“I already know Richard Lowther.”
“No sir.” The boy’s face was alight with pleasure at knowing something Dodd didn’t. The conversations round about them suddenly sputtered and died. “It’s not him.”
“What?” demanded Dodd, who had been straining himself to be pleasant to Lowther in anticipation of his confirmation in the Deputyship.
“I thought he was set to get it,” protested Red Sandy, concerned about his own investment, “I thought the old Lord promised him…”
The boy shook his head. “It’s not him.”
“Well who is it then?” demanded Bangtail.
Cunning disfigured the child’s face. “I dinna ken,” he said.
Dodd picked up his cap which had been steaming next to the fire. “Is it still raining outside?”
“Yes sir, but he wants…”
Sighing, Dodd unfolded his lanky body from the booth and began pushing and sidling between the drinkers to get to the door. Argument and betting on the new Deputy’s identity exploded behind him with Bangtail’s voice full of glee above the rest, “God, Lowther’ll be in a bate in the morning. He’s already sold his offices.”
At the door, digging his cloak out of the steaming heap, Dodd looked narrowly at the boy.
“Are you one of Bangtail’s kin?”
“Second cousin, once removed, sir.”
“Graham?”
“Yes sir, Young Hutchin Graham.”
That was an ill to-name to be saddled with, thought Dodd, he’d be called Young Hutchin when he was seventy and bent like willow.
“Then you’ll be Hutchin the Bastard’s boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“You know who my Lord Scrope’s new deputy is, don’t you?”
“I might,” allowed Young Hutchin carefully.
They stepped away from Bessie’s door and dodged to the covered way from the drawbridge to the Captain’s Tower. The rain had slackened off to a fine mizzle and the dusk was stretching itself out above the clouds. The boy grinned.
“It’s not one of the Warden’s relatives.”
“Of course it is,” said Dodd. “Why else would he make a mortal enemy of Richard Lowther.”
Young Hutchin shook his head and looked smug. Dodd sighed and gave him a penny. Perhaps he wouldn’t make it to seventy.
“It’s one of his wife’s kin. He’s just ridden up from London and the Queen’s Court and the strange horses in the stable are…”
“Good Christ!” said Dodd disgustedly, “It’s a Carey. It’s not Sir John is it? Say to me Scrope hasn’t made John Carey Deputy Warden in the West March as well?”
“Oh no, sir, that one’s still just Marshal of Berwick Castle. It’s his youngest brother Robert.”
“Who?”
“Robert Carey. Sir Robert, I heard. Lady Scrope’s his nearest sister in age and she thinks the world of him and he’s no money and would like to be away from Court, so I heard, so she made my Lord offer him the place…They’ve put him in the Queen Mary Tower for the night, in the main bedchamber.”
“Ah.”
They were let in through the Captain’s Gate at the shout of their usual password, crossed the yard and came to the stair to the door of the Keep where Scrope’s apartments were. At the foot Dodd gave Young Hutchin another penny.
“Fetch your cousin Bangtail, my brother Red Sandy and Long George Ridley, oh and Archie Give-it-Them if he’s sober and tell them to shift the baggage that’s in the Queen Mary Tower into one of the feed huts for the night. Tell them to do it now, not when they’ve finished their quarts.”
“Ay sir. What is it?”
“A package,” said Dodd gravely. “Go on, run.”
Dodd waited until the boy had disappeared through the Captain’s Gate, reflecting that whoever Hutchin the Bastard’s mother had been, she must have been uncommonly fine-looking for her looks and hair to survive two generations of Graham breeding so well. The lad had better never go near the Scottish King’s Court with that tow head and blue eyes, not until he’d put on enough bone to defend himself.
He opened the heavy door and went into the big main room. Two of Scrope’s attendants were there and a round ugly little man was huddled up on a stool by the fire in the vast fireplace finishing mulled ale from a leather tankard. Next to him was a soft-looking lad, sitting on a pile of rushes, dispiritedly oiling some harness and in the corner, four louts with Berwick stamped on their voices were arguing the toss over whether a shod horse went better than an unshod one in a race. The ferret-faced man on the stool slapped his knees, stood up and said something in what sounded like English, if spoken by a man with a head-cold and the hiccups. Dodd couldn’t understand a word seeing it was some kind of southern talk, but the boy did and the two hurried out into the rain, the boy tripping on some of the harness straps.
Dodd passed through with a polite nod to John Ogle, the Warden’s steward, and climbed the spiral staircase in the furthest corner.
At Scrope’s impatient “Enter” he pushed open the oak door with the mysterious axe-mark in it and went in. The air was full of woollen steam from the heavy cloak hanging by the fire and Scrope’s hangings were given a courtly glamour by the fat wax candles all about the room. At least it was warm there.
Scrope, as usual, was sitting hunched like a heron in his carved chair by the desk while Richard Bell the clerk packed up papers behind him. Two other men looked up as he came in. Captain Carleton was standing, and a stranger was sitting at his ease on the cushioned bench.
“Good evening, Sergeant,” said Scrope, “any news from the patrol?”
“The Sark fords are high for the time of year and I doubt anyone’s been across them this summer, except perhaps the horse smuggler we’ve heard tell of,” said Dodd. “We met Jock of the Peartree with fifteen men by the Esk ford at Longtown.”
“What was he doing there?” asked Scrope.
“Looking for lost cows?” suggested Thomas Carleton sarcastically. He had parked his bulky body in front of the fire, blocking most of the heat, and wore a face full of repressed amusement.
“He said he’d five men that had gone to Carlisle to buy horses.”
Carleton snorted. “Good luck to them. We’ve a famine of horses hereabouts.”
“I trust you sent him packing,” said Lord Scrope. Dodd said nothing. The man sitting on the bench with his mudcaked boots stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle smiled slightly. His face was long and beaky with something indefinably familiar about it, he had dark red-brown wavy hair, and very bright blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed little Court beard and moustache.
“Was there anything else, my lord?” asked Dodd patiently.
“No…Yes. Sir Robert, may I present to you Henry Dodd, Sergeant of the Guard. Henry, this is my brother-in-law Sir Robert Carey, who will be my Deputy Warden.”
Dodd made a stiff-necked bow, Carey came to his feet, returned the courtesy, held out his hand and smiled. There was one who’d be expensive to put in livery, thought Dodd. He was taller by an inch or two than Dodd, who found himself in the unfamiliar position of looking up at someone. He took the proffered hand, which was long, white and nicely manicured, with three rings on it, and shook it.
“Sir Robert,” said Dodd non-committally.
“Apologies for hauling you up here on such a foul evening,” said Carey affably. “Captain Carleton says he’s too busy to take me for a tour of the area tomorrow, and I was hoping you would oblige?”
It was on the tip of Dodd’s tongue to say that he had a lot less time than Carleton, and stay out of trouble, but then he reflected. After all, this was the Warden’s brother-in-law, a courtier come riding up from London, and not just any courtier but one of Lord Hunsdon’s boys. He might even be grateful for a friendly face. Perhaps if he got on well with this Court sprig, who seemingly was the new Deputy Warden, Dodd might snaffle a couple of the offices in the Deputy’s gift to sell on. And Lowther was a miserable bastard in any case.
“No trouble, sir.”
“Dodd, is it? From Upper Tynedale.”
“My grandfather’s land, sir. Mine comes to me from my wife, I’ve a tower and some acres not far from Gilsland.”