“No need, Nurse,” said Carey, “I’ve a man in there already, and my own body servant will be seeing after making it comfortable, you’re not to trouble yourself.”
“Well, have you eaten?”
“I had a bit with the men in the…”
“Oh in the Lord’s name, old bread and last year’s cheese, and the beer brewed by idiots, I’ll go and fetch something out of my lord’s kitchen, you stay there, Robin, and dry your hose…”
“Would you have it sent up to my chamber, Nurse. I’ll be going to bed soon.”
Goodwife Biltock opened her mouth to argue, then smiled. “There’ll be enough for your servants too,” she said. “Be sure you eat your share, I know you. Good night, Robin.” She reached over and ruffled his hair, heaved herself up and bustled out, rump swinging beneath a let out gown of Philadelphia’s. She looked very fine in green velvet, though worn and of an old style. But then the Goodwife had always liked to look well, even when she was nursing Carey babies.
“Didn’t you tell her?” Carey asked as he took her place on the stool.
“No one was sure you were coming until your messenger arrived this morning while we were all in church. I made Scrope send Carleton out. And I didn’t want to disappoint her in case the Queen called you back before you got here.”
Philadelphia brought up the other stool and settled down facing him.
“Be very careful of Lowther, Robin, he’s the reason…”
“…why I’m here. So I gathered.”
“I wish you had fought him, right there and then,” whispered Philadelphia, screwing up her fists on her apron and causing it to crumple.
“Philly…” Carey saw she meant it and changed what he had to say. “It might have been a little messy. Have you ever seen a real sword fight?”
“No, but I’ve nursed enough sword cuts. I’d nurse Lowther too, I would, nurse him good and proper.”
Carey looked away from her vehemence. “What was it you couldn’t tell me in your letter?”
“Only that he has this March closed up tight in his fist. He has most of the lucrative offices and he takes the tenths of recovered cattle, not the Warden.”
Carey’s lips moved in a soundless whistle.
“What’s left? Just the thirds from fines.”
“What there are of them, we’ve had no justice out of Liddesdale for fourteen years. Sir John Carmichael…”
“He’s still the Scots West March Warden?”
“For the moment, but the rumours are he wants to resign.”
“Wise man.”
“He’s well enough, he’s an honest decent gentleman, too good for this country. Did you ever meet him?”
“I think I did. Last time I was at King James’s Court he was there, I remember.”
“He does his best, but the Maxwells and the Johnstones ignore him and the Armstrongs and Grahams…”
“Who will bind the wind?”
“Exactly. Old Lord Scrope held it together because towards the end he simply did what Lowther told him and let the rest go hang and Lowther kept the peace as far as it suited him.”
“Not far?”
“Well, it’s remarkable how often people who offend him get raided and their houses burned.”
“Who by?”
“Grahams or Elliots mostly, but Nixons and Crosers too.”
Carey rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. “This is no restful sinecure I think,” he said.
“Did you think it would be?”
Carey laughed. “Christ, no, or I’d never have come.”
“Don’t swear, Robin, you’re getting worse than father.”
“He warned me that things were rotten here, but he didn’t know the details.”
“How would he, staying warm in London with the Queen and messing about with players.”
“Why Philly, you sound bitter.”
She put her face in her hands.
“John does his best in the East March but…”
“He makes an ass of himself from time to time and the Berwick townsmen can’t stand him, I know.”
“We need father to run a good strong Warden’s Raid,” said his sister ferociously, “burn all their towers down for them. Then they’d behave.”
Carey put his arm round her shoulders and held her tight.
“You don’t need father, you’ve got me, Philly my dear,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
“You won’t let him make you leave?” She was blinking up at him with a frown.
Carey sucked wind through his teeth. “If the Queen orders me back to Westminster, you know I have to go.”
“She won’t, will she?”
“Not if we can forestall whatever Lowther writes to Burghley.”
“You could send a letter with the Berwick men and have John put it in his usual package to London.”
“Yes,” said Carey, thoughtfully, “I’ll do that.” He yawned. “I’ll do it in the morning before I go out with Dodd. There’ll be no time later, I want to inspect my men before I call a paymuster for them. And I must go to bed, Philly, or I’ll fall asleep here and you’ll have to turf Nurse out of her trundle bed and put me in it.”
Philly grinned at him. “Nonsense, she’d carry you down the stairs on her back and dump you with the other servants in the hall and then she’d give you a thick ear in the morning.”
“She would,” Carey said as he stood up, and kissed his sister on the forehead. “Thank you for your good word to Scrope.”
“You don’t mind that I made him send for you?”
“Sweetheart, you did me the best favour a sister could, you got me out of London and saved my life.”
“Oh?’ said Philly naughtily, “And who was she?”
“None of your business. Good night.”
Monday, 19th June, morning
Dawn came to Carlisle with a feeble clearing of the sky and a wind to strip the skin and cause a dilemma over cloaks: wear one, be marginally warmer and risk having it ripped from your back by a gust, or leave it off and freeze. Dodd put on an extra shirt, a padded doublet and his better jack and decided to freeze.
Carey was already in the stableyard when he arrived, between two of the castle’s rough-coated hobbies, checking girth straps and saddle leathers and passing a knowledgeable hand down the horses’ legs. He had on a clean but worn buff jerkin, his well-cut suit of green wool trimmed with olive velvet and his small ruff was freshly starched. He looked repulsively sprightly.
“Do you never shoe your horses, Sergeant?” he asked as Dodd came into view.
Dodd considered an explanation and decided against it. “No sir.” Carey patted a foreleg and lifted the foot to inspect the sturdy, well-grown hoof. He smiled quizzically and Dodd relented a little. “Not hobbies, sir.”
“I like a sure-footed horse myself,” said Carey agreeably and mounted.
As Carlisle’s stolid red walls and rabble of huts dropped behind them Carey seemed for some reason to be quite happy. Dodd failed to see why: the vicious wind was harrying clouds across the blue like a defeated army and the land was soused with the rain of the previous days. This was June, for Heaven’s sake, and it felt like February. Dodd began to run through his normal tally of worries: lack of money, the hay harvest likely to fail, lack of money, the barley crop poor, the rye and oats only middling and the wheat gone to the Devil, lack of money, pasturage poor and sour and Mildred, one of Janet’s work-horses, mysteriously off her feed, Janet in general, lack of money, the dead Graham…
Dodd glanced sideways at the present occupant of the Queen Mary Tower. He was riding loosely along, looking all about him, whistling slightly and half-smiling and when his hobby tried an exaggerated shy at a limp dandelion, he rode the hopping good-humouredly and hardly used the whip. He did not look like a man whose sleep had been upset by a corpse in his bed. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? And if his servants had dealt with the body, what in God’s name had they done with it?
Privately deciding to send Red Sandy out to Gilsland to warn Janet of a possible raid by Jock of the Peartree if he hadn’t found the dead man by the evening, Dodd cleared his throat.
“Different from London I doubt, sir.”
Carey was deep in thought. “Hm? London? Yes. Have you ever been there?”