P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Don’t order him, you fucking fool, Carey thought; make him. Your father would have killed him just for drawing blade in a council chamber.

There was a faint creak of hinges behind Carey. He didn’t dare turn his head to look. Then came a long clearing of somebody’s throat.

‘Sir Robert,’ said Sergeant Dodd’s doleful moan. ‘We’ve found Simon Barnet for ye. If ye’re busy, we can come back.’

Much of the murderous rage went out of Lowther’s face to be replaced by something resembling embarrassment. Carey straightened a little, moved sideways so he could look at both Lowther and the door. Dodd was wearing his most stolid expression, but he had his stillsheathed sword in his hand, ready to throw to Carey. By God, Carey thought affectionately, I was in luck the day Scrope put you under my command.

To Carey’s surprise, the presence of Dodd alone tipped the scales for Lowther. Belatedly, he realised what he was doing, put his weapon back in its sheath and folded his arms.

‘Thank you,’ said Scrope with unwarranted dignity. ‘Sir Robert?’

Carey put his own blades away meekly enough, not sure what he felt nor why he was shaking. Was it anger or fear or relief? All of them, probably. He wondered a little at the shake since it never happened after he had been in a proper fight. Dodd rebuckled his sword belt, still looking dismal.

‘We are…ahem…somewhat busy,’ Scrope said to Dodd. ‘Why have you brought the boy here?’

‘Because he has a tale to tell I thought ye might wish to hear, my lord,’ said Dodd.

‘What on earth could a boy…’

‘It’s a tale about a glove, sir,’ said Dodd. ‘Which was found by Atkinson’s corpse, sir.’

Scrope sat down again. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, bring him in then.’

Simon Barnet came into view, an unremarkable snub-nosed lad of twelve with brown curly hair and brown eyes. He looked dusty and miserable, as if he had been hiding in a loft somewhere. There were muddy tear stains down his face, but he didn’t look as if Dodd had beaten him.

Lowther drew a deep breath and glowered.

‘Hiding behind a boy…’ he muttered disdainfully. Carey chose not to hear him.

‘Well, Sir Robert,’ Scrope said. ‘What does your boy have to say?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea, my lord,’ said Carey. ‘I haven’t seen him since…When did I see you last, Simon?’

‘Yesterday morning, sir.’

‘Ah.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Lowther.

Carey looked at him again and smiled. ‘I think you should question him, Sir Richard, not me. That way you can’t accuse me of coaching him to lie.’

Simon Barnet looked very scared and moved closer to Carey, like a chick to a mother hen.

‘It’s all right,’ Carey said to him. ‘Tell the truth, so my lord Warden can hear you.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Simon, still rolling his eyes at Lowther. Lowther advanced on him and he shrank back.

‘Please don’t threaten him with your sword, Sir Richard,’ Carey put in. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. He’s only young.’

Lowther gave Carey the kind of stare usually seen during the arrangements for a duel, and harrumphed at Simon Barnet.

‘How much is Sir Robert paying you to say this?’ he demanded.

‘Er…p…paying me, sir? As his s…servant?’

‘Perhaps, Sir Richard, we should hear the tale before we go around accusing people of lying,’ suggested Carey icily.

‘Ah, yes, er…quite. Be fair, Sir Richard.’

‘What tale have ye brought, then?’

Simon Barnet stared wretchedly at Dodd, took his cap off, squeezed it, stared at the floor, stretched the cap out. ‘Sergeant Dodd said I wouldnae be beaten for it,’ he said in a small thin voice.

‘I said I would ask the Deputy to go easy on ye. I made no promises.’

Carey sighed. The boy wasn’t a fool either. ‘There’ll be no beating provided you tell the truth,’ he said.

‘A…ay sir.’ Simon Barnet sighed wretchedly and continued to stare at the floor while he mumbled out his sorry tale. He had been approached by a man the day before. No, he had never seen the man before. The man asked him if he was servant to the new Deputy Warden. Simon had said he was. The man had said, he wasn’t. Simon had said he was. The man had said, he bet anything Simon couldn’t get hold of one of the Deputy Warden’s gloves for him. Simon had taken the bet, which was large, and waited until Carey had gone out with Sergeant Nixon and Barnabus had gone down to Bessie’s. He had lifted Carey’s oldest glove, taken it to the man behind the stables and the man had laughed and said it could have come from anyone.

‘I said it were London work,’ Simon was aggrieved. ‘He said he didna believe me, and then he said he would ask yer honour himself, and pretend he’d found it, but because I had an honest face he paid my bet anyway. And he went off wi’ it.’

Carey sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re Barnabus Cooke’s nephew, and you fell for that?’

Simon compressed his lips and scraped his boot toe in a circle round his other foot.

It had dawned on Simon what the man had wanted the glove for when Lowther had come storming into Carey’s chambers in the Queen Mary Tower with two of his relatives and arrested Barnabus. This had given the boy the courage of outrage to lock the door to Carey’s office and throw the key in the fire quickly enough to be able to claim Carey had it with him. Lowther had boxed his ears and kicked him for that, and after Lady Scrope arrived he had gone away again. Simon Barnet had been terrified and had run away to hide in the only place he could think of, the loft above the new barracks where Dodd had found him.

There was a silence as Simon came to the end of his story. Carey was frowning in puzzlement, and Lowther’s expression remained grim.

‘You may have to swear to that story in court, on the Holy Bible,’ Scrope said. ‘Will you do it, Simon?’

‘Oh yes sir,’ said Simon. ‘Of course I will.’

‘Do you know what swearing on the Bible means?’ demanded Lowther. Simon turned to him. He had gained some courage from confession and managed to face Lowther squarely.

‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘It means if I swear and lie I’ll go to hell.’

‘Would you recognise this man if you saw him again?’ Carey asked.

‘I think so, sir.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Well, big and wide.’

‘Was he a gentleman?’

‘No sir. He had a leather jack on and an arm in a sling and his face was bruised, sir.’

‘No name?’

‘No sir. He’s not one of the garrison. I’ve not seen him about the Keep.’

‘If you spot him again, Simon, try and make sure he doesn’t see you. If you can, find out his name and come and tell me or Sergeant Dodd, understand?’

Simon nodded. ‘Can I go now, sir? Only I havena eaten nothing today.’

He was at the age when one missed meal was a serious thing and two threatened instant starvation. Carey nodded.

‘You’re to stay in the Castle. Don’t leave it for any reason.’

‘Ay sir.’

‘What did you do with the money?’

Simon looked even more woebegone. ‘Och, sir. Ian Ogle had most of it off me at dice.’

Carey was careful not to laugh. ‘Some advice for you, Simon,’ he said. ‘When you get a windfall, pay your debts first, then gamble with what’s left.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Simon, who wasn’t listening. ‘May I go now, sir? They’ll be ringing the bell…’

Carey looked at Scrope who nodded. Dodd was still there, busily pretending to be a piece of furniture.

‘My lord,’ Carey said intently. ‘I’m beginning to have an idea of what’s been happening. Will you hear me out?’

Scrope was squinting unhappily between his two hands at something on the table before him, underneath Carey’s sword.