By main force she had Janet up the steps and through the door before Lowther came out again, rattling his keys suggestively and looking pleased with himself. He paused when Lord Scrope leaned out of a high window in the keep and yelled that he was not to take a single nag from the stables, but then shrugged. They watched him through a shot hole in the wall as he swaggered over to the barracks, no doubt in search of his breakfast, followed by the mob of Grahams.
“What can we do?”
Elizabeth was still watching. The Grahams were moving in a body to the gate: as it opened, they were out into Carlisle town and from there, once the town gates opened, on the road to Netherby.
Friday, 23rd June, before dawn
Carey awoke out of too little sleep, knowing someone was stealing his pillow. He knew before he was properly awake that he couldn’t allow that: gripped it tighter, rolled and pushed himself onto his feet with his back to the wall and his dagger ready.
“Ah well,” said Jemmie’s voice, “it was worth a try. Don’t stick me, peddler, I was only wondering.”
Carey showed his teeth and waited until Jemmie had backed off. One-Lug lifted himself up on an elbow and cursed both of them, then lay down and went back to sleep. Old Wat’s Clemmie hadn’t even stirred.
With the inside of his mouth as full of muck as a badly run stables and his head pounding, Carey thought of trying for another hour’s sleep, but decided against it. Instead he picked his way across the crammed bodies, scratching his face where the newly shaved beard was coming back and his body where the fleas had savaged him. Once outside there was blessed fresh clean air, only a little tainted with the staggering quantities of manure produced by the men and horses packed into Netherby, and the stars rioting across the sky, with just a little paleness at the eastern edge.
Carey wished he could wash his face, but couldn’t find water, so wandered towards the cow byres set against the barnekin wall where there were lights and movement.
Sleepy women were trudging about there with pails and stools. Alison Graham was standing by the big milk churns and she nodded curtly at him as he slouched towards her.
“Ye’re up early,” she said to him. “Any of the other men up and doing, eh cadger?”
“One of them tried to steal my pack, but no,” said Carey ruefully. “Any water about fit to drink.”
She gestured at some buckets standing by for the cows and he went and dunked his head, drank enough to clear out his mouth.
“Is Mary with you?” he asked, “Mary Graham?”
“In with Bluebell at the moment, why?”
“I wanted to ask her about Sweetmilk.”
“Why?”
“In case I heard anything, in my travels. I do, you know,”
Alison Graham looked him up and down suspiciously. “If ye’re trying…”
“God curse me if I lie, missus, I only want to talk to her.”
After a moment she nodded. As she took the buckets from the girl bringing them over on a yoke, lifted and poured them without visible effort, she said, “She only has to squeal and the crows’ll be feeding on you by midday.”
Carey nodded, did his best to look harmless and went into the byre where Bluebell and two other cows were ready to be milked. Following the sound of retching, he came on Mary in the corner, being helplessly sick on an empty stomach. She had her fist clenched on a lace she wore about her neck. Carey watched silently for a moment, knowing perfectly well what was wrong since he had seen the malady before. At last Mary Stopped, spat, and sat down on her stool, with her head rested against the cow’s flank. As if nothing had happened she started milking away with her sleeves rolled up and the muscles in her white arms catching light off the lantern on the hook above as she worked, though she favoured her bandaged wrist.
She jumped when he coughed.
“Can I sit and talk with ye, missus,” he asked gently.
She shrugged and carried on. Carey squatted down with his back to the wall. They watched the milk spurt in white streams, the round sweet smell of it mixing with the smell of hay from the cow’s breath.
“When’s the babe due?” asked Carey after a while, deciding to bet his shirt on a guess.
Mary Graham gave a little sigh and closed her eyes.
“What babe?” she asked. Squersh, squersh, went the milk and the cow chewed contentedly on her fodder.
Carey said nothing for a while. “I wish ye could help me, for then I might help you,” he said at last. “It’s a Christmas baby, is it no’?”
She shrugged, turned her face away from him. Her head was bare like most of the maids in the north, and the straight red-gold hair knotted up tightly with wisps falling into her face as she worked.
“What did Sweetmilk say?”
That opened the dyke. Her fingers paused in their rhythm, her shoulders went up then down, and he saw water that was not sweat dripping off her chin.
“He said…” she whispered, “he said he’d kill the father.”
“Did he know who the father was?”
No answer.
“Can ye tell me?”
“Why should I, if I didna tell my brother and my own father doesnae ken yet.”
“Was it one of Bothwell’s men?”
There was a telltale little gasp. “How did ye know?”
“If it was one of the men from about here, ye could marry him and if he was married already he could take the bairn for you.”
“I may lose it yet.”
Carey said nothing. Privately he believed that only women who longed for babes ever lost them: the more embarrassing a child was likely to be, the more certain its survival. Unless the mother went to a witch, but he thought this girl not ruthless enough for that. And not brave enough.
“They say pennyroyal mint will shift it. Do you have any about you, cadger?”
“No,” said Carey, coldly. Mary Graham sneered at him and went on with the other two teats. The cow shifted experimentally and tipped her hoof. Mary banged unmercifully on the leg and the cow lowed in protest.
“Would you marry the father if he asked?” pressed Carey, hoping she wouldn’t slap him.
She didn’t quite: she scowled at him and turned her shoulder to him.
“Not if he was the Earl himself,” she whispered fiercely.
Carey nodded. That at least removed the prime suspect, but it confirmed that she must know who killed Sweetmilk. Not that she was likely to tell, even if her father beat her which he no doubt would. Poor lass.
He let her finish milking the cow and when she rose from her stool and rubbed her back, he too rose to go.
“Make yourself useful, peddler,” she said to him, “take this over to Mistress Graham for me.”
Embarrassed into women’s work, Carey took the buckets and carried them out of the byre. Without a yoke to take the surprising weight and steady them he slopped some of the milk and Alison Graham sniffed at him, lifted each one and poured it out and sent him back to swill the buckets with water and take them in to Mary again. He knew perfectly well she’d tell him nothing more and he wasn’t her servant, so when he had done as he was bid, he walked out into the dawn again and yawned and stretched.
“What will you do about Mary’s bairn?” he asked Mrs Graham when she snorted at him like an irritable horse.
“Why? Are you offering for her hand?” demanded the mistress. “She’ll take it if ye do.”
“Er…no…”
“Then leave her alone. She’s enough to contend with.”
“Yes missus,” said Carey meekly.
Friday, 23rd June, dawn
Dodd was sitting glumly in the cell recently vacated by Bangtail, looking at the neat pile of turds in the corner. He had worn out his fury kicking the stout door and now his toes were sore as well as his stomach and his face and he hadn’t had breakfast.
The rattle of keys did not make him look up, since he expected it was Lowther come to gloat.
“Wake up, Dodd,” snapped his wife’s voice, “unless ye want to bide there until your hanging.”