2 A Season of Knives: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (7 page)

‘Sir.’ Briefly Barnabus wondered if a thrashing would be half as painful as Carey’s loud voice in the confines of the stairwell, and then decided it would. Definitely. He swallowed hard. Puking on Carey’s boots would not be a tactful thing to do, even if he hadn’t much left in his stomach to do it with.

‘And where the hell did you sleep last night? You’re soaking wet.’

‘I…er…I think I slept by the gate, sir.’

‘Passed out there?’

‘No, I…’

‘Get upstairs. I want my chambers immaculate; I want my clothes in order; I want my jack and fighting hose ready to wear, and I want my spare boots cleaned.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Barnabus despairingly. ‘I’m not very well, sir. I’m sorry sir…’

‘And,’ added Carey venomously, using Barnabus’s doublet front to pull him nose to nose, ‘if I find you snoring in bed when I come back, I’ll bloody well kick you out of it. Understand?’

Barnabus nodded, scurried past, up the stairs and through the door. Carey scowled and was heading for the stables when his sister caught sight of him.

‘Robin,’ she called. ‘Robin, can I talk to you for a moment?’

Carey wanted only to get in the saddle and ride out of the city so he could be away from crowds of people and do some thinking. He pretended not to hear.

‘Robin! I know you heard me.’

He stopped and sighed. ‘What can I do for you, Philadelphia?’ he asked politely. Philly came up to him looking very businesslike in a claret-coloured wool kirtle and bodice of black velvet, a lace-trimmed linen apron skewed halfway under her arm. She wrinkled her brow at him.

‘What’s wrong with you this morning?’ she demanded, clearly in no very good temper herself. ‘You didn’t drink enough to have a hangover, and you wrung Lowther dry as well. Why aren’t you happy?’

He wasn’t going to answer that question, which he saw too late was as good as a complete exposition to his sister.

‘Oh,’ she said, a little regretfully. ‘I see. I hoped Elizabeth might…Well, serve you right. I’ve got a great big bruise on my shin. You’ll be wanting something to take your mind off things. Come with me.’

‘Why?’

‘I want you to help me…do some persuading. You used to be fairly persuasive, as I recall.’

Carey harumphed, which almost made his sister grin despite her sore leg and sorer head, because it was so exactly the noise their father made.

Perhaps because he had a long list of muster-letters to write to gentlemen of the county, and a teetering pile of complaints from Scotland about the recent large raid on Falkland Palace, Carey went along with her meekly enough, until she took him round the back of the Keep into the scurry of sheds and old buildings there. Finally he protested.

‘What am I doing?’ repeated Philadelphia with fine rhetoric. ‘Why, nothing, Robin. Except assisting my husband in his duties,’ she said over her shoulder as she stalked ahead of him through the cool dim dairy to the cheese store at the back. Out of a corner she got a cheese that was never of her making, being stamped with a large C. Carey recognised it at once.

‘That one’s got weevils in it,’ he told her helpfully. ‘All the Castle ration cheeses have weevils, or worse. Why don’t you…’

She glared at him, hauled it onto the cutting board and gave him a knife.

‘You cut it, then. I want about half a pound.’

‘But, Philly…’

‘Go on, if you want to find out what I’m doing. I hate the way they wriggle even after you’ve cut their heads off.’

Carey did too, but he manfully cut the required piece and lifted it gingerly onto a platter. Philadelphia arranged nasturtium leaves and dill around it and looked about for somebody to carry it. One of her maidens hurried past in the passage, carrying a newly scoured butterchurn.

‘Nelly,’ she shouted. The girl was a round-faced doe-eyed creature with a wonderful crop of spots and the faint cheesy odour of all dairymaids. She blenched at the sight of what she was supposed to hold.

‘Don’t drop it,’ Philly ordered the horrified girl, as she swept into the wet larder by the Castle wall. She went purposefully to a barrel of salt beef in the corner of the room, this one with a no less ominous JP for James Pennycook on it, and used the tongs to fish up a piece of meat that managed to be as hard as wood and still stank, with a decorative light green sheen. Slicing it with great effort and her breath held, she arranged the whole on another platter, with some loaves of gritty bread and a dish of rancid butter, grabbed Carey’s youngest servant Simon Barnet as he wandered past still rubbing straw off his hose, and had him form a procession up to the Keep. She herself took a pewter jug, dived into the buttery, and filled it from the ale barrel that was shunned by anyone with a nose.

‘Robin,’ she said brightly as they walked back to the draughty Keep. ‘Do you remember what you were telling me the other day about victualling contracts?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘Good,’ she said, tweaking Simon’s blue cap straight. ‘I’ll go first. Then Simon and Nelly, then you, Robin. Then agree with everything I say and back me up.’

Eyebrows raised dubiously, Carey followed them all up the narrow stone stairs. Scrope was in the dining chamber that doubled as a council chamber, sitting in a meeting with a long-nosed high-nostrilled Scot by the name of James Pennycook and a couple of his employees. Scrope smiled as they processed in with the repast.

‘A little refreshment for you, gentlemen,’ said Philadelphia, with a grave curtsey to her husband and his guests and a dazzling smile. Simon was grinning. He laid his platter on the table between them, bowed and went to fetch the goblets and plates. Nelly did the same and backed away, picking nervously at a blackhead.

‘Philadelphia…’ began Scrope in a strained voice as the combined smells hit him.

‘Yes, my lord?’ said Philadelphia sweetly, turning back.

‘My lady, we can’t serve this to our guests…’

Her face crumpled with concern. ‘Oh my lord, I’m so sorry. It’s their own supplies. I thought they’d be interested to see the quality of them. But if the food’s too rotten to eat, I’ll go down and fetch something better…’

Carey coughed with the effort of keeping a straight face. Four pairs of male eyes were glaring at his sister.

‘Madam,’ intoned Michael Kerr, Pennycook’s factor and son-in-law, ‘surely these gentlemen should not be expected to eat the same food as the common soldiers of the garrison?’

‘No?’ asked Philadelphia, greatly surprised. ‘Why not? It costs as much as our own food from our estates. More, in fact. And my brother eats it, don’t you, Sir Robert?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Carey had his face under control now. ‘When it’s edible.’

‘Ye eat with the men?’ asked Pennycook, disbelievingly. ‘But Ah thocht ye were the Deputy Warden.’

‘It’s good practice for a Captain to do so sometimes,’ said Carey blandly. ‘That way, he and his men get to know each other better, which is important in a fight.’

This was certainly true, as far as it went. However, he generally ate with them at one of the many Carlisle inns, not in the Keep hall where this rubbish was served up to those of the garrison who had spent or gambled all their pay.

Scrope was watching hypnotised as a maggot broke from the safety of the cheese and began exploring the rest of the platter. No doubt it was in search of its friends still hiding in the meat. Perhaps they could have a little party…Get a grip on yourself, man, Carey told himself, as he sat down beside Michael Kerr and drew his eating knife to cut the bread. Simon came rushing back with the goblets and plates, laid them out and Philadelphia served them all from the jug, curtseyed again and swept from the room, followed by Simon and Nelly.

Carey was enjoying the row of stunned expressions. Lord Scrope had been told often enough about the appalling quality of the garrison rations and he had in fact carried out a short inspection. But clearly it had taken the sight of the muck laid out on plates ready to eat to bring home to him just how badly he and the Queen were being cheated.

The junior clerk swallowed stickily. With a flourish straight from the Queen’s Court, Carey offered the platter to James Pennycook, who flinched back.

Scrope coughed. ‘I think we’re in agreement then, gentlemen,’ he said lamely. ‘The old contract is renewed for the following year. I’ll have Bell draw up the notice…’

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ said Carey very politely. ‘I was wondering if you’d had a chance to sort out the question of wastage?’

‘Wastage?’

‘Yes, my lord. When I was in the Netherlands…’

‘My brother-in-law has served with the Earl of Essex in the Low Countries,’ explained Scrope. ‘He’s an experienced soldier.’

‘The Earl of Essex, eh?’ said Pennycook. ‘Is he the Queen’s minion…er…favourite?’

‘Yes,’ said Carey pleasantly. ‘I received my knighthood from him. The Queen was very put out; she said she had wanted to knight me herself since I’m her cousin.’

There, you Scotch bastard, he though. Chew on that.

‘Do have some of this meat, sir,’ he added. Pennycook smiled feebly, held up his hand and Carey, deliberately misinterpreting, gave him two generous slices. Oh dear, he’d got some severed weevils as well.

‘While I was fighting the Spaniards, I learned a great deal,’ he continued, taking some of the food onto his own plate. No help for it, he had to do it, thanks to Philadelphia. ‘Particularly from Sir Roger Williams, a most reverent and experienced soldier.’ They weren’t really listening; they were watching him cut a slice of cheese that was veined with blue mould, tap out the foreigners. ‘He always got on very well with his purveyors.’ He ate the cheese while the men who had supplied it watched in fascination, realising to their dismay that if he ate their food, common courtesy dictated that they must too. There was an acrid musty tang to the cheese, not too bad, really, he thought to himself. It was actually better than the frightful stuff they’d eaten on board ship when fighting the Armada. He swallowed and continued. ‘The contracts were generous—as yours are—but always included a clause stipulating that any food that was unfit to eat was sent back to the purveyors and its price subtracted from the next payment.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Scrope, with an air of pleased surprise. Pennycook picked up a piece of bread, nibbled on it. Carey could hear his teeth grating on the grit, sand, sawdust, ground bones and God knew what else these thieves adulterated the flour with. Pennycook put it down. Michael Kerr had eaten a piece of cheese and was blinking unhappily at the crock of butter. The junior clerk looked at the meat and wisely decided to nibble on some bread. Thank the Lord, Philadelphia hadn’t seen fit to offer them any of the salt herring as well; Carey had recognised the barrels as ones that had been condemned as unfit for the English fleet in the Armada year, four years ago.

Scrope put down his knife with a bright smile. ‘You’d have no objection to a clause like that in our agreement, would you, gentlemen?’

Carey thought about braving the meat, but decided to stick with the cheese since the bellyache you got from that rarely killed you.

‘But the food we supply is of the verra highest quality,’ protested Pennycook automatically, falling straight into the trap. Michael Kerr choked on his ale.

‘Of course it is,’ said Carey smoothly. ‘I’m sure that, as with Sir Roger, we will hardly need to use the wastage clause. The Queen will approve as well. She was very concerned at some of the troubles my brother has had with his victuallers in Berwick. Can I offer you some cheese, Mr Pennycook?’ Mr Pennycook, who was, as Carey knew, one of the victuallers to the Berwick garrison, shut his eyes, shook his head.

‘That’s settled then,’ said Scrope, who sometimes behaved as if he were not quite so foolish as he looked. ‘We’ll include the clause in the new agreement. A splendid idea, Sir Robert; thank you.’

Pennycook and his men glowered at him in unison and he favoured them with a particularly sweet smile.

‘Ehm,’ said Pennycook, his voice rather higher than normal. ‘This is all verra weel, Sir Robert, my Lord Warden, but we canna go about putting in new clauses to the victualling contracts wi’ nae mair than a wave of a hand…The advocates to draft it will cost a fair sum, d’ye not think?’

‘Of course, Mr Pennycook,’ said Carey, while Scrope dithered and looked worried. ‘I was thinking of sending to Newcastle and briefing an English lawyer to check over those contracts as well while we’re at it. Might as well make them as watertight as possible, don’t you think? Litigation is such an expensive game.’

Mr Pennycook had small brown watery eyes and a pale bony face gone very waxy. There was a pause while he seemed to be struggling for words. ‘Sir Robert?’ he said, drawing his rich brocade gown tight about him. ‘Surely ye canna be threatening me wi’ legal action?’

‘Threatening you, Mr Pennycook?’ Carey laughed artificially. ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I was only agreeing that while we’re briefing lawyers to draw up the new wastage clauses in the victualling contracts, we should get our money’s worth and have them look at the contracts as a whole as well. Wasn’t that what you said?’

Mr Pennycook had in fact paid good money to the young lord Scrope’s father and Sir Richard Lowther to keep the contracts unexamined. He made a little rattle in his throat.

‘After all,’ Carey added confidingly, ‘clerical errors do creep in, don’t they, what with copying and recopying.’