A Chorus of Innocents

by P. F. Chisholm

  “There’s two men, Archie and Jemmy Burn,” Carey was saying gravely to them. “They took money from my enemy Lord Spynie—remember him, Young Hutchin?—to go into Scotland, find a man that was a minister and kept a school for boys like you and kill him. Their own cousin.”

  There was some shocked tutting but these boys were practical.

  “And?”

  “I will give a gold angel to any of you that brings me a true word on where they’re hiding. They’ve come to Carlisle and they might be in the town, or they might be at someone’s tower. I want them.”

  “What’ll ye do to them?”

  “I’ll hang them.”

  “Can we come and see it?” asked Young Hutchin Graham.

  “I don’t know. If I can, I’ll give them their long necks at Carlisle Castle but if I’m in a hurry, I’ll hang ’em wherever I catch them.”

  The boys scattered, talking about the angel excitedly and arguing over who it was on the coin, was it a man with wings or was it an angel and if so, which one. Young Hutchin waited until Carey was out of the way and then trotted purposefully down into the town where one of his respectable cousins had two guests in need of hiding.

  Saturday 21st October 1592

  Scrope went out with Sir Richard Lowther the next day on a tour of the West March, checking the defensibility of the fortresses and the state of the paths and roads. Carey stayed in Carlisle, and bought Anricks’ oats when they came plodding in late in the afternoon. Anricks had paid out a hundred shillings Scots for them, which were only worth a quarter of an English shilling, thanks to debasements by the Scottish king and rampant forgery on the Borders. So he paid one pound, five shillings English. Carey was perfectly happy to pay three pounds English for the oats, which were good, and Anricks kept the pack ponies. Dodd found this very impressive.

  “How did ye know he would pay that for them?” he asked Anricks, over a pint at Bessie’s.

  “I didn’t. I also took the risk that my oats would be reived from me on the way and that they wouldn’t be as good as I thought. I could have ended up with no oats at all—for instance, if you and the dogs hadn’t driven off the raiders who tried to take them from me—but luckily I didn’t. So I owe both you and Sir Robert something for that.”

  “Ye do?”

  “Yes. Will seven shillings and sixpence be enough for you?”

  “What?”

  “For helping with the pack ponies, specifically driving off the Elliots.”

  “Och…er…ay, that’s…er…thanks.”

  And Anricks counted out seven silver shillings and six pennies just like that, onto the board. After a moment, Dodd took them. Extraordinary. He rather thought he had just earned the money with not a hint of larceny about it. He couldn’t wait to tell Janet; she’d split her sides.

  “Whit about the Courtier? He might not want the money, though he allus needs it, ye follow?”

  “Oh yes, Sergeant, I do. I’ll recompense him in other ways, more fitting to his station.”

  “Ay.”

  They finished their quarts companionably while Dodd wondered why such an odd person was really in the West March of England and what he was really doing. He knew a pursuivant was just a term for a spy or a man that did other men’s dirty work. While there was dirty work in plenty in the West March, he didn’t think the tooth-drawer would be interested in the Johnstones and the Maxwells or the way the Carletons were playing off Lowther or how the Grahams added to the chaos. Maybe he was indeed interested in the Maxwell, who was a Catholic, after all. He mentioned how Carey had been betrayed by the man in the summer and found himself telling the tooth-drawer a couple of stories himself, until he noticed and shut his mouth grimly. Anricks listened well, in a way which drew stories out of you.

  “And now I need to find a man called Thomas the Merchant Hetherington and lend him some of my money.”

  Well, Dodd knew where that one did business so they headed down to English street and halfway there they saw a big ugly man in a leather cap with three tired-looking boys, the smallest of them carrying his newly whittled clogs and his feet covered in mud.

  Anricks stopped dead and stared. “By the Almighty,” he said, “it’s Cuddy Trotter, Andy Hume, and Jimmy Tait. How did you get here?”

  “Och, look Dad, it’s the tooth-drawer, Mr Anricks, the minister’s friend,” said the smallest of them, tired but shining with pride. “We’re here tae ’prentice tae the cathedral, Mr Anricks. We walked all the way and stayed at a place we thocht was it but it wasn’t and me dad came and he said, ye’ve done a man’s work, Jimmy, Ah’ll take ye there maself and we walked and walked and he only carried me a bit and so we’re here now.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful, Jimmy. You must be Mr Tait?”

  “Ay sir, d’ye ken where the cathedral is, for we’re all tired and I’m fair famished as well.”

  Anricks seemed relieved and pleased to see them. “Mr Tait, I’m going to take you to the best inn in Carlisle so you and the boys can rest and then the boys can test for the cathedral in the morning.”

  “Ay, but we havenae cash…”

  “I’ve just made some with my tooth-drawing in Jedburgh and so it’ll be my treat. Where’s the young Lord Hughie?”

  “He stayed behind at Jedburgh, said he had something to do before he came,” said Jock Tait.

  “Then, please, allow me.”

  And he bore them along to Bessie’s inn, hard by the castle gate, illegal but tolerated and bought them all the ordinary and pints of mild ale for the boys and a quart of Bessie’s incomparable double-double for Jock Tait. And there he got the rest of the tale from them. They were all too tired to do the running around that boys usually do but when they’d finished every scrap of the haggis and bashed neeps and a bag pudding too with a sherry and sugar and butter sauce for a treat, Jimmy Tait turned to Andy and hummed a note. Andy grinned and hummed one back and there they were, singing like birds in a tree, the new ballad of Scarborough Fair with an old tune to it.

  “Why aren’t you singing, Cuddy?”

  “Canna sing, that’s why, sir, but I can read and write and mebbe I could learn to play an instrument cos I can read the music well enough just not sing it.”

  “Do you want to ’prentice at the cathedral?”

  “Ay sir, that’s why we’ve all come.”

  Anricks nodded and after a while he slipped away from the commonroom, with Dodd following him, and stood looking down at the cathedral.

  “Are you there, Sergeant?”

  “Ay, Mr Anricks.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me the best way to the cathedral?”

  “I’ll show ye,” said Dodd who was nearly dying of curiosity.

  They went to the gate into the cathedral precincts where Mr Anricks spoke quietly to the doorkeeper who eyed him fishily but brought him the Bursar, as he asked.

  “There are three boys that want to join the choir,” he explained. “Two of them have fine voices but the third…you’ll want him paid for, yes?”

  The Bursar allowed as how that was possible. “I am related to a wealthy merchant in London,” said Anricks. “He gave me a banker’s draft for a large sum of money, more than sufficient to cover the cost of the boys’ education. I am willing to sign it over to you to ease the boys’ path and also that of a lad called Piers Dixon, if he should come too.”

  Well the Bursar couldn’t possibly say whether the boys would be good enough to…The Choirmaster? He was rehearsing with the boys now. Could he come now? It was very irregular, sir, and I don’t…

  Anricks took out a piece of paper and spread it on the table. There was complete silence.

  Half an hour later the choirmaster, Bursar, and Bishop were walking down the road to Bessie’s, along with Anricks and Dodd who was wondering exactly how much the banker’s draft was for. He also wanted to know how it c
ame about that Anricks had it. There was no gold anywhere to be seen, but the Bursar, the Choirmaster and the Bishop were all acting as if a large quantity of it was somewhere close, but was shy and might run away if they were rude or made sudden movements.

  At Bessie’s they found a singsong in progress, being conducted by Cuddy, with Jock Tait’s bass mixing with the boys’ voices as they sang, his old jack off and steaming by the fire. The Choirmaster listened carefully with his eyes squinting and then went to Jock and asked if he could hear the boys sing solo. Andy sang the Twa Corbies, which was a little grim but you couldn’t mistake his alto. Then Jimmy Tait stood on the table, didn’t wait, didn’t pause to get some hush, just launched into the old song of Greensleeves, high up the register, bang on the note, and with a world of longing in the old song that seemed to come from somewhere far older than he was.

  The Bursar’s and the Bishop’s mouths fell open and the Choirmaster seemed to hold his breath for the entirety of the song. When Jimmy finished, the whole of Bessie’s stayed quiet for a moment and then there was clapping and a lot of roaring and shouting. Someone was passing a hat round. Meanwhile the Choirmaster came to Anricks and said,

  “Thank you sir, for bringing him to my attention. How old is he?”

  “I think he’s about seven years old.”

  “God be thanked that he came here now. The older boy will only give us a couple of years and there’s no telling after that, but he will give us five, maybe six. We will not need your banker’s draft, sir…”

  The Bursar started to protest at that but was quelled by a glare from the Choirmaster. The Bishop nodded gravely in acquiescence.

  Jimmy Tait was unconcernedly picking his nose, sitting on the table while Andy chatted to a man near the front of the crowd about where they came from.

  It happened so quickly, nobody had time to react. Two men in cloaks, one by the door, the other further in. The one further in moved toward Jock Tait purposefully.

  Jimmy Tait looked up as he fished carefully for an elusive lump of snot in his nose and then he froze. Seconds later he was standing on the table screaming and pointing.

  “It’s them, it’s them, they killt the minister.”

  The man in the cloak moved up close to Jock Tait, while he was reaching for his knife, grabbed his shoulder and made the short forceful motion with his right arm that said he was stabbing Jock, stabbed him again.

  `Dodd swept his sword out and bellowed, “Castle to me!” But he couldn’t get past all the people in the way. The screaming and the shock gave both of the men the time to slide out the door while Jock Tait looked down at himself, puzzled and brought up his hand bright red with blood and Jimmy Tait screamed and screamed.

  Dodd raced out into the night, found that two of the guard, Red Sandy and Bangtail, were at his back and chased the two men down Scotch street to the Scotchgate where the postern was open and two hobbies waiting. The men jumped onto the horses and rode like the devil up the road.

  Bangtail came trotting past him. “Ye go git the deputy,” he said. “We’ll follow ’em, eh, Red Sandy?”

  Dodd turned and sprinted back through the town and up to the castle, too many bloody stairs, up to the Queen Mary tower where he found the deputy’s Scotch servant snoring already, down again and up to the Warden’s Lodgings where some warbling was sounding through the grim old stones.

  Carey was singing with his sister. Dodd appeared at the door and spoiled the party by still having his sword out. Carey actually finished the verse and then came out to him, listened as he explained what had happened, scowled and went back to Philadelphia whom he kissed and then left still holding the music.

  They went down into the town where Anricks had Jock Tait laid out on a table at Bessie’s with a crowd of folk breathing down his neck. Jimmy Tait was squatting next to his father, gripping his hand, and Andy and Cuddy were standing at the head and foot of the table with their eating knives out and their teeth showing.

  “They’ve run, lads,” Dodd told them. “They had hobbies waiting at the Scotchgate.” There was a growl from some of the townsfolk at this, which was right because that postern should have been locked shut at this time of night. Andy and Cuddy put up their knives but Jimmy stayed where he was.

  Carey greeted the Bishop and the Choirmaster who were sitting nearby, the Bishop with his hands folded while the Choirmaster was watching the proceedings intently.

  Jock Tait was still conscious, his jerkin open and his shirt up round his armpits. Anricks had his doublet off and his shirtsleeves rolled up and his gory apron on again. There was blood all over the place, bright red some of it. The woman known as Bessie’s wife was holding up a candle behind him and Anricks was holding a pair of his dental pliers in the flame.

  “Hold still, Jock, if you can,” said Anricks as he reached into the larger of the two stab wounds with the pliers and squeezed. There was a hissing sound and a smell of pork and some of the red blood seemed to stop. Jock shut his eyes and grunted. Anricks paused for a moment, mopping blood with a cloth and then he heated the pliers again and did it again and then again. Jimmy put his other hand on his father’s fist and held tight, while drops of blood rolled from the side of Jock’s mouth. But the blood from the wounds almost stopped.

  “There now,” said Anricks, “I’m not an expert at stab wounds but I think I’ve stopped the worst of the bleeding.” He took a bottle of Bessie’s best aqua vitae and sprinkled it round the wounds and then he took a needle and thread and sewed up the holes as if he was a tailor mending a coat. Then he poured on more aqua vitae and bandaged Jock up.

  “I’ve done the best I can,” he said to Jock, “it all now depends on whether he got anything vital in there, but I don’t think he did, not your liver and not your gut either. So you might live, Jock, that’s all I can say.”

  Jock made a creaking sound that might have been a laugh. “Ay, an honest barber,” he said. “It’ll take more’n this to kill me.”

  They kept Jock on the board and six of the men brought him up the stairs to one of the guest rooms, with Jimmy still holding his hand. But by that time Jock had passed out.

  Anricks was washing his hands and arms in a bucket of water out the back and, surprisingly, washing the pliers he had used as well when Dodd came downstairs again. Carey was standing there, talking to him calmly as if he hadn’t just been delving about in a man’s guts.

  “I got the idea of using heated pliers from people who don’t stop bleeding when I draw their teeth,” Anricks was saying. “I have no idea if it will work since this is the first time I’ve tried it. Most likely he’ll die from a fever in the belly, that’s what kills people who have been stabbed if they don’t bleed to death. Usually they bleed to death, so perhaps the pliers will work.”

  Andy and Cuddy came up to him. “Thank you for trying to save Jimmy’s dad,” they said in chorus, then looked at each other uncertainly. “We know who they are, sir,” they said to Carey, who was by far the most fancily dressed man there and therefore must be in charge. “They’re the men that came to kill the minister. We’d know them again anywhere. They’re Archie and Jemmy Burn and they killed him and they tried to kill Lady Widdrington and now they’ve tried tae kill Jimmy’s dad when they were just made friends for the first time because he’s the witness.”

  Carey nodded seriously at them. “We’ll do our best to catch them and hang them,” he said. “That’s a promise.”

  “When ye catch them, ye willna compose with them?” asked Andy anxiously, “not even if their friend the courtier asks ye?”

  “Especially not if Lord Spynie asks me,” said Carey.

  ***

  Bangtail came back an hour and a half later to say that the two of them had gone to ground at a small tower owned by the Grahams, a mere five miles out of town. He didn’t think they had noticed that they were being followed for he and Red Sandy had kept well back and we
ll apart. Red Sandy had stayed by the tower in case they moved or went anywhere else.

  Carey smiled at that and said, “Well then, let’s try and catch them unawares.”

  They called out the guard quietly, all of them, not just the ones that were supposed to go out on patrol who happened to be Thomas Carleton’s lot, but all of them, even the ones in bed at the castle. Thomas Carleton roused himself out as well, jack on his back and his tarnished morion helmet on his head, chuckling quietly at something.

  At two in the morning, the Courtier inspected the men lined up in the castle courtyard. Scrope and Sir Richard Lowther were at Gretna, last he heard, before they went into the Debateable Land and met with some of the Grahams and Armstrongs there. Perhaps they would also meet the Maxwell, the current Scottish West March Warden who was being elusive about a Warden’s Day, although it had been years since the last one. And so, as acting Deputy Warden, he had the authority to call on all of them and he did.

  They didn’t bother with remounts because the tower was so close to Carlisle and rode out with muffled hooves and harness, with a turf carried in Carey’s saddlebag ready to light if necessary. None of the slow matches on the guns were lit, but Dodd and Carleton had firepots for them when the time came.

  Thursday Night 19th October to Friday 20th October 1592

  The Jedburgh inn’s parlour door opened and young Lord Hughie came in, walked and sat opposite Elizabeth while she dozed in the blessed warmth of the fire. She opened her eyes and saw him but sat there quietly. His young and beautiful face looked peaceful again.