2 A Season of Knives: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (10 page)

Barnabus sucked his teeth. ‘What a pity Mr Pennycook didn’t send you to me first,’ he said meaningfully.

Kerr looked knowing. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Expensive, is he?’

‘Very,’ said Barnabus. ‘And very unpredictable. He’s got to be approached just right, has Sir Robert.’

The low muttering inside had stopped suddenly. Barnabus braced himself.

‘Barnabu-u-us,’ came the roar.

Barnabus opened the door and went in. Mr Pennycook was standing in the middle of the floor, looking pinched about the nostrils.

Carey was by the fireplace with his back turned.

‘Barnabus, escort Mr Pennycook to the gate, if you please.’

‘Yessir,’ said Barnabus briskly and came forward. ‘This way sir,’ he said confidingly. ‘Best to leave now.’

‘But…’ said Pennycook.

‘Good day to you, Mr Pennycook,’ said Carey curtly and walked through into his office, where he sat down.

Barnabus sighed heavily at more riches unnecessarily thrown away—after all, it wasn’t as if Carey had yet seen a penny of his legendary five hundred pounds per annum.

‘See,’ he said to Michael Kerr, as he led the two of them down the stairs again. ‘He’s a bit touchy, is my master.’

Pennycook was looking ill as he walked unseeing through the gate and into Carlisle town. Barnabus made no haste on his way back and by the time he got up the stairs again, Carey had finished the pile of muster letters and put them to one side. He paused, wiped and put down the pen, stretched his fingers and brushed stray sand from the desk in front of him. He looked as if he was fighting a battle with his conscience again, then he sighed and turned to the pile of complaints that were flooding in about the horses reived in the previous weeks—both those that Jock of the Peartree Graham had stolen as his remounts, and those he and the other Grahams had successfully lifted from the King’s stables at Falkland. Carey considered for a moment and then started painstakingly compiling two lists of victims, booty, victims’ surnames or affiliations, value of horse stolen (generally very high, by their owners’ accounts) and area. The pen whispered softly across the paper, with the occasional rhythmic dip and tap on the ink bottle while the light coloured into the slow afternoon of high summer.

Barnabus finished polishing Carey’s helmet and sword, his boots and other tack, then gathered up yesterday’s shirt and moved to the door. He suddenly thought of something and coughed. What was the betting Carey hadn’t eaten all day? Perhaps some vittles might mend his mood.

Barnabus coughed again gently and when that got no response said, ‘Sir, shall I bring up something to eat?’

‘What?’ The voice was irritable. Carey was recutting the nib of his pen which had worn down.

‘Food sir. For you, sir?’

Carey waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m not hungry. Get me some beer.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus, confirmed in his suspicions.

The shirt went into the Castle laundry with the other linen and Barnabus wandered to the kitchens where the idle little cook had his domain. He had gathered together a tray of bread, cheese, raised oxtongue pie, sallet and pickle and was going to the buttery for beer, when a boy stopped him in the corridor.

It was Young Hutchin Graham, his boots and jerkin dusty and his blond hair plastered to his head with sweat.

‘Mr Cooke,’ said Young Hutchin in an urgent hiss. ‘I wantae speak to the Deputy.’

‘Well, you can’t,’ said Barnabus pompously. ‘He’s very busy.’

‘I must, it’s verra important.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Young Hutchin looked furtive and unhappy and then shook his head. ‘Ah’ll tell it to the Deputy and naebody else.’

‘You can give me the message and I will ask the Deputy if he wants…’

‘Mr Cooke, Ah can tell ye, he’ll wantae hear what I have to say, but I’ll say it to him only.’

Barnabus looked shrewdly at the boy’s anxious face and could see no more dishonesty than usual in the long-lashed blue eyes.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come up to the Queen Mary Tower with me and you can…’

‘Nay, I’ll not go there. Ask him if he’ll please come down here so I’m not seen wi’ him.’

Barnabus gave Hutchin a very hard stare and then shrugged.

‘I’ll pass it on, my son, but I doubt he’ll…’

Young Hutchin bit his lip and then whispered, ‘It’s concernin’ Lady Widdrington.’

‘Hm,’ said Barnabus. ‘I’ll tell him.’

In fact he let Carey eat what he wanted of the food he’d brought before he mentioned Young Hutchin’s anxiety. Carey was preoccupied and it took Lady Widdrington’s name to get him to leave his careful list-making and go down the stairs and across the yard to the buttery beside the keep, Barnabus following behind him out of plain nosiness.

Once in privacy by the huge casks of beer and the ample sweet smell of the malt, Young Hutchin gabbled out his tale.

Young Hutchin had seen Mick the Crow Salkeld at dawn in the Castle stables, taking one of the hobbies and asking about the best route to Netherby that avoided the road. When somebody wanted to know why he was sneaking into the Debateable Land, he had tapped his nose and said something about Lady Widdrington.

‘What did he say?’ demanded Carey.

‘Ah dinna like to repeat it, sir, it were…rude,’ answered Hutchin primly. ‘It were along the lines o’ my uncle…er…takin’ your place, so to speak.’

Carey breathed deeply through his nose for a moment and then nodded. ‘Go on.’

Young Hutchin had been greatly taken with Lady Widdrington, so he had decided to go to Netherby himself and see what was up.

‘Ah dinna trust Uncle Wattie, see,’ explained his treacherous nephew. ‘It’s costing him a fortune to mend Netherby an’ there isnae a man he’s met since it happened that isnae jestin’ ower the way ye pulled the wool over his eyes and got the better of him.’

Carey’s eyes had narrowed down to slits.

‘You didn’t run all the way there and back again? It’s ten miles.’

Young Hutchin coloured. ‘Nay sir. Ah ran a couple of miles to the further horse paddock and…er…borrowed a hobby and a remount. I brung ‘em back too,’ he added with proud rectitude.

Carey nodded.

‘So, anyway, sir, I got to Netherby an’ it were full up wi’ me cousins and the like, and Skinabake Armstrong and his gang. Ah couldnae get close enough to hear what Mick the Crow’s message was, but half an hour after he arrived he was back on the road south again and the place was boiling out like an overturned beeskep.’

‘Which way did they go?’

‘South east. Across the Bewcastle Waste, sir.’

‘How many?’

Young Hutchin squinted at the roofbeams and thought hard. ‘By my guess he’d have fifty men or thereabouts, fra the look of them.’

‘Armed?’

‘Oh aye, sir. Well armed.’

‘Who was leading them?’

‘My Uncle Wattie, sir, nae mistaking it. Only, Ah wouldnae tell ye if it were nobbut a raid, but my thinking is that Mick’s tellt Wattie which way my Lady Widdrington’s gone an’ he’s intending to lift her and ransome her to ye. He’ll have heard by now how she helped ye.’

Carey said nothing for a moment and looked as if he was thinking furiously, which surprised Barnabus who had expected immediate fireworks. He was thinking regretfully about all the hard cleaning work he had put in on Carey’s fighting harness which would now no doubt be wasted.

‘Barnabus,’ said Carey eventually. ‘I know you’re there, skulking in the corner. Go and find Long George and Bessie’s Andrew and tell them to come to my chambers in an hour. Young Hutchin, thank you for telling me this. I’m indebted to you. Only I’d like to know why you did it.’

Young Hutchin went pink about the ears.

‘It wasnae for ye, sir,’ he said gruffly. ‘Only, I like the Lady, see.’

Carey looked shrewdly at Young Hutchin for a moment, causing further reddening around the ears, and then smiled.

‘All the better,’ he said. ‘That’s a perfectly honourable reason.’

Barnabus came hurrying back to the Queen Mary Tower from his errand and was surprised to see Carey still wearing his ordinary clothes. He would have expected the Deputy to be in helmet and harness and chafing to ride to rescue his beloved, knowing the man. Carey grinned at his obvious shock.

‘Barnabus, think,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no men around here; they’re all at the haymaking and even if they weren’t, seven certainly is not enough to match fifty riders. And we don’t know for sure what’s going on.’

‘But if Wattie Graham’s after Lady Widdrington, shouldn’t we get after ‘im, sir…?’

‘You’re a bit rash, Barnabus.’ Barnabus blinked at this outrageous instance of a kettle calling a brass warming-pan black. ‘I said, think. Nothing’s going to happen to her today because unless she’s been extraordinarily unlucky, she’ll be into Thirlwall Castle by now.’

‘Ain’t you going to send a message? Or talk to the Warden?’

‘No, I’m going to talk to Lowther first, he’s due to take the patrol tonight.’

Barnabus trotted after Carey as he strode out of the Castle and into the town where Sir Richard had a small town house on Abbey street.

Monday 3rd July 1592, afternoon

Carey was magnificently languid as he was ushered into the Lowther house and bowed to the dumpling-faced nervous creature who was Lady Lowther. Sir Richard came out and his face hardened with suspicion. After a few exchanges of airy courtesy, Sir Richard growled, ‘What can I do for you, Sir Robert?’

‘I would like to take your patrol out tonight.’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ve heard a rumour about where some of the King of Scotland’s horses are being kept and I’d like to investigate. Unfortunately, most of my men are out making hay and as it’s your patrol night tonight, I thought I’d ask you.’

He smiled guilelessly, looking remarkably dense for one so intelligent. Barnabus wondered uneasily what elaborate lunacy he was maturing now.

Lowther grunted with suspicion. Barnabus watched him considering the suggestion. Discourteous as ever, Lowther hadn’t even offered his master anything to drink, but Carey was standing there playing with his rings as if he hadn’t noticed, looking benignly enthusiastic.

Carey reached into his belt pouch and took out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I could…er…give you this back,’ he offered. It was Lowther’s note of debt for fifteen pounds.

Uh oh, thought Barnabus, he’s overdone it. Lowther will want to know why he’s so eager to take somebody else’s patrol.

Lowther did want to know. ‘That’s very handsome of ye, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘Why are ye willing to say goodbye to so much money for such a minor thing?’

Carey smiled. ‘King James is offering a large reward for his horses,’ he explained. ‘If I can find those horses and bring them in, I might make ten times that, besides pleasing the King.’

‘Ah.’ Lowther’s expression lightened slowly. This he understood, and he was only too happy to tear up his large losses at primero. ‘I’ll speak to Sergeant Nixon then.’

He reached for the paper but Carey put it away again.

‘You can have it when I get back,’ he said.

Aggravatingly, when they returned to the Queen Mary Tower, Barnabus was sent to find Young Hutchin and make sure he stayed near the stables where Carey could find him, though out of sight.

Carey arrived a little later with Long George and Bessie’s Andrew, all three of them wearing their helmets and jacks. Long George’s pink-rimmed eyes were looking amused and Bessie’s Andrew was swallowing nervously and biting his fingernails, whereas Carey was humming something complicated and irritating about springtime and birds going hey dingalingaling.

‘Barnabus,’ he said as he passed by. ‘Don’t try and wander off; I want your help as well.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Barnabus resignedly, making sure he had his dagger and the throwing knife behind his neck. The one he usually kept up his left sleeve was currently in pledge with Lisa at the bawdy-house. Then he climbed up one side of a box partition and sat on top of it with his legs dangling.

Lowther arrived, followed by his troop of men, including Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon, Billy Little and Mick the Crow Salkeld.

All the men bunched up in a disorderly rabble and stood picking their teeth while Lowther made a short speech explaining that Sir Robert Carey would take them out in search of some of King James’s horses and they were to render to him all the assistance they would to himself, etcetera and so on. Touching, Barnabus called it. Then Lowther departed, quite pleased with himself, while Carey looked them over. Considering the state of them, Barnabus wondered what he would say, but all he did was to ask, ‘Where are your bows, gentlemen?’

They looked at each other. Sergeant Nixon spoke up.

‘We havenae got none.’

‘Ah,’ said Carey. ‘Well, I want you to get some. I assume you can use them? Good. Sergeant Nixon, take your men down to the armourer’s in Scotch street and buy them all bows and a dozen arrows each.’

He tossed Sergeant Nixon three pounds to pay for them and nodded at him to be off.

‘If I’m not here when you get back, wait for me. You can drink the change, by the way, gentlemen, but not tonight. Fair enough?’