A Clash of Spheres

by P. F. Chisholm

  Rob was staring at him. “Oh.”

  “And I hope I’ll be able to answer tae Him and say, like ye, ‘Yes, I was good.’ But to be a King is a position that comes to ye fra God and is sacred. And sometimes you have to do things that would be bad if you weren’t a King. Which is why when I spoke to both Melville and Crichton, I told them what they wanted tae hear.”

  The poor lad was standing with a napkin between his rawboned hands and was frowning again. “But which one did ye lie tae?”

  James ruffled his hair. “Both, me dear, I was lying to baith of them.”

  December 1592

  They rode out of Carlisle on a cold morning. The blustery weather had stopped and after that it had turned suddenly cold, so cold Carey wondered if it might snow. The winds were all from the northeast and cut to the bone like a knife.

  At Carey’s suggestion, Anricks had written back to the Scottish King, also in Latin, thanking him for the invitation, accepting the challenge to a game of planets, a battle of the spheres, a duel of philosophers, and explaining that Sir Robert Carey would provide him with an escort because the Deputy Warden had business with His Highness as well. The note that came back with the same messenger said that Sir Robert would be very welcome and King James added a scrawl in Latin which welcomed his good cousin and hoped they would get in some hunting if the weather permitted.

  With them went Red Sandy Dodd and Bangtail Graham, Tovey and Tyndale, Leamus the Irishman from the Earl of Essex’s deserters, and the sixth man was Dodd. Carey had written to Dodd in Gilsland, a letter politely allowing the possibility of a refusal, but Dodd had written back on the back of the letter saying he would meet them at the Wall in Gilsland around nine o’clock. There were also two lads from the castle guard to act as messengers and grooms which made ten, enough for respectability. Everyone was rationed to one remount maximum and there were five packponies, two of which were for Carey and Anricks. It bore out the saying that if you wanted to send one man from A to B, then you needed one man. If you wanted to send two men, then you needed four men, and so on.

  Dodd was there at Gilsland, sitting on Whitesock with another pony on a leading rein, his lance pointing to the sky, his new morion polished and his face slightly harder than the stones of the Giant’s Wall behind him. He lifted his fingers to his helmet to Sir Robert and Sir Robert responded with a nod, and then Dodd joined their party at the back. Nobody said anything.

  They made good time along the Giant’s Road and reached Newcastle by evening, stayed the night in the great carting inn there, and then went up the Great North Road and by a strange coincidence found themselves in the little post village of Widdrington as the quick evening came down.

  Carey had sent one of the lads ahead to warn Sir Henry Widdrington. As they rode into the courtyard there, they saw Roger Widdrington come to meet them, whom Carey hadn’t seen since the last time he went to Scotland. Roger Widdrington had some trouble meeting Carey’s eyes and took refuge in pomposity, as only a seventeen-year-old can.

  “Yes, we have space for your horses, Deputy Warden, though the hobbies will have to double or triple up and for your men, as well, though some might have to sleep in the stables. Mrs Burn is still here and she has taken her chamber, which is why we are one room short. Her baby is due any day now. Perhaps you would care to be introduced to her, Sir Robert. I know Mr Anricks and Sergeant Dodd have already met her.”

  “If the lady is well enough to receive me,” said Carey with a slight bow. “I heard something of her sad tale from…Well…er…I heard it.”

  “Where are Sir Henry, his wife, and your elder brother?” asked Anricks as he let himself carefully down from the horse and staggered slightly.

  “Sir Henry and his lady wife and Young Henry were invited to Scotland by the King a few days ago,” said Roger. “It’s most inconvenient, what with the raiding season. I was out on the trod last night but one, though we didn’t catch anyone.”

  “Did any of that big herd of cattle we brought into Carlisle last week have East March brands?” Carey asked Red Sandy, speaking a little loud because Dodd hadn’t been there and so would get none of the fees.

  “No,” said Red Sandy stolidly, “West or Middle March only.”

  There was the usual flurry as the horses were bedded down for the night and the men sorted out where they would sleep, mostly by tossing coins. Meanwhile Roger Widdrington bore Carey and Anricks off to introduce Carey to Poppy Burn.

  Elizabeth had done her best to make her small guest chamber suitable for a lying in, with the walls hung with cloths and the window carefully sealed to stop bad airs coming in.

  Poppy was even bigger than before and moved very awkwardly with her legs apart. She had on an old let-out English gown of Elizabeth’s and was reading a book when Roger knocked and opened the door. She was a bookish woman; there was a pile of other books on the little table, including a couple of books of chivalric tales, and Ascham’s The Schoolmaster, an old and worn copy lying separately from the others.

  Mr Anricks went in first and she greeted him with delight, struggling up from her chair. “Why Mr Anricks, what are you doing here? I think you’ve drawn all the loose teeth in the village. Are you going back to Scotland?”

  “Yes, Mrs Burn, I am now officially a philosopher. May I introduce Sir Robert Carey to you, ma’am. Sir Robert, Mrs Proserpina Burn, Mrs Burn—Sir Robert.”

  “Well,” said Poppy holding out her hand with a smile, “I have heard so much about you from Elizabeth. I am delighted to meet you at last.”

  Carey bowed over her hand with every Court flourish available to him, because she was a pretty woman even if she was nine months gone. She managed an adequate curtsey.

  “I am sorry for your loss, ma’am,” said Carey, “however I am very happy to be able to tell you that I hanged your husband’s murderers personally last month, from Dick of Dryhope’s tower, both of them, father and son.”

  She clasped his hand. “Thank you, sir, I heard that you had, but thank you so much for coming to tell me personally. Now I have had my revenge, I can think of the babe.” Carey bowed again. “I heard there was nearly a terrible battle but that you convinced the Elliots to withdraw with no loss of life.”

  “Almost none, yes,” said Carey. “Although we would have won the battle, it is the way of these things that good men’s lives will be lost. Much better the Elliots ran away which has made a laughingstock of the whole surname. And I had what I had come for, the murderers.”

  “You risked a pitched battle just for my husband’s killers?”

  “Say rather that I risked it for the sake of justice, ma’am,” said Carey very courtlywise. “Justice for him and for you.”

  There was a pause and then Poppy Burn said something odd. “It is a dark and terrible world I have come to. Thank you, Sir Robert, from the bottom of my heart.”

  Carey bowed again and then Poppy looked sideways at Anricks.

  “Sir, although Mr Anricks is not a man-midwife, he is, by way of being a medical man. I wonder if you would leave him with me so I can consult with him?”

  “Of course,” said Carey, and went out, thought about sticking around just in case, but then caught the smell of roasting pork from the kitchen and went down to investigate.

  “Mr Anricks, you know how I am placed,” Poppy said to him familiarly as he brought up a stool to sit on. “I have decided that the minute I am delivered and if spared, churched, I desire to go home to my family in Keswick.”

  Anricks nodded.

  “A very suitable place to go, since the manse is no longer yours,” he said, “although I haven’t heard yet that a new minister has been appointed to Wendron.”

  Poppy bowed her head and then looked up at him. “Please, Mr Anricks, I have no right to ask this, but would you accompany me?”

  “I’m sure,” said Anricks judiciously, “that if you want him to, Mr
Roger Widdrington will accompany you to the mouth of Hell itself.”

  “Ah.” Poppy smiled a secret smile. “Well. But will you do it if I need an escort?”

  “If I can. I may of course be dead.”

  “Why? Are you going into danger?”

  “I am going to King James’ Court to dispute with him or possibly his wise champions as to whether the Earth goes round the Sun or vice versa as popular superstition will have it.”

  “Earth goes round the Sun…Oh no, Mr Anricks, I am sure you are mistaken.”

  Anricks sighed and resisted the temptation to explain why it made such better sense. She was a woman and very close to her time. He didn’t want to do or say anything that might upset her.

  “Perhaps I am,” he said peaceably. “However, His Highness wants a proper academic dispute about the matter.”

  “Well, I hope it goes well for you. Can I ask if you would take a packet to Edinburgh for me?”

  Anricks bowed. “Certainly,” he said, and she brought out one of her usual packets, double sewn in canvas and sealed. He took it, felt it, and smiled.

  “Not so thick as usual.”

  “Yes, although it was hard to write,” she said, her eyes quite feverish. “I hoped you would come back or perhaps I would have given it to the carter in the end.”

  “Sometimes the more prosaic messenger is the safest.”

  “Do the usual thing with the packet, leave it in the jakes, behind a brick, at the Maker’s Mark in Edinburgh.”

  “Of course,” said Anricks, who took the package and put it into the breast of his old woollen doublet. “Can I help you in anything else?”

  “It was Lord Spynie who ordered the death of my husband, wasn’t it?”

  “Please, ma’am, I beg you will not trouble your mind with…”

  “It was.” Tears were glittering on her eyelashes.

  “Yes, it was. Though you know the circumstances. For that crime, I do not entirely blame Lord Spynie.”

  She nodded and for a moment she shuddered as if she was doing something that needed huge effort. “You are saying I should not think of pursuing him.”

  “Yes,” said Anricks baldly. “God knows, the man is evil but in the rough and tumble of Scottish Court life, it was fair enough. Also, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.”

  “Indeed,” said Poppy, “though Mrs Sterling the midwife says sometimes the good Lord needs a bit of prodding, being infected with His Son’s notions about forgiveness.”

  Anricks inclined his head. He could say nothing to Christianity with its very laudible and peaceable scriptures on the matter and its total ignoring of them. Also his opinion on vengeance had changed over the years.

  “Now, serious matters are done,” said Poppy, clasping her hands round her belly and giving a big smile. “Tell me about your wonderful wife and children, Mr Anricks.”

  So Anricks smiled and spoke about Rebecca and how the latest child had been born while he was away, which he found both a relief and a worry: a relief since he didn’t have to hear the cries and shouts of his wife in labour, but also a worry since he couldn’t know until several days after if his wife had survived and if she was well, which, thank the Almighty, she was as of her last letter. The eldest boy was nearly nine now and a clever lad who already spoke Portuguese, Spanish, and English and…

  He left her dozing and passed her woman coming up with supper on a tray for her, recognised the smell of pig and sighed.

  In the parlour where the family ate, he saw the first remove laid out. Politely they had waited for him, which did him no good at all, so he claimed stomach trouble and picked at the pot herbs and the remains of a chicken and also had to turn down a liver sausage that smelled good even to him.

  Carey was probing Roger Widdrington for more information on why Sir Henry, his wife, and eldest son had also gone to Court.

  “Well, I think His Highness took a great liking to Lady Widdrington last time they met and it’s quite normal for Sir Henry to spend a lot of time in Scotland,” said Roger.

  “Oh. Is he getting a pension from the Scots King?”

  Roger again took refuge in pomposity, his downy chin scraping his small ruff. “I’m sure my father’s loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen is absolutely unimpeachable…” he began, looking worried.

  “Of course it is,” said Carey, waving away the tempting quince sweetmeats in the second remove. “I asked because I know Sir John Forster in the Middle March certainly gets something from His Highness and has for decades. And James of course has his three thousand-pound subsidy from the Queen to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  Anricks thought he would rescue poor young Roger and also he was genuinely curious. “Are you looking for something similar, Sir Robert?”

  Carey smiled sunnily. “Who knows? Of course, I wouldn’t turn His Highness down if he offered me a pension. That would be rude. And I wouldn’t like to break tradition now I have my warrant. I can always use the money to pay my men.”

  “Ahum,” said Roger. “Well. Tradition.”

  “Really, I’m more curious as to whether Sir Henry will be seeing Lord Spynie again.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea…” said Roger, looking panicky.

  “Ah,” said Carey, “I thought so. How is his gout?”

  “A little better,” said Roger, grasping at this safer subject. “He has started taking an empiric dose made of crocus bulbs which does seem to help.”

  “The same as my Lord Burghley,” said Carey. “He was suffering badly when I saw him at the Queen’s Court in Oxford. I’m sure the crocus bulbs will do the job. And how is my esteemed elder brother John?”

  “He is still having trouble with the Berwick town council…”

  “Of course he is, he’s a pompous ass and so are they…”

  The gossip about the doings in the East March went on and on and eventually Anricks could not stomach any more candied eringo root nor quince cheese and took his leave to go to his bed in the other guest bedroom. It was a familiar room, with a couple of palliasses on the floor, a truckle, and a testered four-poster, so he modestly took the truckle. He got ready for bed, carefully used his silver toothpick and toothcloth, said his prayers and then looked at the packet Poppy had given him.

  He looked too long for he soon heard Carey’s step on the stairs and had to put it away half unpicked.

  Carey nodded at him, undressed, knelt to say his prayers, and rolled into the bed with his shirt on and his long legs poking out under the blankets. Five minutes later his firm snoring started echoing through the night and Anricks understood why neither Sergeant Dodd nor Red Sandy were using the palliasses and were probably happily asleep in the stables with the horses.

  Anricks sighed and looked up at the handsome coffered ceiling, sighed again, turned over, sighed once more and turned over again. His body was aching from the two days’ brisk ride with only changing of your horse to break the monotony and from the lumpiness of the bed at the inn at Newcastle. He was very tired and while he tried not to think of the time when he had slept like the dead, lying naked on naked boards with a hundred other men’s snores rumbling around him, he seemed to have lost the trick of it now.

  ***

  Dodd had almost enjoyed the various kinds of pork they had been given in the hall, along with a savoury bag pudding full of herbs to soak up the gravy, and excellent beer. He had listened to Red Sandy and Bangtail arguing the old question about whether Scotsmen had tails. Leamus the Irishman had said in his soft foreign accent that he had been quite sure that Englishmen had tails until quite recently, and Bangtail ended the matter by saying that he didn’t know about the Scots men but the Scots women definitely didn’t have tails the last time he banged one, which caused everyone to howl with laughter.

  The two lads were both called Archie so they had some fun with that an
d hit upon calling the one who was as tall as Carey with wider shoulders and much bigger feet, Little Archie, and the one who was a bantam with thick black hair standing straight up and generally took messages, Big Archie. That would do for the moment, until they had done something that would make a better byename.

  “Is it true that the Deputy is still sweet for Lady Widdrington?” asked Red Sandy, munching the chewy bread.

  “Ay, it is,” said Dodd and his mouth turned down at the thought of it. Was that why he had let the Elliots go? Because he was sweet over a woman? And she wasn’t even an Elliot, she came from Cornwall with one of those weird names.

  Red Sandy tried again. “D’ye think he’ll get her or no’?”

  Dodd shrugged. He really didn’t care one way or the other. Red Sandy poured him some beer which he hadn’t asked for and exchanged looks with Bangtail.

  “So,” said Red Sandy, “are ye still sorrowing over the way we let the Elliots go or is there aught else bothering ye, brother?”

  “What?” staid Dodd, looking at him as if he had gone wood.

  Red Sandy repeated the question word for word.

  “Are ye having me on?” Dodd replied and the black anger expanding again until it felt like all his body was tight with it.

  “The Elliots, right,” said Bangtail, looking anxious and being ignored by the Dodd brothers. Leamus swung his lanky legs over the bench and wandered off.

  “Only ye’ve bin a right sour streak of shite for the last month,” said Red Sandy loudly and slowly, “and we’re a’ getting tired of it so I wondered had something else happened?”

  “What more d’ye need?” hissed Dodd and found he had hold of Red Sandy’s shirt collar. “He let them go!”