“What the hell do you think we were going to do with them? Take them back to Carlisle? Use them?”
It was disgraceful. “And which poor creature did ye get to fire one of the bloody things?”
“Me.”
Dodd shook his head and finished the last of the beer. “Ye’re mad, sir,” he told Carey flatly. “Ye think ye’re being ower clever, but ye’re no’. Ye cannae deal weapons wi’ a foreigner like that, especially not a Papist, it’s treason. And why did my lord Maxwell not deal with ‘em direct, eh?”
“Didn’t have time to think of it. He only knew the weapons were bad this morning.”
“Time enough, I’d say. He was the one brung the foreigners here to Scotland, he could have done the deal hisself and not lost any of the gold to ye. Did ye think he’s too stupid? Nay, he’s too clever…”
“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Sergeant.” Carey’s voice was cold, perhaps a little slurred. How much booze had he put down his throat in the twenty-four hours or more since his interview with the King of Scotland? It wasn’t that he was reeling or even unsteady, only he must be more affected by it than he seemed, to have pulled a mad dangerous trick like this one, full of the ugly scent of treason and trickery.
“Ay, sir,” said Dodd. “Nor ye didnae, but if I see a man riding full pelt for a cliff edge, I wouldnae be human if I didnae call out to him.”
Carey was rechecking the jugs, and doomed to disappointment. “Oh, rubbish, Sergeant. I thought you’d be more grateful to me for rescuing your idiot brother from gaol and you from being a hostage. Where else was I going to get the money to calm Lord Maxwell down? Rob the King’s bloody treasury?” Carey grinned again. He was irrepressibly and ludicrously pleased with his own cleverness. “Mind you,” he added. “That’s a thought, isn’t it? I’ll bet His Majesty’s got his funds in a chest under his bed at the Mayor’s house guarded by naught bar a couple of bumboys.”
Dodd for one did not see why he had to sit there and watch the Courtier preen. With sudden decision he removed his boots from the bench, put away his nearly-formed chunk of firewood and stood up. “I’m for my bed,” he said. “I cannae keep court hours. Goodnight to ye, sir.”
“Goodnight, Sergeant,” said Carey.
“Are we tae go back to Carlisle the morrow?”
“No, Sergeant, we haven’t finished yet.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Sergeant. I appreciate you disapprove of what I’ve done and frankly I don’t care. But you can talk to me civilly or not at all.”
Dodd grunted. He struggled for self-control because as often happened, the loquacious little devil inside him was in a good mind to give the Courtier a mouthful and see how he liked it. But Dodd had paid thirty pounds English for the Sergeantship and he knew his wife wanted the investment back: the truth was, he was more afraid of his woman than he was inclined to give the Deputy a punch in the mouth, a fact which made him feel even more tired than he already was.
“Why have we no’ finished, sir?” Dodd said after a moment, with heavy politeness.
“We haven’t retrieved the true Carlisle handguns from the Johnstones yet, Sergeant, the ones the Queen really sent us from the Tower armouries, and we’re not going until we do. Goodnight to you.”
Friday 14th July 1592, before dawn
If Sir Henry Widdrington had ever been priest-hunting with one of Sir Francis Walsingham’s men, things would have gone very differently, Carey often thought afterwards. Unlike the priest-finders, the Widdringtons had not properly scouted their target nor forewarned their helpers.
It was the shouting and ruddy light of torches in the black of the night that propelled Young Hutchin Graham out of his sleep by the fire. He ran to the window and squinted through stained glass to look out into the yard. The Maxwell guards were arguing with a square-shaped gentleman, hatted and ruffed and standing outlined in the open postern gate. There was a flash of white paper; the ominous phrase In the King’s name floated to Hutchin’s ears. Lord Maxwell himself and two of his cousins hurried through the dim hall, fully dressed and armed, to meet the men at the gate.
It suddenly occurred to Hutchin that he might have been a little too trusting of Roger Widdrington.
“Och, God, no,” he moaned, turned and sprinted through the parlour and up the spiral stairs to Lord Maxwell’s solar and through from there into the anteroom that had been given to Carey. The two enormous wolfhounds that he was sharing it with woke up and growled at him, and Carey himself sat up, blinking.
“What is it?”
“Sir, sir, I’m sorry, I thought it was Lady Widdrington, not Sir Henry.”
“What? What are you blabbering about? And what the Devil’s that noise?”
Hutchin swallowed hard and fought for control. “It’s Sir Henry Widdrington, Deputy. He’s got a Royal Warrant to arrest someone.”
There was the sound of the gate bolts being opened.
Noticeably, Carey didn’t ask who the warrant was for. His eyes narrowed to chips of ice.
“You’ve been passing information about my doings.”
“Ay, sir,” Hutchin confessed miserably. “To Roger Widdrington. I thought it was for my lady. That’s what he said.”
Carey was out of bed now, peering through the narrow window into the yard where Sir Henry and a large number of men were marching across between the horses and men camping out there, towards the hall door.
“You halfwitted romantic twat,” said Carey, feeling under his shirt and unbuckling a moneybelt. “Pull up your doublet and shirt.”
Mouth open, Hutchin did as he was told. Carey strapped it onto him, where it went round twice.
“Och, it’s heavy, sir,” said Young Hutchin Graham, waking up rather more and now beginning to take on a canny expression.
“It’s gold and a banker’s draft.”
“Christ.”
“Don’t swear. Come with me.”
Carey led the boy out into Maxwell’s solar where there was a trapdoor let into the ceiling. He hauled a linen chest underneath, stood on it, opened the bolts, shoved back the trapdoor and then boosted Young Hutchin up into the dark spaces above.
“What’s happening, sir?” Young Hutchin asked, kneeling at the edge of the hole. “Where does this go?”
“There’ll be an escape route via the roof, no doubt. I never heard of a Border lord yet that didn’t have one. Use it.”
“What about ye, sir?”
“Thanks to you, I think I’m about to be arrested by the King of Scotland.”
“But can ye not come with me?”
“Use your head, Hutchin. This is Maxwell’s bolthole. It’s me they’re after, and if I’m not here, his lordship will know where I’ve gone and they’ll catch both of us. Whereas nobody’s interested in you.”
“Och, Jesus, sir. Will they hang ye?”
“Certainly not. Being of noble blood, I’ve a right to ask for beheading. Here, catch this ring.”
“Whit d’ye want me tae do, sir?”
“You’ve a choice, haven’t you? You could go to Dodd if he’s still at liberty, or try and see Lady Elizabeth Widdrington, herself, in person this time and not through intermediaries. Show her the ring and ask for her help. She might even give it.”
“Or?”
“Or you could pelt off to your cousins and run for the Debateable Land with the gold that’s in that belt. Which might be safer for you in the short term.”
Young Hutchin said nothing.
***
Young Hutchin silently scrabbled at the heavy trap and put it back in its hole. Carey scrubbed the fingermarks off with his shirtsleeve, jumped down, pushed the chest back against the wall, kicked the rucked-up rushes about a bit and ran back to his anteroom, shutting and bolting the door behind him while the dogs milled around him looking puzzled, and the tramp of boots echoed on the spiral stair. First one and then both of the wolfhounds began to bark and growl menacingly, standing to face the door with their hackles up and their teeth bared. Carey patted them both affectionately. If he had wanted to make a fight of it, they would have given their lives for him, but he saw no point in that.