“What is it?” he demanded and found himself almost running across the courtyard and down the covered passage to the stables.
There in one of the small yards he found Sergeant Dodd, Janet, and an old woman waiting for him, next to a sturdy cart.
“I must get back…” he started.
“Sir Robert,” said Janet firmly, her ginger eyebrows knotted and the freckles standing out on her nose, “one of the reasons I came all this way to Edinburgh was so you could hear Widow Ridley’s story and decide what it means.” Carey looked as patiently as he could at the old woman, who curtseyed to him, then turned to Janet.
“Where do I start?”
“With the cart you saw.”
Over many minutes, Carey picked out Widow Ridley’s story. “Foreigners?” he asked. “What kind?”
“The kind ye get in Keswick,” Janet told him, “Deutschers. Though one of them spoke good English.”
“Allemaynes? Go on.”
In the cart were strange things. Widow Ridley enjoyed herself describing how witchy they were until Janet intervened, asking about the strange oil that burned her finger. She waved it.
“I think you are talking about an alchemist’s labor-et-oratorium,” Carey said, who had seen the inside of one while he was down in London. “But it’s not illegal unlike witchcraft…”
He saw Janet give her husband a look that should by rights have have stuck four inches out of his back. Dodd ducked his head and glowered at his boots.
“The same man, Mr Hepburn, came back and talked to Sergeant Dodd.”
“Oh?” said Carey. “Mr Hepburn?”
“Ay,” said Widow Ridley, “And what did they talk about, that’s the question.”
Dodd folded his arms and kept glowering at his boots.
A heavy silence seemed to emanate like treacle from Janet while Widow Ridley watched with the interest of a lizard on a rock.
“Och, for God’s sake,” Dodd finally snarled, “he wis paying me to get oot of the way when Spynie was having another crack at killing ye.”
“Oh, I know about that,” said Carey. “I sorted that out with Spynie.”
“Do ye know how much Spynie was paying my husband, Courtier?”
“Well no, Mrs Dodd, it’s really his business. I object to the fact that he didn’t tell me he was getting paid to steer clear of me at certain times, but I can hardly object to his getting the money…”
“I seen the tanks you saw, Missus Ridley,” said Hutchin suddenly. “They’re in one of the back stalls here, full of stuff…”
“One pound in my alehouse,” said Widow Ridley.
“I know, it paid for his new helmet…”
“And ten pounds last night, according to what Young Hutchin Graham told me,” said Janet, also folding her arms. “Sterling.”
It was an awful lot for a simple bribe. Far too much really. “Well,” Carey said, “I don’t object to bribery. How can I? The entire governance of the country rests on it.”
But his eyes had gone to an intense blue and never left Dodd’s long angry face. There was a silence.
Carey spoke first. “Sergeant Henry Dodd,” he said, back to the Berwick man, “if ye’ve been paid to kill me, now’s yer chance, ye willna get another like it for I’ve come straight fra the King and he doesnae allow even daggers in his presence. As ye ken full well.”
He drew his eating knife, useless though it would be against a man like Dodd. Carey stood waiting, trying to relax, trying to watch Dodd all over for his first move. Considering he was wearing a jack and helmet and had his sword, the fight probably wouldn’t last very long, even if Carey could get in close and grapple, because Dodd was a far more skilled wrestler than him.
He wondered what his father would do when he got word his youngest son was dead. What would Lady Widdrington do or his mother—he didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. They were women and thus completely unpredictable. He swallowed.
At last Dodd lifted his brown eyes to Carey’s. Carey saw black anger there that chilled him, struggling with something else. Dodd drew his sword slowly, as if for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure.
From the corner of his eye, Carey could see Young Hutchin had his dagger out and was backing. Then there was the sound of another sword being drawn and when he looked for the source of the sound, he saw it was Red Sandy Dodd. Well, that tore it, if he had ever had a chance, he didn’t now.
Red Sandy moved fast towards Carey, who backed up quickly to get the wall behind him and prepared for the first blow…
And found himself looking at the back of Red Sandy’s jack as the man turned and stood with his sword raised to cover himself and Carey.
“Brother,” said Red Sandy thickly, “I let ye do something flat wrong before because I was nobbut a lad and couldn’t stop ye. Ah’m bigger now so ye’ll have to come through me to get at the Courtier, d’ye hear?”
“What?” Dodd’s mouth twisted. “Ye?”
“Ay,” said Red Sandy, his voice steadying. “Ah ken ye’re much better than me wi’ yer sword and yer fists but I reckon ye’ve gone woodwild so mebbe that’ll give me a chance.”
Another person moved suddenly and Carey at first couldn’t think who it was. Hutchin? But he had climbed up to one of the high mangers and was sitting there with his dagger still out and his legs dangling.
It was Janet Dodd herself, standing on Red Sandy’s left side where she wouldn’t get in the way of his swordarm.
“Ay,” she said, “I think Red Sandy has the right of it, ye’re woodwild and dinna ken what ye’re doing. How Wee Colin Elliot would laugh at ye, killing the man that beat them all wi’out a battle, ay, they’d raise their glasses to ye for that.”
And she folded her arms again and tipped her hip and stared at her husband while Carey tried his best not to find her attractive.
Everything held in the balance for one second more and then just as Carey was trying to think how he could work with Red Sandy to disarm Dodd without getting killed or accidentally killing Janet, Dodd moved. He sheathed his sword impatiently and his face didn’t move as he went to the next stall and started tacking up Whitesock, who nickered with interest.
“Ye’re in charge of the men, Alexander Dodd,” said his brother, “until himself sells the office anyway. I’ve business with Wee Colin Elliot.”
He mounted up, bent right down over the horse’s withers as he went out of the stable door and they heard Whitesock’s shod hooves on the cobbles of the stableyard.
Carey let his breath out shakily. As always happened when he was ready for a fight but didn’t fight, his hands were trembling. It took him four tries to sheath his eating knife and then he turned to Red Sandy and Janet who were looking stunned.
“Thank you, Mr Dodd, Mrs Dodd,” he said formally, and saw with shock that there were tears in Red Sandy’s eyes. Not in Janet’s though.
“Ay,” she said, “but be careful, he’ll kill ye next time he sees ye, certain sure of it.”
“Of course,” said Carey, “if he’s taken the money. Do ye really think he’s wood?”
“Ay,” she said, “he hasnae acted reasonable or hisself since Dick of Dryhope’s tower. He’s wood.”
And then suddenly she crumpled and he had to catch her before she fell and she wept into the shoulder of his brand new damask doublet, risking watermarks, only for a second. Thank God she stopped before damage could be done, stepped back and used her apron to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. “I’m sorry, Deputy,” she said, “it willna happen again.”
Widow Ridley stood up from where she had taken shelter behind a feedbin and held Janet’s hand. “Come on, Red Sandy,” she ordered, “find us a place to stay in this palace. I’m going sightseeing tomorrow.”
***
Carey, thinking hard, went back to the hall which seemed to be rocking slightly with
the noise. If Hepburn had given Dodd ten pounds to kill him, presumably half the final fee, it was clear he worked for Spynie and Sir Henry. If he was also an alchemist from the Allemaynes in Keswick, that was significant but still didn’t mean he was looking to kill the King. Just because someone had written to a Deutscher in Deutsch, saying don’t kill Solomon, it didn’t necessarily mean Hepburn was also plotting to kill the King. Carey shook his head. He was sure the traitor was Huntly—but perhaps Hepburn was working for him. It might be an idea to find Hepburn and clap him in irons, though.
The ladies were giving a preview of their dance in the Masque, trotting about holding papier mâché globes painted with astrological signs and symbols and with a papier mâché god or goddess sitting on them. They were quite large but light because they were hollow. There went Mercury, Venus, Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter, very nicely painted. From the feathered wings adorning the pretty bare and powdered shoulders of the Queen’s women, it was clear they were playing the angels who carried the globes on their shoulders and thus enabled them to move.
The girls handed the globes to the servants who carried them back to the hall ready for the Masque and everyone followed in a disorderly procession, talking at the tops of their voices and discreetly hurrying so they could be first in the queue for the banket of sweetmeats after the lords and ladies had served themselves.
In the hall the benches had been pushed to the side, a magnificent banket table laid along the other side so the central floor was clear for the dancing and it had even been swept clear of rushes. In the middle of the floor was a chair with arms and a kind of scaffolding over it, elaborately decorated with ribbons and garlands of holly.
There was Hepburn and two others, carefully carrying a magnificent papier mâché globe, painted with all the latest discoveries of the world. Cathay was there, decorated with curiously snaky dragons, and so was the great southern continent which clearly must exist to counterbalance the northern continent and which someone would discover any day now. The Americas were there, the bulge of New Spain and even some of the coastline of the northwestern part of North America, where only savages lived and also unicorns, griffins, and sphinxes.
It looked heavy and they were carrying it with particular care so Carey offered to help and they said they could manage. He watched while they set it on the high frame and sniffed.
“What’s that funny smell, a sort of sourness?” he asked.
“The glue,” said Hepburn, “unbelievable quantities of glue.” He smiled.
Carey smiled back and asked, “The other globes were light enough for the women to carry. Why is the Earth so heavy?”
“It is made of lead to denote its firmness and immovability,” said Hepburn. “Because it is at the centre of the Universe, the Earth must counterweigh all the other spheres so they can revolve around it.”
For a second, Carey contemplated trying to arrest Hepburn immediately. Could he do it? He didn’t think so. The man was organising the scenery for the Masque, the King would be very annoyed to have that disrupted. Carey would have to wait and take him after the Masque was finished.
Apollo the Sun went past, dazzling in golden armour, a little patched and let out, for the Earl of Huntly was wearing His Highness’ refurbished costume from years before. With him was Artemis the Moon, a handsome young man wearing quantities of silver tissue, since women couldn’t possibly act with the men.
Across the floor Carey saw Lord Spynie, now very prettily decked out as Aphrodite or Venus and he had a job not to roar with laughter since the breasts were strapped on upside down and Spynie was too drunk to notice. He was used to ridiculous costumes and stories for Masques but this was bidding fair to be something special. Maxwell wandered past, still in his bright green, talking intently to two of the Danish girls.
More Danish girls tottered past in a flock, carrying sugarplate bowls of sweetmeats and jelly and little spoons made of sugarplate too, while the gods, goddesses, and other gallant gentlemen went in hot pursuit of them, also carrying ridiculously dainty plates laden with sugar. It made Carey’s teeth hurt to think about it.
Carey found himself some green cheese and nibbled that. Anricks was deep in conversation with his rival Napier again. Amazing how they could find so much to talk about concerning numbers.
Lord Spynie was now surrounded by his young henchmen—ah, somebody had spotted the breasts and was helping him to take them off and put them on the right way up. Sir Henry was there too, a cup of brandy in his hand and his face twisted with misery—what in God’s name was troubling him now? Oh, his foot was swollen and wrapped in bandages, he had the gout. Automatically Carey scanned the room and found Lady Widdrington among the older women of the Queen’s household, not unfortunately scandalously clad in bits of white silk and some straps. She was talking slowly and with many gestures to an old lady. For a moment Carey was lost in thought as he imagined what Elizabeth might look like if she was wearing some scraps of silk and straps instead of the doublet-style velvet Court bodice and a brocade kirtle in cramoisie that she was actually wearing. She looked well in it although as usual she had her modest married woman’s cap over all her hair, so you couldn’t tell what colour it might be except that it certainly wasn’t blond unless she coloured her eyebrows, which of course she might…
Somebody was standing on his foot and there was a pungent smell of piss. Carey looked down and found Sir Henry had limped over and put his good foot on Carey’s dancing slipper.
Carey looked down at Sir Henry, shifted his weight and then slowly and carefully put his other shoe on Sir Henry’s bandaged foot, so they stood ridiculously caught, as if in the middle of some mummer’s trick at the theatre.
“Really, Sir Henry,” he said sweetly, “you should be more careful.”
“Puppy!” gasped Sir Henry, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, “Aaah, get off…”
“Certainly, sir,” said Carey, increasing the pressure. “The minute you get off my foot.”
Sir Henry moved his good foot and Carey slowly released his bad foot which clearly made the old man want to cry out. Spynie was looking their way and grinning under his fetching blond wig. Had it been his idea?
“Sir Robert,” hissed Sir Henry, “I challenge you to a duel for looking lasciviously at my wife, sir. And for corrupting her.”
Carey thought about this, breathing through his mouth so as not to smell the stink coming from the man. The bill was probably foul: Carey unusually had no idea what his face had been doing while he was staring at Elizabeth but judging by the content of his thoughts, it probably had been lascivious enough. To any other man he would have bowed and apologised profusely, but he didn’t feel like it with Sir Henry.
“Certainly, sir,” he replied. “Name your place and your weapons.”
“Pistols,” hissed Sir Henry. “We will have to find a place on the Border.”
Carey stared at Sir Henry gravely, both eyebrows up. “Lord above, Sir Henry, aren’t you going to choose a champion?”
“I will kill you myself,” hissed Sir Henry, “you impudent cocksure bastard, so I can have the satisfaction of telling my bitch of a wife that you’re dead.”
Carey controlled his breathing as the best way of getting a hold on the fury building up in his belly. “Of course, it’s more likely it will solve our problem and I will marry your grieving widow.”
“Ye willna, because ye’ll hang for my murder, so one way or another, I’ll get you.”
“Dear me,” said Carey, “you have forgotten that I am a cousin to the Queen and have a right to ask for an axe. And I think this is a course of desperation, Sir Henry.” He moved away in case Sir Henry tried to stick him with his eating knife and also to get away from the smell. “I suppose it’s because the gout will kill you soon or perhaps your kidneys, since you stink of piss, Sir Henry, which I’m sure isn’t healthy. Is it Spynie’s idea for a duel? It’s a better mean
s of getting rid of me and you than his pathetic assassination attempt.”
Sir Henry’s face had such a number of emotions chasing across it that Carey felt like laughing, so he did. “Good God, man, can’t you see it? He’s bored of you and embarrassed by you. Well, never mind, I take your challenge, ye poor gouty old man, and may God ha’ mercy on yer soul.”
That was when he looked across the room and saw that Huntly was wearing a sword, against all King James’ careful rules, he was armed.
There was dancing while the Masquers were getting ready and the ravaged remains of the banket cleared away, so he flung himself into it and found he was a great favourite with the incredibly drunk and funny Danish girls who weren’t masquing, but used the figures of the dance to get across to the King as quickly as possible. The King was standing to one side and singing tunelessly along with the music. As soon as he was close enough, he went on one knee to him.
“Your Highness, the Earl of Huntly…”
“Ay, does he no’ look fine in my old Apollo costume, even though he’s a little too big for it…?”
“He has a sword…”
“Och, Sir Robert, it’s made of painted wood, that sword, d’ye think I’m a fool?”
Carey suddenly felt very embarrassed. Of course it was, the King was emphatically not a fool. “Your Highness, I am the fool,” he said. “I apologise for troubling you.”
The King put his hand on his shoulder. “Up ye get, my dear,” he said. “Ah ken ye mean well, but my dear Earl of Huntly wouldna hurt me.”
“Well, Your Highness, he hurt the Earl of Moray…”
“Ay, true, but that was a deadly feud. Will ye no’ join the dancing? I like to watch ye leap.”
All of a sudden Carey had the feeling that he was driving a chariot, hopelessly out of control, heading for a cliff with a white and a black horse fighting each other in the traces in front of him, which he rather thought was an image from Plato.
A Clash of Spheres Page 27