Filled with relief and the glorious certainty that Lowther would reward him well, he hung about the stable block until Barnabus Cooke came for the horses and then followed him cautiously well back, dodging into doorways and booths every few moments. He had a healthy respect for Barnabus.
However, Barnabus was preoccupied and didn’t seem to notice him. He went round outside the walls with the horses, past the rececourse and up to the Eden bridge, where he tethered them to a stone and sat down to wait.
Young Hutchin hid behind a dry stone wall and waited. In a few minutes a cadger with the long bouncy stride of the Deputy Warden came walking past him, still wiping mud off his face and jerkin. As Carey came close to Barnabus, Young Hutchin trailed him behind the wall, hardly daring to breathe.
“One peep out of you, Barnabus, and you’re a dead man.” warned Carey as he swung his pack from his back and began strapping it onto one of the horses. In tactful silence Barnabus helped him, but at last, as Carey swung up into the saddle he held a stirrup and asked, “Sir, what’ll you do if they torture you?”
Carey looked down at him with his eyebrows up. His face looked very odd without its goatee beard. At least he didn’t have a receding chin like Lord Scrope.
“I see no earthly reason why they should, Barnabus,” he said, “but if they do I expect I’ll tell them who I am and they’ll have a good laugh at my expense.”
“Will Scrope ransom you?”
Carey laughed. “Eventually. Or I’ll escape.”
“Be careful, sir. Do you think you’ll get there in time?”
“Oh Lord, Barnabus, it’s only ten miles. Even you could ride ten miles before sunset if you didn’t fall off too often.”
“Well sir, if you ride like that, with your hand on your hip so prettily and your back so straight, they’ll know you’re fake before you’re close enough for them to see the walnut juice.”
Carey had the grace to look embarrassed, put his hand down and slouched a bit.
“Better?” he asked.
“I suppose. Sir.”
“Well, then, off you go Barnabus, and tell them all I’m sick or something.”
“What should I say to Sergeant Dodd?”
Carey thought for a moment. “I don’t think he’s in it with them, whatever it is, but you could wait until after sunset. Use your judgment, Barnabus.”
“All right, sir.”
“See you tomorrow, God willing.”
“Amen,” said Barnabus fervently as Carey chirruped to the horses he was leading and clopped his way over the flimsy bridge northwards.
Young Hutchin waited for a long while after Barnabus had set off back to Carlisle. He was in a quandary. Should he run across country to Netherby and warn his Uncle Jock what was going on, or should he go back into the castle and tell Richard Lowther as he’d been paid to. In the end he decided to go to Lowther, because if Carey happened to catch him on the way, then nobody would know what the Deputy Warden was up to until it was too late. Also it wasn’t nearly so far to run.
It took him an hour to find out where Richard Lowther had gone and to track him down to the cousin’s house where he was having dinner. He was then sent to the kitchen to wait while another boy was ordered to tell Lowther of the message and in all, the sun had set and the Carlisle gate was shut by the time he made his bow to Lowther and gabbled out the news to him.
Lowther’s bushy eyebrows almost met over his nose.
“He’s going to Netherby dressed as a peddler? Good God, why?”
Young Hutchin shrugged. “He’s mad, but he could…”
“I know what he could do, lad, none better. Ay. You did right coming to me.”
“What are you going to do, sir?”
“None of your business, Young Hutchin. Here’s some drink money for you, and a job well done. Off you go, don’t spend it all at once and if I catch you in the bawdy house again I’ll leather you and send you back to your father.”
Heart glowing at the bright silver in his hand, Young Hutchin ran off, leaving Richard Lowther very thoughtful as he sat down at his cousin’s table again.
Thursday, 22nd June, evening
As Carey rode out of the Cleughfoot Wood and into sight of Netherby tower, with the pretty little stonebuilt farmhouse nearby, he knew perfectly well he was being paced by two men who had spotted him not far from Longtown. As he slowed his horse to an ambling walk, they came in close behind him but didn’t stop him.
In the horse paddock outside Netherby tower was a most remarkable press of horses, with Grahams and Johnstones bringing in bales of hay for their fodder, and feeding them oats and horse nuts besides, which must have cost a fortune at that time of year.
Outside the paddock was a kicking yelling scrum of men, in their shirts and hose. Carey paused to watch. There was some nasty work going on in centre of that melee. Suddenly, from the middle of them a wild figure burst, dribbling the ball in front of him. As the scrum broke apart leaving a couple of fist fights, he wove between two large Grahams bearing down on him, dodged back and faked neatly as a Johnstone poked a foot in front of him. For a moment it seemed he would be caught, but he elbowed the fourth defender out of his way as he pounded on alone to the open goal made by two piles of doublets at the far end of the field.
The man in goal looked horrified, dodged back and forth, fell for a lovely feint and dived in the wrong direction as the Earl of Bothwell kicked the ball straight into goal.
Some of the players cheered; the others looked sulky. Carey dismounted and led his horses forward to the edge of the field and watched as an argument developed over whether it was a fair goal or not.
“Who’s winning?” he asked the massive black-bearded ruffian who was watching with his arms folded and a deep frown on his face.
“The Earl’s men,” said the man.
“Do ye not think it would be better if ye had to have a defender or two between you and the goal when you played the ball.”
“What for?”
“It might make it more interesting, and ye’d have less motive for fouls.”
“More motive for fights after, though,” commented the broad man after some thought, “as if it were nae bad enough now.”
The Earl was shouting at the leader of the opposing team.
“And who’re ye?” demanded the black-bearded man, swinging round to look at him.
“Daniel Swanders, at your service,” said Carey, taking off his cap.
“What’re ye doing here?”
“I heard ye were after horses. Are you the laird?”
“Nay, lad, that’s Wattie Graham there, with the red face shouting at the Earl. I’m Walter Scott of Harden. Ye’re not from this country.”
“No, master, I’m from Berwick.”
“Ay, thought so. The horses yourn?”
“Ay master.”
“Mphm.”
The football match seemed to be breaking up, as the Earl’s side had seemingly won by five goals to none. The losers were sullen and some of them were nursing bruised shins and the man who’d taken the full force of the Earl’s elbow in his stomach was still coughing.
Francis Stuart, Earl of Bothwell was a large handsome man with brown hair and a long face never at rest, its features oddly blurred by the continual succession of emotions crossing it, like weather. He was in a good mood from winning the football match and after slapping Wattie Graham on the back and promising him a rematch, he spotted Carey and came striding over to inspect him. Carey tensed a little: it wasn’t very likely the Earl would recognise him, he thought, having met the man only once, officially, and the Earl being the kind who is usually so wrapped up in his own importance that anyone not immediately useful to him is nothing more than a fleshly ghost. But still, Bothwell was the only one there who knew Carey at all.
Carey doffed his cap and made a clumsy bow and repeated his story about the horses. He found himself being looked up and down in silence for a moment.
“What’s the price on them?” asked Bothwell, his guttural Scottish bringing back memories of King James’s Court that Carey would have preferred to forget. At least he could understand it, once his ear was in, and it made it easier for him to slip into the Berwick manner of speaking that southerners thought of as Scottish in their ignorance.