A Clash of Spheres

by P. F. Chisholm

  ***

  Carey found Young Hutchin out the back of the horse yard, using the pump to get rid of some of the ancient shit covering him. He was naked and shivering but looked very pleased with himself.

  “I have another job for you, Young Hutchin,” said Carey, handing him a horse blanket to use for a towel. “Why didn’t you keep your shirt on?”

  “Ah’ve only g-g-got the one,” said Hutchin, wrapping the blanket around himself. “Whit d’ye want me tae do?”

  “I want you to break into another set of rooms for me,” said Carey, pouring out the remains of the lukewarm lambswool and handing the silver cup to Young Hutchin. “Get that down ye and I’ll give you one of my shirts so you can use your own when you climb up another guarderobe.”

  “Ye will? Whit d’ye want me tae steal?”

  “Er…nothing, thank you. I want you to find the key and open the main door, so I can come in and search the chambers.”

  “Whose?”

  “The Earl of Huntly,”

  “Why?”

  “For good and sufficient reasons, Young Hutchin.”

  “Ay, but I’ve never met him and he hasnae given me any insult…”

  Carey handed Hutchin a shilling. “Half now, half when we’re back here and everything has gone perfectly.”

  “Ay sir, I’m up for it.”

  “I’ve taken a look and I think the garderobe is in the same position but there isn’t any ivy, so I’ll boost you up…”

  Young Hutchin’s heart was beating hard and slow when he went out into the courtyard again with Carey, carrying horseblankets. The sounds of music were coming from the audience chamber and they had to stop several times and he had to hide in bushes when drunken nobles and their henchmen went past. Carey did a very good impression of somebody too drunk to see and pissed into a flowerbed on one occasion.

  At last they found the place in a smaller back courtyard where the garderobe hung over the back of the wall. It was a tricky climb, sure enough, and Hutchin felt scared. Carey was wearing his arming doublet which was just as well because he still had a bit of the shit on him as the water had been so cold. Carey had said, if you see or hear anything that frightens you, just run and get out of the place. He left the horse blankets under the garderobe just in case, which was nice of him, Hutchin thought. He stole a look at Carey as he looked carefully around the little courtyard and saw the man had a smile on his face again. Hutchin smiled back. It was exciting to be doing something so mad, as if the Courtier was an uncle and they were raiding someone dangerous for his favourite horse, to put a brave on him.

  Carey half-squatted and Hutchin put his bare foot onto his thigh, got up to his shoulders and hunched there as Carey straightened with a quiet “oof” noise, and held the wall to steady himself. Hutchin had seen acrobats at Bessie’s in Carlisle doing something similar, and he stood on Carey’s shoulders and wobbled, holding onto his hair, put one hand up, then another one, found a ledge, found a hole with one toe, went up a little way, found another hole for his other toe, another ledge for one hand, slippery, broken, a staggering smell of fresh shit, got both hands up, muscles bulging, got one toe on the ledge, found a big stone to hold onto, it pulled out and fell while Hutchin gasped, but Carey wasn’t there anymore, he had gone to find his way round to the chambers by the normal route.

  Somehow that gave Hutchin strength, that Carey trusted him. He got his hand into the hole left by the stone, boosted up again, found another slippery ledge and the round hole of the seat above him, shoved at it one-handed, found it was nailed down, pushed, tried again, then lost his temper and punched it, breaking it, nearly slipped right back down again, braced his back against the front wall of the garderobe, punched again. It gave with a cracking sound that sounded like the trump of doom, and he got both hands up to the hole and pulled himself up, through it, thanking the god of reivers that his shoulders hadn’t grown yet, and squirmed through the shit, piss, and a crusting of old sick and out into the garderobe.

  Very carefully he opened the door and stepped out. Two men were asleep on palliasses, and a third on a truckle bed. They all sounded drunk. Were there any dogs? Most people kept their dogs in kennels but sometimes womenfolk liked to have little dogs in bed with them…Well, nothing was barking, so he padded through the Earl’s bedchamber with its four-poster bed, through the inner chamber, through the parlour and found the double door which was locked. Where was the key?

  Hutchin looked for hooks, looked in pockets, found nothing, felt under the bed, nothing. He was beginning to panic and his right knuckles were sore and bleeding. He went to the door, tapped on it, heard Carey’s voice on the other side breathe, “I’m here.”

  “Sir, Ah canna find the key…”

  “Look in the keyhole,” whispered Carey and Hutchin looked, found the key, unlocked the door.

  The doorhandle turned, the door opened. Carey came sliding through the door in his socks. “God, you stink,” he said with a grin and Hutchin wanted to giggle. “Anyone there?”

  For answer Hutchin held up three fingers and mimed sleep. Carey nodded. He crept through into the parlour, checked drawers very quietly, checked clothespresses, filled with velvets and brocades, went on into the bedchamber and checked under the mattress and the bed. At last he checked a clothes chest in the corner and found some sheets of paper.

  Carey took them out, squinted at them in the light of the stars. “Hm,” he said.

  One of the servants on the palliasses turned over and snored loudly and Carey and Hutchin went still as statues. The servant got up, went blearily into the garderobe and took a long luxuriant piss.

  While he was in there, Carey shoved the papers back in the clothes chest, grabbed Hutchin’s shoulder, propelled him through to the parlour and out of the door, shutting it quietly. He picked up his shoes and hat in his other hand, crossed the floor and ran down the stairs to one side, two at a time. Carey paused at the service door, saw no one, and they sprinted across the small courtyard, then Carey stopped, turned, sauntered back, picked up the horseblankets under the garderobe, sprinted again. They took a back route to the stableyard and stopped at the pump and finally both of them laughed.

  “You’ve left shitty bare footprints all over Huntly’s chambers, he’ll be upset tomorrow. Let’s get ye clean and get rid of that shirt too.”

  “Och, sir, I like it.”

  “You’ll have to launder it yourself then…”

  “Och.”

  Carey had left soap there which he handed to Hutchin and manned the pump so the boy could wash in freezing cold water for the second time that night.

  “My mam would say I’ll get me death of lungfever…”

  “Good thing she’s not here then…” said Carey callously, pumping away, paused and then added, “God rest her.”

  “Ay,” said Hutchin, with a grin, “It’s a pity I didnae steal nothing, I’d like a souvenir.”

  “Too dangerous. When Huntly sees the shitty footprints he’ll know you were there and I’m thinking he’ll be furious. So better have nothing to hide, he’ll probably get the King to search the whole palace.”

  “Ay,” said Hutchin. “Did ye get what ye wanted, sir?”

  Carey paused. “I think so. I found sheets of paper, some with numbers on them, though it was too dark to see them, one I think might have been a money draft on a bank in Antwerp and there was one with nothing on it and Huntly’s signature across the bottom of the blank page. It’s all very interesting.”

  “So his lordship is a traitor, eh?”

  “That’s already clear. I think he’s plotting to kill the King too.”

  “So will ye blackmail him or kill him or what?” Carey didn’t answer.

  The boy was now much cleaner than he had been before he started climbing up garderobes and Carey went into his bedchamber where Tyndale and Tovey were both snoring, but the t
ruckle bed was unoccupied because Anricks was staying with Napier in Edinburgh. He picked his oldest shirt, brought it out and Hutchin put it on with a cheeky grin.

  “I’ll smell like a lord in this.”

  “Not for long, and try and keep it under your jerkin until it gets a bit grey.” Carey took Hutchin’s old hemp shirt, rolled it up and then thought better of it, sighed, took his sleeves off and rolled his own shirtsleeves up and then went and rinsed it out under the pump.

  Hutchin thought this was very funny. “Ye’ll not get rid of it?”

  “No, if I was Huntly, I’d be looking for a shitty shirt tomorrow too. If I could, I’d burn it. I should have let you stay naked to get up into his chambers.”

  “Och, hemp disnae burn well, and the smoke stinks. Leave it wi’ me, I’ve an idea though I’ll wear your lord’s shirt tonight, it’s nice and soft, so it is.”

  Carey was unrolling his shirtsleeves, and lacing his sleeves back on just at the upper tabs. Ceremonially he handed Hutchin his shirt, a second English shilling and a Scotch sixpence. “That’s for beer tomorrow,” Carey explained. “I’m buying your silence as well, Young Hutchin.”

  “Ay, o’ course. See ye tomorrow, sir.”

  Carey nodded. “Thank you, Young Hutchin. And Merry Christmas.”

  Hutchin knuckled his forehead to the Courtier, and trotted out to the stables where he usually slept in one of the horse’s stalls where it was warm and smelled comfortable. Carey could hear him chuckling to himself as he went.

  He prayed and got into his bed, thinking hard about the Earl of Huntly. In London, in Whitehall, it would have been so simple. If Carey had found anything like as incriminating in the chambers of an English lord, he could have taken the documents to his father and shortly after, the man would have been in the Tower. But in Scotland…The King liked the Earl of Huntly and also felt grateful to him for helping him get free of the Ruthven raiders all those years ago. Nothing was simple in Scotland. Carey would have to catch Huntly red-handed, but before he actually killed the King. God, that would be ticklish.

  ***

  As the Armstrongs plodded on northwards the next morning, the day before Christmas, heading for Hawick which was about twenty miles away, Skinabake and his men kept close. The road was much worse and all uphill so Widow Ridley was off the cart and walking along, knitting at a stocking with one needle in a case on her belt, her right hand clicking away with the other needle and her left hand holding the cart’s side to help her along. The horses were blowing and complaining and every so often one of them would stumble on the icy mud. Janet took a look at the cart’s axles which seemed firm enough, but she hoped the road wouldn’t get any rougher.

  “Ay,” said Widow Ridley breathlessly, “ye’ll need tae be rid o’ Skinabake soon and I’m thinking he willna go easy.”

  Janet snorted and was answered by Shilling behind her as if they were having a conversation.

  “O’ course ye’ve got the barrels of brandy under the linen. That might help.”

  “Skinabake?” Janet laughed shortly. “He’s got a head like a rock.”

  “Ay, how is he wi’ valerian and wild lettuce?”

  Janet smiled at her. “Have you got some?”

  “Ay, ’appen I have,” said Widow Ridley and chuckled. “I brung maist of my stillroom cupboard, allus do when I go to Carlisle, the herbs are wrapped in my best kirtle. Ye never know what you might need.”

  “Could you put some in the top barrel without Skinabake seeing you?”

  “Ay,” Widow Ridley giggled like a girl, “I use it to quiet the lads when they come in excited after a raid, don’t want ’em busting my place up, do I?”

  Janet couldn’t laugh. She was afraid she had made a terrible mistake. Maybe she should have stayed safe in Gilsland and sent a message to Dodd—but in his current mood he would probably have ignored it. And she thought the linens would sell well in Edinburgh, especially if she could get there before New Year’s Day, when people looked for presents. And she wanted to see the Courtier and tell him about the alchemist and his magic water. She shook her head and sighed. She had gone too far to go back now, she had to see it through. Please God, the weather stayed frosty.

  Widow Ridley elbowed her in the ribs. “Dinna be sae sad and sorry for yersen,” she said. “Skinabake’s no’ the worst of them by a long road.”

  “Ye’re enjoying yerself, Mrs Ridley, are ye not?”

  “Ay, Ah am that. Never been tae Edinburgh afore.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Och, ye don’t say.”

  “Carlisle, o’course, and Berwick once, but never Edinburgh.” Janet paused. “So I’m relying on you tae keep me out of trouble.”

  Widow Ridley looked sideways at her, Janet managed to keep deadpan as the old woman started to heave and laugh until she began coughing and Janet cracked a smile.

  In the end they made it to Saughtree at the top of Liddesdale, and were given a barn to camp in which was kindly of the Elliots there since the frost was a hard one that night. They had a little fire and didn’t use the aqua vitae since Skinabake and his men seemed quite well-behaved, helped get the packs off the ponies and one of them even sang some of the old songs for them, and some new ones as well that Janet hadn’t heard.

  They took the night in two watches. Janet couldn’t sleep, she sat up watching the fire for a long time, wrapped in her best cloak that she had woven and fulled herself, of black sheep’s wool so it was dark brown and quite prickly for it was new. She dozed off at last and woke up in the blackest part of the night, knowing that something was very wrong. She listened and heard nothing. No snores. Or just a few.

  She stood up, listened. There were sounds in the night, foxes barking, badgers snuffling through the gorse but…

  She walked quickly to the large double doors of the barn and found no one there, not Skinabake nor any of his men. Her Armstrongs were still sleeping, and the two lads supposed to be doing the guarding, fast asleep with the barrel of Janet’s aqua vitae between them. She stood there for a moment, honestly wanting to scream and go and kick both of them in the balls. But the situation was too serious for that.

  She went back to the door, opened it a little and looked out. Her nightsight was well in since the fire had gone down to coals in its little bed of rocks—the barn was only half full of hay anyway. She looked and listened and smelled the cold air. Nobody. Skinabake and his ten tough young men had disappeared as if the faery folk had happened by and kidnapped all of them.

  She ran back to the fire, kicked earth onto it, kicked Cuddy her bastard half-brother awake, bent down to hiss in his ear, “Cuddy, wake up!”

  His eyes blinked open, focussed and then he was awake. “Whit?” he whispered.

  “Skinabake’s gone and all his men,” she hissed, “sometime while I wis asleep and Jock and Archie sleeping too.”

  “Och. Fuck,” said Cuddy, sat up on his elbow, saw Archie and Jock with the barrel, scowled and laid down again on his side. She was about to rate him for going back to sleep when she realised he was listening to the sounds in the ground. She held her breath.

  “Ah can hear horses,” he whispered, lifting his head, “A lot. More than twenty. They’re coming close quietly, their hooves are muffled.”

  “Och,” said Janet and for a moment she felt murderous fury at herself and at the Borders where they would not, could not let a married woman and an old carlin take a trip anywhere, much less Edinburgh.

  Cuddy was sitting up, putting on his helmet.

  “A’right,” she said, “Get the other lads up and ye’re to ride for my father…”

  “No, Janet, we’ll fight for ye,” he said, pale with fright. “They willna take ye without a fight…”

  “Happen they might be on a raid…” said Jock’s Jock Armstrong on Cuddy’s other side, his own head pressed to the ground.

 
“They might, but this village is full of Elliots.”

  Cuddy and Jock’s Jock looked at each other. “Well but…”

  “I think they’re Elliots and they’re after me,” she said coldly. “That would put a good brave on Sergeant Dodd, d’ye not think, his wife taken by Elliots?”

  “Och, fuck,” said Cuddy again. “I hadna thought of that.”

  “Please dinna use Scottish obscenities,” said Janet primly. “Nor had I thought of that, to be honest, which I should have. We should ha’ gone by the Giant’s Road.”

  She stood awhile in thought while the young men got themselves together—they were all sleeping in their jacks so only needed to get their helmets and sometimes their boots on.

  “All ye lads, leave the cart ponies and Shilling wi’ me, take all the ither horses and ride for me dad’s tower. He’ll know what tae do.”

  “But ye’ll be all alone…”

  “I willna, I’ll have Widow Ridley with me for propriety and whoever it is coming willna ken where ye are and that might make him cautious. Ye can have the Ridley lad hang back on the fastest pony to see what happens if ye like, and if they are on a raid, ye can come back to me.”

  “Ay,” said Cuddy unhappily, “Ah dinna like it, Janet.”

  “Nor do I. Now do as I bid ye.”

  They were already up and tacking up the horses, and a few minutes later they opened the double doors and broke southwards down Liddesdale, galloping for the English Armstrong lands and Will the Tod’s tower. Janet went and sat by Widow Ridley and listened to the beat of their hobby’s hooves fading. She thought of something, went and collected the brandy barrel, put it back on the cart under all the linens wrapped in their hemp.

  Widow Ridley was putting her cap on, grabbing handfuls of startling white hair and shoving it under the linen, while more escaped from the other side and then she drove a pin into the middle of it and grunted.

  Out of the night materialised fifty more riders, the hooves muffled with rags, with the square quilting of Scotland on their jacks, Liddesdale helmets, their lances and Jeddart axes, led by a small nippy dark-haired man carrying a dark lantern, that she had never met but still knew at once.