Disgrace And Favour

by Jeremy Potter

  ‘A messenger has reached me from Sir Robert Kerr, Robin. He asks for my word that if Geordie Bourne is condemned he will not be executed today.’ Sir John spoke without ceremony or preamble. He avoided his younger brother’s eye and Sir Robert mused scornfully on which of the two of them made the worthier deputy for their noble father.

  ‘You should reply that he is my prisoner, not yours.’

  ‘He knows that. He writes that he has arranged to spend tonight with you at Norham and will speak to you about the matter then. Be less proud and prickly, Robin. He acknowledges your jurisdiction, as I do.’

  ‘Then he should have sent his message to me, should he not?’

  ‘That is a trifle. News reached him that Bourne had been brought here to Berwick, so he wrote at once to me. What is important to the whole of the East and Middle Marches is this: for the first time we have the miscreant Kerr in the palm of our hands. Today we have an opportunity we have never enjoyed before. Kerr will accept any terms to secure Bourne’s release. The Humes are quiet, causing us no trouble. It is Kerr alone who plagues us. An agreement with him is our only means of ensuring a rule of law and order in the Queen’s name.’

  ‘An agreement with a scoundrel is worthless. Kerr is a thief, a night rider himself, as you admit.’

  ‘He is an officer of King James, not an outlaw. We can prove nothing against him.’

  ‘The Bournes ride under his protection. I have evidence enough now to prove his infamy.’

  ‘The King will not listen to it. He cannot control his Border lairds. He is too weak to act against them, as our princes used to be until they humbled the Percys. We have no choice but to deal with Kerr, and it is what our people want. Those villagers of last night have sent a petition for Bourne’s life. They say that if he is hanged they will have to leave their homes and flee. They fear Kerr’s vengeance so greatly that they themselves sent to tell him of Bourne’s capture and the danger to his life.’

  ‘Softness is no answer. Would you accept the advice of fear?’ Sir Robert turned on his heel in scorn. Without further talk he called for the Provost Marshal and in his brother’s presence ordered the execution of Bourne’s ten accomplices. ‘Before noon,’ he added. ‘And do not fail me if you value your office.’

  His brother kept silent until the man had departed.

  ‘That is unwise, Robin, but so be it. If we spare Bourne himself, it will satisfy Kerr. We should receive a rich ransom for him. I will send back word.’

  ‘Do not use my name, I beg you. We are agreed that he is my prisoner, and I have not given my word. Make that plain in your message.’

  ‘Give it now or face the consequences. By custom all these men have a right to expect exchange or ransom, but you seem intent on setting the whole Border ablaze. If you hang Bourne too, I can have no more patience with you, nor will our father, nor the Queen herself.’

  Sir John’s anger burst like a cascade from a mountain-side. Under the torrent Sir Robert faced him unmoved.

  ‘When the others have been hanged, I will consider the case of Geordie Bourne. You may tell Kerr that Bourne has been condemned but he will not be hanged with the rest.’

  ‘Have I or have I not your promise that his life will be spared? Answer me straight.’

  ‘I make no promise.’

  ‘Then our father shall hear of it. I shall send to London this very moment. Prepare yourself to answer to the Queen.’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘Gladly!’ sneered Sir John. ‘Do not imagine that you will survive a second fall from favour.’

  ‘The Queen will approve my act.’

  ‘Despite the word of her warden and governor? Against the counsel of Burleigh and Walsingham? You are green, Robin, but not so green as to believe that.’

  ‘Shall I, to serve my own ends, offend my God, my prince and my country by suffering so wicked a man as Geordie Bourne to live? Do you answer me that. If I am green from years of service in the field, how seasoned are you, cowering behind these walls? Answer me that too.’

  In his rage Sir Robert struck his brother on the chest and knocked him to the floor. He left him where he fell and his temper did not cool until he had ridden so far that the walls of Berwick were out of sight.

  3

  An hour before sunset six horsemen forded the Tweed at Norham. Three were retainers. Lady Carey received the others in the great hall of the castle, which was neither sumptuous nor great. Veined with cracks, the walls ran up to the roof, rugged and bare. The ancient chamber was low and never built for pleasure or the housing of southern ease.

  ‘Welcome to Norham,’ she bade them bravely. ‘My husband is asleep but I will have him woken. He is but lately come from Berwick.’

  ‘Pray do not waken him for my sake,’ the eldest visitor replied. ‘Let a hard-pressed warden take his fill of rest. I require no further entertainment than your ladyship can provide.’

  He was slim, handsome and audacious. Every spark from his malapert eye, every curl of his auburn hair, announced that it would be folly for a woman to trust him, or a man either. She had never before met the ill-famed Laird of Cessford. Since entering the gate he had been openly inspecting the castle’s defences, as though reconnoitring a fortress to be stormed. Now, at the moment of greeting, he had the impertinence to ogle his host’s wife in like manner and - his manner left no doubt - with like intent.

  ‘Permit me, fair lady, to introduce my companions,’ he continued before she could take offence, and as he turned she noticed the wound, raw and angry, on the back of his head. ‘This is Master Overbury, an English gentleman from Gloucestershire. He has been visiting my country before beginning his studies at Oxford. His father is an acquaintance of my cousin Kerr, the Laird of Fernyhurst.’

  Although polished, the Englishman seemed little more than a boy. Sir Robert Kerr’s manners were wayward and uncouth, a calculated mockery, but Overbury bowed from the waist like a courtier born, stiff with pride, yet ingratiating. He had looks to match Kerr’s but none of the boldness or wanton fire.

  ‘To be received at Norham is an honour which touches my heart, and doubly so since I am received by your ladyship’s lovely person. I had not thought to encounter such beauty in such a place. It puts me in mind of a flower blossoming in the wilderness or a gem sparkling in the common earth.’ He spoke in a low, earnest voice and Lady Carey blushed at the unsought flattery.

  Kerr savoured the words and the blush alike. ‘My young friend is to be a lawyer, but presently he lives for poetry. Scotland and the Border suit him ill, but at least they have provided inspiration. Now he is impatient to return to civilization and write about them. To one of his temper, our violence is best contemplated from an Oxford college.’

  ‘You wrong me, Sir Robert,’ Overbury declared passionately. ‘I would not have missed this journey north for all the spices of the east. My departure brings more sadness to my heart than I would have believed possible.’

  At these words his eye rested on the third member of their party, a younger boy whose beauty outshone even that of Elizabeth Carey. His hair was fair; his eyes the lightest blue; his face as pale as marble, its expression all innocence. One might search a lifetime for a better likeness to an angel, his hostess thought. ‘You bring unexpected companions, Sir Robert,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘This is my cousin’s son. He and Thomas Overbury met in Edinburgh and grew fond of one another. They are to part in the morning and both begged to be allowed to accompany me when I came this evening to talk warden’s business with your husband. Their wish was twofold: to spend their last night together and to encounter a man so famous as the valiant Sir Robert Carey. Master Overbury is to ride south in the morning, while my cousin returns to Edinburgh to serve his King. Since he will be my ear to the throne and my lips at court, how can I deny him a last wish?’

  The boy went down on his knees before his hostess, squeezed her right hand in his left and kissed it with humble affection. He moved like a well-taught puppet, but
her heart responded and she bent and hugged him. ‘What is your name, boy?’ she asked.

  Before he could answer, Kerr interrupted. ‘Very prettily done,’ he applauded, ‘but you have made the old mistake, cousin.’

  The boy looked up puzzled.

  ‘We rude Borderers must perfect the niceties of courtiers when visiting the gentry of England; otherwise we shall never win the favour of princes and the hearts of ladies. Gentlewomen must be wooed in due form. They are not to be carried away across our saddles like common wenches, though more’s the pity.’ Kerr laughed and leered at his enemy’s wife.

  ‘The boy made no mistake.’ Gently she raised him to his feet.

  ‘Your ladyship is in error. He used his left hand in place of his right. All our clan is cackhanded. We are famed for it and it is held against us as a sign of deceit.’ He laughed again, to ridicule the very notion of a deceitful Kerr.

  ‘Be assured that the boy will be well received at court,’ said Lady Carey. ‘With looks such as his King James will not be over-particular which hand he uses.’

  ‘First the lad must catch the King’s eye. He will be starting as the merest running page, escorting the royal carriage on foot. If he succeeds, only then may we hope for promotion to the household itself.’

  ‘He cannot but succeed.’ Lady Carey reluctantly let go of the boy, who stood with eyes modestly downcast and hidden beneath long fair lashes. ‘Yet it seems he has no tongue and you have not told me his name.’

  ‘It is the echo of my own. My cousin in his wisdom thought Scotland healthy enough to endure two Robert Kerrs. I trust that this castle of yours has the strength to hold three stouthearted Roberts at one time.’ He laughed yet again and swung round to each wall in turn as though in doubt.

  ‘You have been wounded, Sir Robert,’ she said, seeing the blood for a second time. ‘You must allow one of my women to bathe your head.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ he told her. ‘We wardens are a target for every ruffian with a grudge. Your husband knows that well enough.’

  ‘Indeed he does.’ She frowned at him, remembering the ambush and the dark tales of his night riding. ‘But this is a deep wound. How came you by it?’

  ‘It came in a scuffle with some English marauder. Such scratches are the fruits of a warden’s duty. You would not have me avoid the dangers of my employment.’ He assumed the mien of a dutiful officer of the Crown.

  ‘I would not have you bleed from them needlessly whilst you are my guest.’

  ‘A Borderer’s pride prevents my submittting to one of your women, but if you yourself should insist on attending me, I could not but accept.’

  The rules of hospitality forbade her to refuse, and Carey, woken from his brief sleep, entered the hall to find them withdrawn. His frown deepened and he viewed the pair of pretty lads without favour. When the Scottish warden returned with his wife he greeted them curtly, staring at the wound without comment.

  Over food and drink the talk was of pleasanter places: of London and Edinburgh, Richmond and Stirling. Court gossip led insensibly to speculation about the succession. The old Queen had sat on the throne of England for nearly forty years. That very day she celebrated her sixty-third birthday. They toasted her, Kerr reluctantly. How much longer could she last, he demanded. His own master, although King for twenty-nine years, was aged but thirty. The future lay with the house of Stuart.

  Carey sat silent while Kerr and his wife discussed what would happen when the Queen died. Through his Tudor grandmother King James was indisputably the nearest heir to England but the old enmity between the two countries divided them still, and the Queen steadfastly refused to recognize his claim. Jesuits argued that the true religion was all-important and claimed the English crown for the King of Spain through his descent from John of Gaunt. Kerr lowered his voice to report rumours of another claimant: the Earl of Essex was said to be preparing a secret bid for the throne. The Earl was not only the Queen’s favourite but he boasted Plantagenet blood.

  ‘My lord of Essex is loyal to his Queen and her ministers,’ Carey interrupted angrily. ‘If you dare accuse him of treason, you will answer for it to me.’

  ‘Do you not know the Earl, sir? Were you not with him in France?’ Overbury turned the conversation like a diplomat. ‘Will you not tell us about him?’

  The boys questioned him about the fighting and he grew talkative with wine and the recounting of old campaigns. He told them how the Queen had summoned Essex back to England and how the Earl had disobeyed. As general of the English army, he would not desert his men, and had sent Carey home instead to appease his sovereign with the news of a great victory.

  They listened in awe while Carey described the Queen’s fury at seeing him instead of her favourite and how she had brushed aside the victory. He had spent two never-to-be-forgotten hours on his knees in front of her in the draughty old palace at Oatlands before she had allowed herself to be talked round. Both Essex and Cecil had said that no one else could have succeeded. He had taken back to the Earl a letter in the Queen’s own hand, which had saved the favourite from his expected disgrace.

  ‘I have heard it reported,’ whispered Kerr to Lady Carey, ‘that the Earl knighted your husband for showing bravery in battle with the Queen, not with her enemies.’

  Carey continued speaking with the boys and gave no sign of hearing the whisper or the laugh which followed. He was telling them how, at Overbury’s age, he had accompanied his father on an embassy to Brussels. In Hainault he had met the greatest general of the age, Don John of Austria, the hero of Christendom. It was then he had vowed to become a soldier too.

  The boys gaped and begged for more, so he described a voyage to Antwerp when his ship had nearly capsized. His father and the Earl of Essex and Lord Admiral Howard, who had later put the great Armada to flight, were escorting home one of the Queen’s rejected suitors. The pilot was too drunk to steer through a sudden squall. They had been saved by the Lord Admiral himself taking the helm, but only just. It was then Carey had vowed not to become a sailor.

  ‘Tell us about the suitor, sir,’ asked the young Kerr enthralled.

  ‘He was brother to the King of France. His baptismal name was Hercules, but teasing made him change it to Francis. He became Duke of Alenҫon, then Duke of Anjou, and almost King of England. In the end the Queen would not have him and we took him back to France. When he got home to his castle his enemies poisoned him.’

  Mention of poison brought a hush of revulsion. The elder Kerr sat with his eyes on Lady Carey and a smile on his lips. Then Carey answered more questions about great men and great events: he described triumphs of the Protestant cause; the King of Navarre at the siege of Rouen; the firing of the Spanish galleons in the Channel.

  ‘Have you met the King of Scotland, sir? Is he not valiant?’ The boy spoke hopefully, as his host broke off to refresh himself with wine.

  Carey told him he had served on three embassies to the Scottish court. The first had been with Walsingham, the most feared man in the two kingdoms. As for the King’s valour, he would say nothing except that Walsingham had treated him much as he might have treated any schoolboy.

  ‘You have done much and seen much,’ said Overbury, his voice overlaid with envy.

  ‘Why then,’ demanded the young Kerr, ‘are you not rich?’

  Carey swallowed another beaker of wine and told the boy that faithful service was not the path to advancement. Such was the way of the world. For riches, he recommended intrigue and self-seeking. Courage and loyalty led only to poverty in tumble-down castles on distant frontiers. Not so many years ago he had been so impoverished that he would not have been able to continue living as a gentleman, had it not been for the good fortune of winning a wager.

  ‘What was the wager, sir?’ the boy wanted to know.

  ‘To walk from London to Berwick.’

  ‘In how many days?’

  ‘Little more than a week. I never stopped, except for a few hours by night. The sum at stake was two t
housand pounds and I could not afford to lose.’ Carey glared into his beaker at the memory of the walk which had cost him the skin from both feet but brought him renown at court.

  ‘A true Queen should pay her servants well,’ announced the young Kerr gravely.

  ‘But the Queen of England is a cheese-paring wench,’ his cousin told him. ‘She is known as the meanest monarch in all Europe. Why, she even punishes her servants for wedding beauties. The more beautiful the wife, the greater the punishment, or so it is said.’ Under the table his leg brushed against Lady Carey’s skirt and pressed her thigh.

  ‘You lie,’ Carey replied, rising to the bait. ‘Your own King’s fist is tighter closed. When, pray, did you last receive your warden’s pay?’

  ‘No longer ago than you yours. Yet if my King does not pay me, there is good reason. He has no money. Scotland is poor, unlike England. When James becomes King of England you will see how the money flows. Even his pages will be able to buy themselves estates. Meanwhile your barren Queen, alas for you, is a miser.’

  ‘The Queen is wise to be careful about money,’ said Over-bury soothingly. ‘God grant that King James will be prudent too when he succeeds her.’

  Carey ignored him. ‘You have insulted my Queen,’ he told the elder Kerr. ‘By my honour, I require your apology.’ He spoke quietly and Kerr, mistaking his temper, sneered.

  ‘Your Tudor woman has no claim on my allegiance. I can say what I please of her, and miser is a gentler word than some. Did she not kill my country’s Queen? Wantonly and in cold blood?’ In a gesture of contempt he snapped the fingers of his left hand. It came to rest on the handle of his dagger.

  Undeterred, Carey leaned across the table and slapped him full-handed in the face. ‘Take that for your insolence and do not tempt me further if you value your life.’