The water made him gasp but it was quite refreshing. You had to be careful because the stones on the bottom were covered in weed and very slippery. Cumberland saw him and whistled.
“Christ, Sir Robert, who tried to slit your ribs?”
Carey looked down at the purple scar he had collected in the summer and completely forgotten about.
“A Scotsman with a knife. Cost me?20 to get my black velvet doublet mended afterward.”
Cumberland laughed. “Where is he now?”
“In Hell, my lord, where do you think?” Carey answered coolly, since he had in fact killed his man to the great approval of the assembled Carlislers. The inquest on that death had taken twenty minutes and found it lawful killing in self-defence.
Cumberland slapped him on the back and offered him soap, which Carey took. Just in that moment, as he bent to wash his armpits in the water, he half-heard a familiar sound and his body instinctively clenched and ducked, well before his mind could tell him what it was.
His foot caught on a slippery stone and he went over sideways with a splash, swamping Cumberland and two other Court sprigs, one of whom had been silly enough to put his clean shirt back on before he was well away from the water. Pure reflex made him grab the nearest thing from underwater, which unfortunately happened to be the Earl of Cumberland’s leg. That took the Earl over as well.
Cumberland came up again, blowing water with weeds on his head, the light of battle in his eyes. Carey had to dive sideways to avoid a very accomplished wrestling grab by the Earl, which meant his shoulder went into the legs of somebody else and took him down as well.
The whole scene degenerated into a wrestling free-for-all. Carey climbed out of the shouting, splashing, yelling clump of nobility as soon as he could, quickly soaped his armpits and then was well-rinsed by the Earl of Cumberland pulling him back into the pond and dunking him. It took a very nice break-free taught him by Dodd to get out of the Earl’s expert grip so he could use a willow branch to haul himself up and cough water.
The entire village was now gathered to watch the fun, including the quoits players, vigorous betting going on and the boys cheering on their favourites while the village dogs barked their heads off. The noise was amazing which meant Carey could speak quietly to get under the sound and penetrate to the Earl of Cumberland before he could be thrown again.
“Look there,” he said, pointing.
Cumberland stopped laughing suddenly, frowned. They waded across, shoving wrestlers out of their way to a willow root on the far side where some highly offended ducks were hiding as far up the tree as they could get in their webbed feet.
A crossbow bolt was buried deep in the wood, the notch bright and new.
That was the sound he’d heard. The snick of a crossbow trigger being released. He and Cumberland looked at each other. The bolt was an ordinary one from a hunting bow. Not one for small game, but for deer. The bolt was a good six inches long, heavy and sharp. If it had hit him it would probably have killed him.
“I was wondering what you thought you were doing,” said Cumberland thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sir Robert.”
True, it could have been aimed at the Earl and not at him; they had been close enough together. And Cumberland too had enemies, notably the Spanish and the French and probably some inherited Border feuds as well. But when Carey felt which way the bolt’s tail was pointing and traced the line of its flight across the stream, he thought it was at chest height where he had been standing in the moment he heard the trigger. Behind him had been a low wall and some bushes. Carey waded back across the pond as the wrestlers calmed themselves and started climbing out and drying themselves. Bets were being settled. He peered over the wall. The ground was soft but well printed with many feet and no way of telling among them.
“Or do you think it was you he was after?” The Earl was already on the bank, rubbing himself down with a linen towel. Carey shrugged and followed him, hoping to use the towel as well since he hadn’t brought one.
“I don’t know, my lord,” he said, blinking at the tree where the crossbow bolt was buried.
“Well, it wasn’t an accident, that’s sure,” Cumberland said, handing him the dank towel. “With a bolt that size, whoever shot it wasn’t after duck.”
Carey shivered suddenly but only because he was wet and the sun was setting. He rubbed himself briskly, finished, and pulled his shirt back on. Typically the Earl was now chuckling and shaking his head so his earring flashed.
“By God, Carell’s done ye some good. That was fast. Do you find a lot people trying to kill you at the moment, eh?”
“Well yes, my lord, I understand the Grahams have my head priced at?10 in Dumfries.”
Cumberland hooted. “Not nearly enough, the skinflints. I’ll tell ’em to put it up to?50 at least.”
“Your lordship is too kind,” Carey said smiling, although he still felt cold. That was far away on the Borders where he rarely went anywhere without a padded jack reinforced with steel plates on his back, and Dodd behind him. For God’s sake, this was Oxfordshire in fat, soft southern England. It wasn’t supposed to happen, whoever the assassin had been aiming at. And who the hell had tried it?
***
Emilia Bonnetti was dousing herself in expensive rosewater to clean herself as there were no such things as proper baths in this peasant bog. She knew how persnickety the old English Queen was and had an intricately smocked fresh shift to wear under her stays. Her beautiful crimson silk gown had been left in Ireland, alas, that goddamned hellhole of a country. No doubt some uncouth chieftain’s wife was wearing it now. Dante Aligheri was completely wrong: Hell was a green boggy place where the air was constantly damp from the equally constant rain and the people were charming, intelligent, sometimes remarkably good-looking but lethally unpredictable. Only God knew how near a thing it had been for herself and her husband; only she knew how nearly they had died.
She had borrowed a dancing gown from the wife of one of the musicians who probably made a very good thing out of it, seeing what the woman charged. The gown was tawny, which did not suit her colouring at all but would have to do as there was no choice. Her slippers were also borrowed, a different shade of tawny, and didn’t fit properly.
She was in a peasant’s main room, getting dressed with the few other women at Court who were neither ladies-in-waiting nor maids of honour; they were wives of lesser courtiers mainly. Maids of honour, pfui. Dishonour, more like. Emilia had heard of Raleigh’s proceedings with Bess Throckmorton and was shocked. She had been a virgin when she married and it had taken some work to stay intact when her cousins came calling. However, once you were legally married and had given your man an heir, it didn’t matter in the least what you did, in her view. Bonnetti himself was well aware of what she did and they often planned one of her campaigns together over a jug of their wine. On her part, she ignored his activities with chambermaids. They were excellent business partners. The wine made good profits when everything went well and the customers actually paid up; much more profitable was the trade in information. The barrels of goods and gold that went back to the Hague to pay for the wine would often have secret compartments with coded news in them from Signor Bonnetti to keep the stupid English Customs and Excise men and the pursuivants happy. Her own methods were better.
Tonight she had two quarries: one she had taken before, the tall chestnut-headed, disgracefully handsome cousin of the Queen, with his piercing blue eyes and his (she had to admit) quite polished manners. The other…well, she would have to be very careful not to actually catch that one or the whole plan would be ruined. She had only to wing him slightly, as it were.