“I don’t want your purse because I know there’s nothing in it and I don’t want your life yet,” repeated Barnabus patiently, “I want to know who’s the King of Carlisle.”
“What?”
The would-be footpad tangled up in Barnabus’ cloak couldn’t show the bewilderment he felt, but Young Hutchin’s face said it all.
“Bloody hell,” said Barnabus, “are you telling me there isn’t one? Isn’t there anybody collecting rent off the thieves here to keep them safe from the law?”
Young Hutchin snorted with laughter. “No, master, generally it’s the thieves that collect the rent from the lawful folk.”
“If ye mean surnames, mine’s Musgrave, and my father’s cousin to Captain Musgrave, so if ye…”
“Shut up,” said Barnabus, kicking him. “Young Hutchin, are you saying that none of the thieves and beggars in Carlisle are properly organised?”
Young Hutchin nodded. “There’s never been enough of them in the city,” he explained. “Outside, well, I suppose every man takes a hand in a bit of cattle-lifting and horse-thieving now and again, even the Warden or the Captain of Bewcastle.”
“Especially the Captain of Bewcastle,” muttered Arthur Musgrave, who hated all Carletons.
“Who do you work for then?” demanded Barnabus of Arthur, “Your father?”
Arthur Musgrave’s father was humiliated by Arthur’s inability to get on with horses and had kicked him out of the house five years before. “No,” said Arthur, “it’s Madam Hetherington’s stake you’ve got there.”
“The madam?”
“Ay.”
Barnabus nodded. It stood to reason, of course, seeing she was a southerner. Well, that changed his plans a bit.
“All right, on yer feet,” he said, giving Arthur Musgrave a heft and leading back into Scotch Street. A few people glanced at them but didn’t feel inclined to interfere. It gave Barnabus great satisfaction to navigate his way back to the Rainbow without Hutchin’s help, and yell for Madam Hetherington.
A moment later she appeared on the top step with a primed caliver and lit slowmatch in her hand. Barnabus grinned at her and toed Arthur forwards until he landed on the bottom step, and lay there, feebly struggling.
“I’ve got no argument with you, Madam,” he said cheerily. “And just to show what a generous sort of man I am, here’s half of your stake back.” He took out the twenty shillings he’d earned and tossed the half-full leather purse onto the step at her feet.
Madam Hetherington’s eyes narrowed and the gun did not move. “Why?” she demanded.
“Well, I’ve charged you the money for the useful lesson in diceplay I gave your lads…”
“No, why did you come back?”
Barnabus’s smile went from ear to ear of his narrow face. “I want to be a friend, not a coney,” he said, “I know you won’t try this on me again, but I’d like to be welcome here to join the girls if I want.”
Madam Hetherington finally smiled. “I welcome anyone with the money to pay me.”
“Seriously,” said Barnabus.
“And I would be willing to pay for more lessons in diceplay.”
Barnabus twinkled his fingers together. “Delighted to oblige, I’m sure, mistress.”
Wednesday, 21st June, late afternoon
The muggy clouds chose to part as Philadelphia Scrope’s guests moved from the eight covers of meat and fish she had provided to the marmalades of quince and wet comfits. They admired her marzipan subtlety of a peel tower, complete with armed men, as an amusing variation on the usual themes. Sportingly they agreed not to eat it since it would keep to be used again on the Sunday as part of the old lord’s funeral banquet. As the yellow sunlight found the little narrow windows and drove probing fingers into the council chamber cum dining room, it lighted on her brother’s chestnut curls and laughing face. He put up a hand in protest and squinted at Elizabeth Widdrington who was frowning with mock severity.
“I refuse to believe that streams can chase you round the countryside,” she said.
“On my honour they did,” said Robin, picking up a date stuffed with marzipan and nibbling it, “and what’s more the hills followed us too, so the ones we struggled up on the way north turned themselves round and we had to struggle up them again on the way back south.” He winced slightly, put the date down and ate a piece of cheese instead.
“Did you find you were being adopted by a herd of brambles and gorse bushes as well?” asked young Henry Widdrington. “When I go out on a hot trod, I’d swear they follow me as lovingly as if I was their mother. Then when I fall off my horse one of them rushes forward bravely to break my fall.”
Listening to the laughter, Philadelphia felt a little wistful. She loved giving dinner parties and the pity of it was, there were so few people she could invite in Carlisle; most of them were dull merchants or tedious coarse creatures like Thomas Carleton who would keep beginning tales of conquests at Madam Hetherington’s and then remember where he was and fall silent at the best bit. It was a pity she had no pretty well-bred girl she could bring in to make up the numbers for Henry Widdrington, but she was used to there being an oversupply of men. After all, very few ladies would want to live in the West March and those that were bred to it were poor dinner party material. London was so much more fun. Somehow her husband’s 3,700 pounds per annum from his estates wasn’t the compensation her father had told her it would be.
“And all this on account of one horse stolen from the Grahams?” asked Elizabeth Widdrington.
“I don’t think so,” said Robin, “I think it was a long-planned raid for remounts and where they’re planning to go with them, I wish I knew.”
They were also eating up the food she had made ready for the funeral feast which couldn’t keep until the Sunday-it was typical of men when they high handedly postponed funerals that it never occurred to them to think of things like perishable fish-and it would serve her brother right if he got indigestion. Though as usual, he was too busy talking and being charming to eat very much.
They had sat down at 2.30, fashionably late, and when Lord Scrope had said grace, her guests had flatteringly spent most of the first twenty minutes eating and occasionally asking each other to pass the salt. She was particularly fond of the salt cellar, being newly inherited from the old lord, a massive silver bowl with ancient figures in armour on it and some elaborate crosses, but she would have to check on the kitchen supplies of salt to see what had happened there.
Elizabeth Widdrington caught her eye questioningly and she nodded with a smile that she should broach their expedition of the morning.
“Did you know that Janet Dodd bought the horse from that little priest, Reverend Turnbull?” asked Elizabeth casually.
“Damn,” said Carey. “I’m sorry, Philly,” he added at his sister’s automatic frown, “I meant to go and question the man about where he got the nag but it clean slipped my mind and I expect he’s halfway to Berwick by now…”
“We went and asked him a few questions,” offered Elizabeth. “And yes, he was on his way, but he very kindly stayed for us and told us what we wanted to know.”
Robert’s face lit up. “You talked to him?”
“Wasn’t that a little dangerous?” asked Henry Widdrington with a frown.
“Oh never fear, Henry, I went with Lady Scrope and Mrs Dodd,” Elizabeth said, hiding a smile at her stepson’s concern. “He was very helpful.”
“I’m sure he was,” murmured Robert, “poor man. I would have been.”
“He told us he’d bought the horse from a peddler called Swanders and…”
“Good God!” said Robert. “Sorry Philly, are you saying that Daniel Swanders is in Carlisle now?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth took a French biscuit and broke it in half. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, yes I do. He’s a Berwick man though, deals in anything small and portable or that has four legs and can walk. My brother almost hanged him once for bringing in of Scots raiders only he got enough respectable men to swear for him and got away with it.”