P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Carey laughed. ‘By God, how did I miss that? Excellent, Dodd, of course.’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd smugly, ‘So I said, the one to ask is Simon Barnet. But I havena found him.’

‘Damn.’

‘No bother, sir; the lads are in town now and I’ve set them to searching for him. He’ll turn up. And then,’ Dodd said ominously, ‘we’ll ask him.’

They had finished eating by the time Bangtail Graham and Red Sandy Dodd arrived, looking about for them. Red Sandy went straight up to Carey and handed him a piece of paper. Carey looked at it with awful foreboding; it was an official-looking letter sealed by Scrope’s signet ring. He put it down by his trencher and finished his beer, his heart beating hard. The seal was in the nature of a Rubicon: once opened…He thought about it.

‘Now why would the Warden do that?’ asked Will the Tod’s voice, fascinated.

‘Hm?’ Carey asked.

‘Send for ye by letter? He only has to tell Red Sandy to tell ye…’

‘Och,’ said Dodd. ‘It’s quite friendly, really.’

Carey had worked it out but was a little surprised that Dodd had.

‘See,’ explained Dodd patronisingly to his father in law. ‘If he’s made a warrant out for Sir Robert, an’ he tells him by letter, he’s covered but Sir Robert can still…er…get away and no one the wiser. Or not, as he chooses.’

‘Trouble is,’ Carey said, putting his tankard down again with a decisive tap, ‘where the hell would I go?’

‘The Netherlands?’ suggested Will the Tod, with all the impersonal ingenuity of one who was quite secure in his position. ‘There’s always room for right fighting men there.’

The Netherlands were fast becoming a sink hole for the unemployable young gentlemen of Europe. All of them went in the hope of sacking a town and making a fortune; most of them died within six months of fever, wounds or, occasionally, starvation.

‘Or Ireland?’ put in Dodd with ghoulish interest.

Carey shuddered slightly. He had heard descriptions of that particular hellhole from Sir Walter Raleigh, one of those unfortunate enough to have served there, of malarial bogs and half-savage but extremely intelligent and ferocious Wild Irish.

‘Not if I can help it,’ he said to the both of them as he picked up the letter and used his eating knife to break the seal.

Aggravatingly, Scrope had not seen fit to be clear when he wrote. All it said was, ‘Sir Robert, I require to speak to you immediately. Please come up to the Keep at your earliest convenience.’

Carey sighed. The only possible indication was the signature, which was Thomas, Lord Scrope. If a warrant had already been issued, it would more likely have been Lord Scrope, Warden. However, there was no question but that he was right about its meaning.

He stood up and took his morion. The bloody thing was more of a nuisance than his jack, whose weight he hardly noticed any more. But the helmet weighed several pounds and was too expensive to lose.

‘Where are ye going, sir?’ asked Dodd.

‘Up to the Castle,’ Carey answered, putting his helmet on.

Dodd gave a dour nod. ‘I’ll keep asking for ye,’ he said as if it were a foregone conclusion that Carey would end up in the Lickingstone cell next to Barnabus.

Red Sandy came with him, not precisely as an escort, more likely out of nosiness.

‘Will ye be taking the patrol tonight, sir?’ he asked.

Carey had forgotten all about it and looked up at the sky. It was promising rain.

‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’

‘Ay,’ said Red Sandy happily. ‘Who d’ye think killed Atkinson, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ Carey looked curiously at Red Sandy, who was Dodd’s younger brother but took life much less seriously. ‘You’re the first man who hasn’t asked me whether I’m sure I didn’t do it.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Red Sandy. ‘See, I wouldna say ye wouldnae do it, sir, of course not, but by my thinking ye’d ha’ done it better.’

‘Thank you, Red Sandy.’

‘H’hm. Your usual hobby’s in the stables by the way, sir, wi’ his tack on. In case ye’ll be needing him for…for patrol, sir.’

Carey nodded. It was very touching really, their consideration for him. And it gave an insight into the Borderers. Carey had spotted Dodd’s intelligence, but had thought Red Sandy the same as any others of the garrison, much better at fighting than thinking. But there it was: he must have tacked up the hobby himself as soon as Scrope gave him the letter, which suggested he understood its meaning too. Given their intelligence, why on earth did so many of them spend most of their time raiding and killing each other?

Scrope and Lowther were waiting for him in the sitting room on the top floor of the Keep that Scrope was also using as his office, where Carey had first met both Dodd and Lowther. As Carey put his hand to the axemarked door, he heard Lowther’s voice growling dubiously, ‘He’ll never come.’

That was enough to make him pause. Carey eavesdropped shamelessly, having learnt the skill at Court and been grateful for it on several occasions.

‘I don’t know, Sir Richard,’ came Scrope’s reedy voice. ‘I hear what you say, but I still don’t believe it.’

‘What more do you need, my lord?’

‘I admit, the evidence is…er…damning, but you see, you’ve ignored one very important factor.’

‘Which is?’

‘Character. It doesn’t make any sense, you see. I know the Careys. I can’t claim to know Sir Robert as well as I know my lady wife, but…er…nothing I’ve seen from him since he got here has changed my mind.’

This was fascinating. Carey held his breath, wondering what would come next. Lowther grumbled something inaudible.

‘Of course, I understand your point of view, Sir Richard, but even so…They’re all extremely arrogant, of course, despite being upstarts. The cousinship with the Queen is the reason for their prominence, that and…er…my Lord Hunsdon’s paternity.’

‘I heard there was a bastardy in there somewhere,’ said Lowther who was obviously not well up on Court gossip.

‘Ah, well,’ said Scrope. Being of an ancient family himself, he found lineage in men, horses or hounds deeply interesting. ‘Y’ see, Mary Boleyn, Lord Hunsdon’s mother, was Anne Boleyn’s older sister and thus Her Majesty’s aunt.’

‘Ay,’ said Lowther. ‘He’s her cousin. I know that.’

‘But also…’ said Scrope’s voice, rising with extra scholarly interest, ‘Mary Boleyn was King Henry VIII’s official mistress before Anne Boleyn…er…came to Court. She was married off to William Carey in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Oh ay?’ said Lowther, catching the implication.

‘Yes,’ said Scrope gleefully. ‘And she called her first son, her rather…er… premature first son, Henry. And the King let her. You see? You’ve never met Carey’s father, then?’

‘I have,’ said Lowther. ‘Twenty years ago at the Rising of the Northern Earls. But he was a younger man. Loud, I recall, and a bonny fighter too, the way he did for Lord Dacre.’

‘The resemblance to his…er…natural father has become more marked as he got older,’ agreed Scrope. ‘But you can see the Tudor blood coming out in my Lord Hunsdon’s sons, and indeed in Sir Robert-arrogance, vanity, impatience and terrible tempers-but generally speaking they do not arrange for their servants to cut the throats of functionaries. It isn’t their…style.’

Carey, who had been listening with rising irritation to this catalogue, nodded sourly. He supposed there was a little truth in it; he knew well enough he had a short temper, after all. He wasn’t arrogant, though. Look at the way he had helped Dodd with his haymaking. As for vanity-what the Devil did Scrope think he was on about? Just because Carey knew the importance of a smart turnout and Scrope looked like an expensive haystack…