“Oh, ay. Widdrington’s not best pleased by it, I can tell you. The nags were exhausted by the time she got them back to Hexham, and one of them gone lame. The fool woman’ll no’ make that mistake again if I know Sir Henry.”
Interesting, thought Philadelphia, feeling sorry for Elizabeth and the nape of her neck prickling at the sudden sense of boiling rage coming from her brother. Robin’s gone white. He has got it badly, I wonder what he’ll do?
To everyone’s astonishment, the unregarded Harry Scrope spoke up.
“But in the process didn’t Sir Robert manage to persuade the Borderers on Bothwell’s raid to steal the King’s horses at Falkland Palace, rather than kidnap the King himself?” he said nervously. “That’s what I heard.”
“Maybe,” grunted Sir Simon. “But that’s not all that I heard, eh, Sir Robert?”
Robin sat for half a heartbeat, as if considering something very seriously. Then he finished his wine, stood up and made his most courtierly bow to Lord and Lady Scrope.
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sir Simon,” he said with freezing civility in a voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “but I’m afraid I’m thick-headed at the moment. I was fighting reivers most of yesterday night and so if you will forgive me, my lord, my dear sister, I’ll go to my bed.” Philadelphia managed a gracious nod and a bright smile. “Good night, Mr Scrope, Mrs Scrope. God speed you back to Berwick, Sir Simon.”
Mary watched him stalk out of the council chamber with regret written all over her face: it was perfectly true, Philly thought affectionately, her brother was a fine figure of a man in his (as yet unpaid-for) black velvet suit, though his hair was presently shaded between black and dark red from the dye he had used for his Netherby disguise. Who could blame Mary Scrope if she wanted a spot of dash and romance to liven her life in the dull and practical north?
Saturday 8th July 1592, night
It was Sir Richard Lowther’s turn to patrol and he had long gone. Once again the night was sultry and dark with cloud, though the rain still refused to fall. Solomon the gate guard was sitting and knitting a sock with his one arm, one needle thrust into a case on his belt to hold it steady, a second ticking away hypnotically between his fingers and the other two dangling. He was away from his usual lookout on the Captain’s Gate, sitting quietly by the north-western sally-port where he could see into the castle yard. There was a stealthy sound to his left and he turned to look.
Two men crept out of the Queen Mary Tower, one tall and leggy, the other short and squat. The tall one was carrying a dark lantern, fully shuttered so only occasional sparkles of light escaped. His face made a patch of white against darkness as he looked up at Solomon, who lifted his shortened upper arm and nodded.
Carey hadn’t felt it necessary to explain why he had paid Solomon to keep watch, but it was no surprise that he and his short henchman padded quietly to the Armoury door. Carey was trying a key in the lock, but it seemingly no longer fitted. He stepped aside and the smaller man took something in his hand and jiggled it into the keyhole. Shortly afterwards there was a stealthy sequence of clicks and the door opened.
There was a sound from the barracks. The taller man tensed, touched his companion on the shoulder. Out of the barracks door came the unmistakable slouching rangy form of Sergeant Dodd. He padded across the courtyard, there was a low conversation and then they all disappeared inside the armoury.
Solomon nodded to himself. He had served under the new Deputy’s father, Lord Hunsdon, during the revolt of the Northern Earls, and he remembered Carey as a boy of about nine, perpetually in trouble, normally hanging about the stables and kennels while his tutor searched for him. The boy was father to the man there, no doubt about it. He grinned reminiscently. On a famous occasion, the young Robin had decided to try reiving for himself, along with his half-brother Daniel. The thing had ended unhappily, with Lord Hunsdon having to pay for the beast and the boys eating their dinners standing up for days afterwards.
Down in the armoury, Carey carefully unshuttered the horn-paned lantern and looked about at the racks.
“Well, they’re here at least,” he said to Dodd softly, as dull greased metal gleamed back at him from all around.
“Ay, sir,” whispered Dodd. “Shall we go now?”
“Not yet, Sergeant.”
Carey nodded at Barnabus who carefully took down the nearest caliver and handed it to him. “We’re going to mark them, carve a cross at the base of the stocks.”
“All of them, sir?”
“That’s right.”
“But it’ll take a’ night…”
“Not if we get started now.”
“Ay, sir,” said Dodd with a sigh.
There was quiet for a while, with the occasional clatter of a dropped weapon and a curse when somebody’s hand slipped. At the end of an hour and a half, Dodd put his knife away.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Hm? Yes, I think so. Barnabus, did you bring those calivers I gave you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give them here then.”
Carey took two guns at random from the middle of the rack and replaced them with Barnabus’s weapons. He held up the lantern and although the replacements had darker-coloured stocks, they would likely not be noticed by someone who was simply counting weapons.
From outside came a low significant sound of an owl hooting. Carey shuttered the lantern immediately, put his fingers to his lips. Feet crunched past the armoury in the yard, someone yawned loudly outside. They stood like statues.
There was the sound of muttered conversation, a scraping and clattering of firewood bundles and then the heavier, laden footsteps walking away again. Moments later came another owl hoot.
“The baker, of course,” said Carey to himself and yawned. “We’re finished here, gentlemen.” Dodd surreptitiously mopped some sweat off his forehead while Carey slipped the lantern shutters closed and went to the door, peered out cautiously. A cat was sitting in the middle of the empty yard, watching something invisible. It too yawned and trotted away as the three men slipped out of the armoury.
“I’ll meet you an hour before dawn, then, Sergeant.”
“Ay, sir,” said Dodd on another martyred sigh.
Solomon was turning the heel of his sock when he heard the lock snick shut, and then one set of soft footsteps approaching. The once amateur reiver turned Deputy Warden loomed over him in the darkness, smelling of black velvet, metal and gunoil.
A small purse made a pleasant chink on the ground beside him.
“Are ye satisfied, sir?” asked Solomon when he was safely past the tricky bit in his knitting.
“Hm? Yes, for the moment. Will you be at the muster tomorrow?”
“Ay, sir, I’m on the strength after all. Garrison, non-combatant.”
“Anything or anyone I should watch out for?”
Solomon’s sniff was eloquent. “Where should I start?”
Carey laughed softly. “I know I’m not popular.”
“Ay. Ye can say that. What was ye at wi’ the guns, sir?”
There was a long silence while Carey considered this. After a moment Solomon realised why and chuckled again.
“Och, sir, ye’ve no need to fear my tongue. Who was it opened the gate for ye when ye and yer half brother brought back that cow?”
Carey coughed. “Lord,” he said, “I’d forgotten that.”
“Had ye? Yer dad failed his purpose then, which wouldnae be like him.”
Apart from a reminiscent snort, Carey didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve marked the guns so that if I ever capture a reiver carrying one of them, I’ll know where it came from.”
Solomon almost dropped a stitch as he choked with laughter.
“Ay,” he said. “Ay, ye’ll know.”
Carey thought this was tribute to his ingenuity. There was smugness in his voice as he went back to the ladder.
“Good night, Solomon.”
“Ay, sir,” wheezed the gate guard, shaking his head.