The head and shoulders that appeared through the hole were Bothwell’s, and he was holding a dag with the match ready lit. He and Jock looked at each other for a moment.
“Now,” said Jock, “ye’re going to talk to Sergeant Dodd, my lord Earl, and in exchange for the men he caught and all our horses which he’s rounded up and has started on their way back south and for him agreeing to take himself and his men off again, we’ll give him his precious Deputy Warden. Onless ye want to give up on yer raid altogether, because if ye dinna agree then I’m out of it and so are all my kin.”
“Why Jock? What do you care about one of Hunsdon’s boys? Has he got a knife at your back?”
Jock laughed. “Ye know me better than that, Bothwell. Nay, he’s down here on the floor by my feet, feeling right sorry for himself.” Carey had tried to wriggle out of range while Jock was busy, so Jock gave him another kick in the back, but the arrow pointed at Bothwell’s heart remained rock-steady. Bothwell blinked through the final wisps of smoke, finally spotted Carey, who had decided to play dead for the moment despite the heat of the stones, and laughed heartily.
“Untie him and let me shoot his right hand off, so he never troubles us again.”
Jock hesitated. “I’d let ye, my lord,” he said, “but he didna kill me when he had the chance and I said I wouldna let you harm him.”
“Ye’ve harmed him yerself, it looks like.”
“That’s different.”
“He wanted to use you as a hostage.”
“Nay, I’m no’ a good hostage and he knows it. He is, though,” grinned Jock. “Are ye fixed on fighting Sergeant Dodd and his men, Bothwell, or would ye rather save the powder for our raid?”
“What did you tell him about it?”
“Jesus, my lord, what do ye take me for, I told him nothing of it,” said Jock sincerely. “We’ve been talking of family matters. It’s been verra interesting, eh Courtier?” Jock kicked Carey in the ribs again and smiled blithely at Bothwell.
Friday, 23rd June, afternoon
At last Bothwell climbed up to the fighting platform behind the sharpened logs of the Netherby barnekin and shouted for Sergeant Dodd. Dodd had glimpsed activity at the top of the tower and was wondering irritably if Carey had managed to get himself killed at the last minute.
“I’m the headman…” began Will the Tod.
“Shh,” said Dodd, “he thinks I’ve brought the Carlisle garrison too.”
“But ye havna. Lowther…”
“Let him think it. Ay my lord,” yelled Dodd, “what d’ye want?”
“We’ve got your Deputy Warden prisoner, Sergeant,” said Bothwell.
“Is he still alive?”
Bothwell grinned. “Ay. He’s not very happy, but he’s still alive. Tell me why I shouldnae cut his throat and be done with it.”
“Prove he’s alive first,” said Dodd, his voice hard with suspicion, “I’ve nae interest in his corpse.”
Bothwell nodded, leaned down and gave some orders. Two men appeared behind the pointed logs: Dodd recognised a battered Jock of the Peartree with his knife at the neck of an even more battered Robert Carey.
Dodd relaxed a little. Why on earth hadn’t they killed him when they caught him? Ah well, who could fathom the way the mad Earl’s mind worked.
“What will ye give me for him?” shouted Bothwell.
“He’s only the one man,” yelled Will the Tod in return, “and he’s no’ very valuable.”
“Shut up,” hissed Dodd, “he’s the Deputy Warden and…”
“Och, Henry,” said Will the Tod, not at all offended, “Janet’s right, ye know nothing of bargaining.” He raised his voice again. “If ye give him to us, we might consider going away and leaving ye in peace.”
Dodd couldn’t quite make out expressions at that distance, but he rather thought that one of Carey’s eyebrows had gone travelling upwards again.
“What about my horses?” demanded Bothwell.
“What horses?” asked Will the Tod sweetly.
“Don’t try my patience, Armstrong, ye ken very well which horses.”
“D’ye mean the few nags that belong to ye, or d’ye mean all the peacable innocent men’s horses ye’ve reived in the past week.”
“I mean all the horses in the God damned paddock,” shouted Bothwell, “or I’ll send him out to you in pieces.”
“Och, my lord,” said Will the Tod, enjoying himself hugely, “we’re only discussing it, there’s nae need to be offensive.”
Dodd rolled his eyes.
Jock of the Peartree leaned over the barnekin wall.
“We’ll let ye keep the Dodd horses I took and that’s all.”
Will the Tod turned to Dodd. “Do ye like the terms, Henry?”
“Get on with it.”
“Ts. Young men have nae patience. Your Courtier’s got Jock on his side, he’ll do well enough.”
“He’s what?”
“Ay,” shouted Will the Tod, “that’s good enough for us. We’ll gi’ ye back all the horses bar the ones that belong to Sergeant Dodd here and we’ll go home when we’ve got our man and we’ll no’ fight ye unless ye come after us.”
Geordie brought back the huge herd of horses from the eaves of Cleughfoot wood, separated out those with Dodd brands, and put the rest back in the paddock. The captured Grahams they left tied to the paddock fence.
They waited. At last the gate opened and Carey was shoved through on foot, limping, weaponless, black with smoke, the left side of his face swollen up, his back straight and his expression unreadable.
Understanding perfectly from the way he walked that somebody—Jock, no doubt—must have been using the Deputy’s privates for football practice, Dodd led up a nice quiet softpaced mare, and held her while Carey set himself, fastened his teeth on his lip, and mounted up very very carefully.
“Can ye ride, sir?” Dodd asked solicitously.
Carey lowered himself down in the saddle like a maiden sitting for the first time on her wedding morning, took a deep breath, held it and nodded. Dodd was sorry to see that the bounce seemed to have quite gone out of him.
He was still every inch the Courtier: once the group of them were out of sight of Netherby, it was very touching the way he took the trouble to thank all of Dodd’s surname and Janet’s relatives too, Armstrongs though they were. Dodd stayed at his back, feeling a bit as he did when one of his younger brothers had got himself a belting when they were lads: privately, he thought it was funny, but he saw no reason why anybody should add to the man’s discomfort by smirking or commenting. So he glowered over Carey’s torn and battered shoulder, and not one of his kin disgraced him by cracking a smile.
To keep Carey’s mind off things as they rode back to Carlisle, Dodd told him the epic tale of his own arrest, escape from jail and journey through the secret passage, followed by his run to Brampton, very generously only slightly editing the ladies’ part in the story. At least Carey was impressed.
“You did it in a jack and helmet, too?” he said, his voice still hoarse with the smoke. “I doubt there’s a man in the south that could do the like.”
Dodd’s long face continued to look as mournful as a hound with the bellyache, but inwardly he was reluctantly flattered. He said, on a friendly impulse, “I’m sorry your plan went awry, Cour…sir. It might have worked wi’out Lowther to spike yer guns for ye.”
“Oh but, Sergeant,” said Carey, wincing and closing his eyes as the horse he was riding pecked at a pothole, “it did work, it worked beautifully. It only went wrong at the very last minute. You watch, you’ll see how it all worked out.”
He’s still mad, thought Dodd dourly, no longer sorry for him.
Friday, 23rd June, evening
Barnabus Cooke was waiting in the Carlisle courtyard when Dodd brought Carey home. Clearly, Lowther had heard what had happened and seemed to think it a good idea to be present, which Barnabus thought was probably a serious mistake. The Lord Warden himself seemed embarrassed at h
is inaction and he was wandering about in the courtyard too. With the women also there, it was a regular little welcoming party and Barnabus rather thought Carey would have preferred not to see any of them.
However he smiled wanly as he came in, dismounted slowly and carefully, and then held onto the saddle to steady himself.
“Are you wounded anywhere, sir?” Barnabus asked, clicking his fingers imperiously at Hutchin Graham to lead the horses away. Carey shook his head. Dodd came up behind Carey looking as miserable as if he had not just rescued his Deputy Warden. Then Carey spotted Lowther, standing by the barracks door with his arms folded and a look of deep satisfaction all over his face at Carey’s condition. The Deputy Warden was in a lamentable state: Daniel Swanders’ jerkin and shirt were in tatters and blackened with soot, and Carey couldn’t even see out of his left eye which was on the side of his face that was puffed out like a cushion.
The other eye narrowed and its eyebrow went up. This will be interesting, thought Barnabus, and settled back a little to watch the fireworks.
“How are you, Robin?” asked Scrope, breaking the tension between them. “What happened, why did you do it? It was very…”
Carey took a deep breath and put his fingers up to rub between his eyebrows. “Thank you, my lord, I’m a lot better than I expect you think I deserve to be.”
Scrope coloured. He couldn’t seem to look at Carey straight.
“Well, it might have worked…” began Scrope generously.
“Ha!” said Lowther.
Carey ignored him elaborately. “Of course it might if you didn’t have a traitor claiming to be your Deputy,” he said smoothly. “Very unfortunate that he chose to let out the Grahams who could identify me just when I happened to be at Netherby. But I expect he thought he was doing the best he could for his employer.”
Scrope looked puzzled and Carey didn’t bother to enlighten him. He turned to go to his chambers in the Queen Mary Tower and found his path blocked by Lowther.
“Are ye calling me a traitor?”
Carey blinked at him and smiled his most superior and supercilious smile. It wasn’t quite as effective as usual in driving men wild, because only half his face was working properly, but the veins on Lowther’s nose throbbed all the same.
“Yes, I am, Lowther,” he said, “March traitor, in that you bring in raiders, and traitor to your Queen in that you failed to inform her of important information in your possession. Why, surely you don’t mind, do you?”
“We’ll see what Burghley has to say about this escapade,” huffed Lowther, still not ready to call Carey out to his face.
Carey smiled even more, which must have hurt. “That’s right,” he said softly, “you dig your own grave and lie in it, Sir Richard. Didn’t you know that Burghley and his son support King James’s succession to the throne after her Majesty dies? I’m sure my lord Burghley will be fascinated to hear how you tried to stop me discovering Bothwell’s plans to raid Falkland Palace and capture the King of Scotland. So will King James. Please save me the trouble and do it yourself.”
Lowther’s mouth was open. Carey very gently put out a finger and pushed past him. “Now, I’ve had a long hard day and I’m tired. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. Good night ladies, good night my lord.”
Lovely, Barnabus thought trotting after his master, that’ll puzzle him, and you kept your temper as well, you’re learning fast, ain’t you?
Upstairs in Carey’s bedchamber, Barnabus helped him strip off all Swanders’ filthy lousy rags and drop them in the corner. Knowing better than to say anything at all, he silently handed Carey cloths and a basin of hot water so he could clean off the soot and tend to the bruises and grazes he could reach. Barnabus dealt with the rest. Somebody knocked on the door just as he finished.
“Oh bloody hell,” said Carey, pulling on his night shirt and dressing gown, and sitting down on the side of the bed.
It was Dodd, poking his head round the door. “Sorry to disturb ye sir, but I’ve spoken to Lady Widdrington and she wants to see you tomorrow and she also says her stepson Henry’s waiting at Bessie’s to take a message to Chancellor Melville and he has a passport from Scrope so he can go at once.”
Carey blinked as he caught up with all this. “Excellent,” he croaked at last. “Wait a minute.” He hobbled over to his desk in the next room, wrote a few lines, signed it, and folded and sealed it.
“Tell Henry to take the long way round and on no account go anywhere near Liddesdale. The verbal message is that Bothwell’s got at least 200 men with remounts, mostly Grahams, and I think there’s someone working for Bothwell amongst the courtiers inside the palace.”
When Dodd had gone, Barnabus said tactfully, “Shouldn’t you warn him about King James’s…er…habits, sir?”
Carey laughed, stopped with a wince and sat down on the bed again. “Not Henry: he’s far too spotty for his Majesty’s tastes. And Melville’s known him since he was a boy, he’ll look after him.”
“Seems like you’ve saved the King’s life, if he gets through.”
“Hmf. Knowing the King he won’t pay a blind bit of attention. But I’ve drawn the raid’s sting anyway and he’ll never understand how.”
“Why’s that, sir?” asked Barnabus, wondering if he should call in a surgeon to strap Carey’s ribs which were black and blue and looked very much as if they might be cracked.
Carey smiled. “I told Jock of the Peartree about the horses in Falkland Palace. By now he’s told all his brothers and nephews and cousins and they’ll have lost interest entirely in King James.”
He lifted his feet onto the bed, dropped the cloth on the floor. “And I’ve almost solved the problem of Sweetmilk’s murderer and I’ve made friends with Jock of the Peartree, if you can call it that, and I’ve…”
He snored richly. Barnabus tucked him up and drew the bed curtains. He’d send for the surgeon tomorrow, when Carey would be in a terrible mood, and he’d get Lady Scrope to bring him and Lady Widdrington could continue to organise the funeral which she was doing with her usual briskness.
Simon had made friends with some of the other lads in the castle and reported that Young Hutchin seemed remarkably rich in silver at the moment, which information Barnabus would decide whether to pass onto Carey in the morning.
Saturday, 24th June, morning
Carey woke up late at seven o’clock with a ravenous hunger and ribs that twinged monstrously every time he moved or breathed. Someone had pulled his bedcurtains to let the sun in and left a tray laden with fried collops of ham, grilled eggs, bread, and a flagon of mild beer, which made his mouth water so much he almost drooled as he pulled it towards him.
Ten minutes later it was all gone, despite the way his jaw hurt when he chewed. But his belly was packed tight and his sore face and body receded slightly in significance. Then somebody knocked on the door.
“Enter,” said Carey, thinking it was Barnabus. The door opened, and Philadelphia came flying in, her clothes in their usual tumble no matter what the attentions of her tiring woman, and threw herself into his arms, never mind that he was still in his nightshirt and dressing gown.
“I thought they’d hang you, oh Robin, Robin, I was so afraid they’d hang you…”
“So was I,” said Carey gruffly, “but they didn’t, so why weep about it?”
“They hurt you…” She was touching his face and he reared back.
“That was Jock of the Peartree,” said Carey, “and he’s just as sore this morning as I am. Well almost.” He handed her his hankerchief from under the pillow and Philly blew her nose, composed herself and flipped bewilderingly into scolding him.
“I hope you’re thoroughly embarrassed, Dodd having to come to the rescue like that? Did you hear how he got out of Carlisle through the secret passage nobody knows about except the warden?”
“Yes. Twice.”
She wasn’t going to leave him in peace, blast her. Carey grabbed his clothes off the chest where they were laid o
ut, shut the bedcurtains and started dressing. Philadelphia continued.
“Well please don’t do it again. It was awful waiting here with Lowther keeping the gate with his men and threatening Red Sandy with flogging there and then if he tried anything. You won’t do it again, will you, Robin?”
Carey was coughing again. He cursed. There was still smoke in his lungs and it nearly killed him every time he did that. “I don’t think anyone in these parts will trust strange peddlers any more. I’ve probably ruined their trade. Is Red Sandy all right?”
“Scrope made Lowther leave your men alone if they promised to stay in the castle.”
“Good, I’m glad they tried.”
“How could you do something so dangerous? Scrope said you were mad and he wouldn’t get you out of a schoolboy prank.”
“I’ll bet,” muttered Carey to himself.
“What?”
“I said, did he?”
“Yes, he did. I’m still not speaking to him. Stupid man, pretending he had an ague, I hate him. And I hate you too, for worrying us like that.”
Carey drew back the curtains again and climbed out of bed to pull on his boots, saying, “You’re allowed to hate your brother but you’re not supposed to hate your husband, Philly.”
“Well, don’t give me some romantic nonsense about learning to love him, either. In any case, that’s not what I married him for.”
“Of course not,” said Carey, “you’re not a peasant. But you are supposed to respect and obey him, Philly.”
“Pah!” She tossed her head and her curly black hair partially escaped from its white cap and fell down her neck. “I’ve brought some people to see you and first you’re going to have a surgeon.”
1 A Famine of Horses Page 25