the bed, ordering a village girl around.

  “Child, I want ye to fetch me water in that bowl and while ye’re at it, take the jordan and swill it out and come back quick for to bring me my breakfast,”

  “I’ll bring that,” said Elizabeth pleasantly. “I need to talk to you, my lady.”

  “Och aye, and who’re ye?”

  “Lady Elizabeth Widdrington, ma’am. We met yesterday and shared a bed last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not sure about beer but there’s some hot porridge in the warmer.”

  “Ay,” said the old lady with dignity, “that’s a’ I ever have is porridge or toast if the bread’s old.”

  Porridge it was, with the last heel of the loaf, and the crock of butter and some mild ale that Elizabeth had begged from the girl’s mother who was cleaning downstairs. The hot coals in the
brick range had been hot enough to bring the fire back and there was quite a sharp fire in there now, enough to fry bacon if there had been bacon to fry.

  By the time Lady Hume had eaten her breakfast with Elizabeth keeping her company, they had agreed that the funeral could not be held without baked meats nor beer and that Elizabeth would take one of the cousins and go to Berwick in search of beer—which was plentiful there, thank the Lord. That meant the funeral would be tomorrow. Lady Hume recommended a brewer called Atchison in Berwick, whom Elizabeth had never heard of. As for money, she went to Jock Burn who was now playing a veney with another black-haired, grey-eyed man who looked remarkably like himself and doing rather better, while a nice-looking young man watched carefully.

  “Ay,” said Jock. “Ah wis wondering about beer and I’d think kindly of ye if ye’d see to it, my lady.” He reached in his purse and brought out two English pounds and some Scotch shillings which made Elizabeth frown because she knew so much money could only have come from blackrent.

  There were still some Burns coming in and Robsons and Pringles as well, so she estimated she’d need a cartload of beer at least. She found a Widdrington cousin by the name of Humphrey Fenwick and he agreed to come with her to Berwick. She saddled and bridled Rat herself and mounted up.

  “Will ye fetch marchpane fra Berwick too?” said Lady Hume, coming out into the stableyard. “And I’ve found her store of raisins o’the sun and dried plums fra last year and I’ll make a cake wi’ them but I’ve nae marchpane for a cover.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I’ll try, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll go to Sixsmith and see if he’s got some.”

  “Ay, he’s good. Or Johnstone?”

  Elizabeth said nothing. There was no confectioner in Berwick called Johnstone, although she thought there had been one long ago. She walked her horse out of the yard and joined up with Humphrey, waved to Jock who waved back, and put her heels in.

  Saturday 14th to Sunday 15th October 1592

  The bell had rung at two in the morning and they had gone out half an hour later with the trod. Dodd carried the lance with the burning turf on it and Red Sandy behind him with the other men, including three of the Southerners who could ride well enough. It wasn’t raining for a wonder and they had caught up with the running herds on the edge of the Bewcastle waste and had a running fight of it all the way to Kershopefoot where the Elliots and English Armstrongs had broken for Liddesdale, leaving most of their booty.

  So all in all it was quite a successful night with some nice kine and sheep to choose Warden fees from and nobody had taken any hurt except for Bangtail who had managed to twist his ankle somehow and the Courtier was getting much better at letting his hobby choose his own pace and just going with it. The Earl of Essex’ men were still stiff-backed, though, and seemed to get very tired as the night went on. Carey was happy as they sorted out the herd on the hills and took them back to their owners—for a wonder, most of the beasts were branded and identifiable —but as they came back toward Carlisle he seemed to lose his bounce again and become morose. Now Dodd wouldn’t have been surprised at, say, Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon being in a bad temper, but, really, the Courtier should have been happy at the way the night had gone.

  He had bags under his eyes as well and now he thought about it, Carey had been in a bad mood for over a week. Was he missing London and the South? Was he missing his lady-love Elizabeth Widdrington? Was he missing pretty doublets and hose? What the devil was wrong with him?

  As they returned the last of the sheep to some Carletons and took their fees on to Carlisle, Dodd dropped the last bits of turf off his lance and hurried his horse up to Carey’s. The man was swinging along and didn’t look sick. He had the loose-backed look of a proper reiver. If it wasn’t for the plain anonymous stitching on his jack and his fancy chased and half-gilded morion helmet, you couldn’t tell the difference, really, especially as his goatee beard was getting a bit overgrown.

  Being late in the year, the Sun was only just up, and in fact it was a nice day. You couldn’t complain at the weather; the Moon had been at half but the skies had been clear and they’d had plenty of light…

  Maybe it was Carey’s creditors again? He’d managed to pay the men for September with what he’d brought with them from the South, and as far as Dodd knew, his tab wasn’t too heroic at Bessie’s. Had he been gambling at cards? But Carey was the best player in Carlisle; if he had, he’d likely be happy. Was he bored?

  Was it some problem with his ugly Scottish servant Hughie Tyndale or that skinny boy John Tovey he had acquired as a clerk? Or with Philadelphia, his sister, who was tired of the north and talking about going south again to serve the Queen at Court once more. The Queen had sent her a letter, what had been in it?

  So when they clattered through the town and up to the castle yard, Dodd stuck by Carey. They penned their fees in the enclosure for the purpose and then there was what looked like a great confusion of men dismounting and leading horses into their stalls and untacking them and rubbing them down. It wasn’t, it was highly organised because Carey had ended the habit the men had of leaving their horses to the care of the boys. Each man took care of his own horse and there were nosebags and buckets of water there in the yard ready, on Carey’s insistence that your hobby was in fact more important than you were, and harder to replace, and you had better see him or her fed, watered, untacked, wiped down and comfortable before you went to breakfast, or he would want to know why. The southerners had moaned about it for a bit but they got no sympathy and Dodd had given one of them a kicking to make the point. The habit had spread to all the men of the Castle guard because the hobbies went better and didn’t go lame so often.

  Oddly enough, Carey did exactly the same as the men though of course he could have used one of the boys running about with feedbuckets. Dodd stood in the next stall with a whisp of hay, rubbing down his horse, a big lad called Patch while Carey did the same thing with his usual hobby whom he had named Sorrel.

  The movements were the same, but there was something still very wrong with Carey. Dodd realised what it was when he found himself whistling “The Three Witches” between his teeth and realised that Carey wasn’t singing, humming, or whistling anything, not even one of those irritating Court tunes he liked so well.

  Dodd was shocked enough to stop rubbing Patch’s big black and white whithers and peer over his horse at the Courtier. Carey had given Sorrel a swift wipe-down while he munched, was just now checking the hooves as he always did and after a stern look around the stall, picked his helmet off the manger and walked out into the yard again. Dodd finished up quickly and followed him.

  Carey stood for a while, watching what was going on in the stableyard. Young Hutchin Graham was now in charge of the boys, by dint of fighting and beating the boy who had been doing it before, and his soprano yell rang out at once when a hobby took a bite at the one next to him.

  “Ye’re soft, ye are,” sneered Hutchin to the small lad there. “D’ye no’ ken Twice and Blackie are at feud, eh? Go on, take Twice down th’ither end o’ the yard.”

  Andy Nixon looked abashed as well and went with his horse.

  Carey nodded once and continued across the yard and down the passageway to Bessie’s, where the breakfasts would be hot and waiting—bacon, sausage, black pudding, onions, sippets, eggs. Bessie could hear the bell as well as anyone in Carlisle and knew to get ready for when they came back.

  Dodd followed him, trying to look as if he was just going the same way into Bessie’s very loud commonroom, which was already full of men filling their stomachs. Dodd got himself a trencher, served himself from the dishes laid out on the tables, and sat opposite Carey where he could keep an eye on him without being too obvious about it.

  Now that was odd. Carey had taken black pudding, onions, and eggs, but no sausages and no bacon. And it was Bessie’s bacon, which was more in the nature of fried collops and smoked in the large ch
imney. There were half a dozen flanks and haunches hanging there now, getting ready for Christmas.

  Dodd put his head down and started to eat into his pile of food because his belly was cleaving to his backbone and he was starved. Once he’d taken the edge off his hunger with a few sausages—not so good these, from the butcher and not of Bessie’s making; she probably hadn’t done her sausages yet—and three large slices of bacon and the fried sippets of bread he liked so well, he took a glance at Carey’s trencher and saw that the eggs and onions had gone but the black pudding was still there. Why? What was wrong with it? He tried some and it was fine. And no lovely golden crispy chunks of stale bread fried in the bacon fat for sippets either; what was wrong with the Courtier? The three Southerners were sitting at the next table with the other ones that couldn’t ride properly yet and Dodd could hear them boasting about what they had done while they powered through their breakfasts.

  However Carey was on his second quart of beer and sitting back. While Dodd watched, he beckoned one of the potboys, said something quiet to him. The boy came back with a small horn cup of something Dodd would swear was aqua vitae and Carey knocked it back with an odd swilling motion then drank more beer.