‘Do you know his name?’
‘Ay, it was Fire the Braes Armstrong.’
‘And where does he live?’
‘The Debateable Land, seeing he’s at the horn for murder and arson in two Marches.’
Carey came to a decision.
‘Mr Bell,’ he said. ‘I’ll be straight with you. I don’t want to take blackrent, which is against the law, but I’ll take my rightful Wardenry fee for protecting your cattle, which is two pounds.’
‘Ay,’ said Bell. ‘But I want yer protection in the future.’
‘You have that,’ Carey explained. ‘It’s one of the duties of the office of Deputy Warden to protect you from raiders.’ Dammit, thought Carey, really it’s the only one. ‘You shouldn’t have to pay me rent for that; the Queen’s supposed to do it.’ Not that she did, or not regularly. ‘You only pay me a fee for a particular raid.’
Bell was looking deeply suspicious.
‘Are ye tellin’ me to pay my blackrent to Lowther?’
‘No, Mr Bell, I’m telling you to give me two pounds sterling and call it quits. Keep the money. Buy weapons or steel bonnets for your family or even a new plough or whatever. Just give me information when it comes to you and turn out to fight for me when I call and that’s all the blackrent I want.’
Bell’s mouth was hanging open. Carey was glad neither Dodd nor Barnabus were there to tell him he was mad turning down good cash; he even felt a little mad and reckless doing it. But he was grateful to Bell for solving Atkinson’s murder for him and besides, if he himself took blackrent like Lowther, how could he stop anyone else from doing it?
Bell had a broad spreading grin of incredulity on his face.
‘Are ye tellin’ me ye willna set on anybody to raid me if I dinna pay ye off?’
‘Yes,’ said Carey, wondering if every Borderer would now think him soft, as well as Dodd, the garrison and Jock of the Peartree. ‘I want my Wardenry fee, though. I have to live too.’
‘Ay,’ said Bell, still grinning. ‘Ay, o’ course ye do. Ay.’
He took two handfuls of crowns and shillings from his purse and carefully counted them out. Then he spat on the palm of his hand and held it out to Carey.
‘Ah’ll come out for ye, Deputy,’ he said. ‘There’s ma hand, there’s ma heart.’
Carey spat on his own palm and grasped Bell’s firmly.
‘And mine, Mr Bell,’ he said. ‘Pass the word, if you will.’
‘Ay,’ said Bell, still grinning as he put away his purse and moved to the door quickly before Carey could change his mind. ‘Ay, I will. By God,’ he added, shaking his head and Carey heard him laugh as his hobnails clattered down the stairs.
***
Edward Aglionby, Mayor of Carlisle, was expecting a visit from the new Deputy Warden and was ready for it when, belatedly, it came. The Deputy arrived on horseback and seemed to be in a tearing hurry, but he invited the young man into his solar for wine and wafers and even asked him to dinner.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Aglionby, I’m bidden to my sister’s table and in fact I’m going to be late. But I must talk to you first.’
Edward Aglionby stood with his arms crossed, waiting.
‘You know, of course, that there was an attempt made on your packtrain by Wattie Graham…’
‘And Skinabake Armstrong. Yes, Sir Robert. I also know that it was you who prevented it, thereby saving me a great deal of gold and trouble.’
Aglionby waited for the new Deputy’s demand, but it seemed Carey wanted to shillyshally first, asking irrelevantly about Atkinson’s inquest.
‘Yes,’ he answered the Courtier. ‘The case does fall under City jurisdiction. In fact my lord Warden was quite willing for the Carlisle Coroner to hear the inquest, although my lord has empanelled the jury.’
Carey nodded. Given a very tight spot, with Lowther on the one hand badgering him to find Carey or his servant guilty and Philadelphia badgering him on every other hand to find someone else, Scrope would gratefully wriggle out.
‘Who is the Coroner?’ he asked.
Aglionby smiled. ‘I am.’
‘Excellent,’ Carey beamed back. ‘I have a favour to ask of you, Mr Aglionby, which I hope you will…at least consider.’
‘Mm,’ said the Mayor cautiously.
‘We have a multiplicity of suspects for murderer,’ said Carey. ‘Among them, though I think no longer the most suspected of them, is my servant Barnabus. Now I have no way of being his good lord here-I have no influence with the jury and would not dream of insulting you by attempting to influence you yourself-excepting if I can put my case against the man I think truly did the deed, directly in open Court.’
‘Are you a lawyer, Sir Robert?’
Carey coughed, not willing to lie directly. ‘I have some small experience of law and lawyers, though I never was a member of an Inn of Court. I would like to act as amicus curiae, a friend of the Court, in an unofficial capacity.’
‘Mmm.’
‘It’s the best way I can think of helping my unfortunate servant who was only accused as a way of attacking me. Obviously I can’t hire him a barrister since he’s accused of a capital crime.’
‘Hm. Amicus curiae. Is that all?’
Carey’s face was guileless, though in fact he was wondering how long Aglionby would take to decide and how furious Philadelphia would be when he was late.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Aglionby was very suspicious at such a cheap discharge of an obligation. There was no question that the Deputy Warden had saved him large sums of money. On the other hand, why look a gift horse in the mouth?
‘I see no reason to deny you, Sir Robert; in fact, I’m happy to be of service in the matter.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Mayor,’ said Carey, and then decided that since he was going to be late anyway, he might as well drop a little poison. ‘Do you know who it was who passed on word of your packtrain to the Grahams?’
‘No,’ admitted Aglionby. ‘Though I have suspicions.’
‘It was Sir Richard Lowther.’
Aglionby did not look surprised. His square smooth-chinned face changed only slightly.
‘He was at the cardgame where your lady sister…’
‘Was indiscreet. Yes. And one of my men saw him at the Red Bull…er…later. Mick the Crow was certainly there too and I know Mick was the messenger to Wattie that brought in the raid.’
‘Ah,’ said Aglionby. ‘Mick the Crow hasn’t named Lowther?’
‘Of course not. I deduced it.’
‘It isn’t enough to accuse him.’
It will be, thought Carey; when I indict him for ordering Atkinson’s murder, it will. Aloud he said, ‘No. But straws show which way the wind blows.’
It was obvious. Lowther needed money and would have got it as his cut from the packtrain profits. Also he would be undermining Carey in the City of Carlisle with the implication that commerce wasn’t safe under his rule. Why had he let Carey take his patrol out? Simple greed, perhaps, coupled with the hope that if Carey came on Skinabake with Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon behind him, that was Carey out of his way forever. And Atkinson was killed to keep him quiet about it.
‘Mm,’ said Aglionby again.
‘Mr Mayor,’ Carey said, making for the door. ‘I simply must get back to the Castle or my sister will skin me alive. It’s arranged for tomorrow?’
‘Ay,’ said Aglionby. ‘You can be amicus curiae for the inquest, no bother. Good evening to you, Deputy.’
Wednesday, 5th July 1592, early evening
It was a quiet little supper party, with only Philadelphia, Scrope and Carey himself, eating his way voraciously through five covers of meat and a number of summer sallets, sharp with herbs and nasturtium flowers. Philadelphia forgave him for being so late and exerted herself to keep the conversation going; she was worried by Carey’s rather remote politeness. She even asked Carey’s advice about her son who was away south at school and perpetually in trouble, but with typical masculine obtuseness all he would say was that she should worry more if the boy didn’t get into scrapes now and then.