P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

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.

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.