P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Carey was deep in the tedium of paperwork again, his mind nibbling frustratedly at the problem of Jemmy Atkinson as he worked, when he had another visitor. After the first flash of fury, he saw it was the Bell headman who had called out his family against Wattie Graham the day before.

‘Mr Bell,’ he said courteously, wondering when he would be finished with his damned letters. ‘What can I do for you?’

Archibald Bell came stumping in through his chamber looking uncomfortably hot in a homespun green suit and a new high-crowned hat.

‘Ah’ve come about the blackrent,’ said Bell. ‘To pay it, I mean.’

For a moment, Carey didn’t understand.

‘Er…Lowther’s not here,’ he said cautiously.

‘Ay, I know that. I’ve come to pay it to ye, sir.’

Carey sat down again, wondering how to handle this. On the one hand he direly needed the money because his winnings from Lowther wouldn’t last forever and he was sure nobody in Carlisle would make the mistake of playing primero for high stakes with him again. On the other hand, blackrent was one of the cankers of the Border, as poor men paid protection money to crooks like Lowther and Richie Graham of Brackenhill to keep their herds and houses safe from reivers. Since no one could live paying rent to two landlords, most of them got their living by reiving and demanding blackrent of their own.

Archibald Bell had his purse in his hand, ready to do the business. He was looking puzzled.

Carey stood again, went and poured two goblets of the diabolical wine which Goodwife Biltock had sent up by Simon Barnet who was, as usual, not around.

‘Mr Bell,’ he said, handing one to the headman, who looked astonished. ‘How much blackrent was Sir Richard demanding?’

‘Thirty shillings a quarter,’ Bell answered promptly. ‘But I havena paid it for a while, so I brung what we owe which is six pounds.’

That was no less than extortionate.

‘I give you a toast,’ said Carey, while he struggled with temptation. ‘I give you, confusion to Richard Lowther and the Grahams.’

Bell lifted his goblet and drank the lot without noticeable strain.

‘Ye willna be wanting more, sir?’ he said anxiously. ‘For we canna pay it.’

‘No,’ said Carey. ‘I’m sure you can’t. In fact, I’m not sure I should accept it.’

‘Eh?’ Bell was flabbergasted.

‘Well,’ said Carey reasonably, ‘you give blackrent in return for protection from reivers, don’t you?’

‘Ay.’

‘To be frank with you, Mr Bell, I’m not sure how much more protection I can offer you. I haven’t Lowther’s contacts or his family backing. I’m only an officer of the Queen.’

‘Ye did well enough keeping my stock fra Wattie’s clutches yesterday.’

‘I have to admit it wasn’t my prime consideration.’

‘Nay, I ken that. I know well enough you was protecting Mr Aglionby’s packtrain.’

Something in the pit of Carey’s stomach gave a lurch of excitement. Now that made sense of a fifty man raid at hay-making. Carefully he drank more of the sloe-coloured vinegar in his good silver goblet.

‘Ah,’ he said wisely. ‘And how did you find that out?’

‘It was one o’ the reivers we caught yesterday. He was in such a taking, yelling and shouting about what he’d lost by ye and how he hated ye, and the packtrain the heaviest to go into Carlisle for years and so on. So then I knew why ye were there, which was puzzling me; it was for the packtrain, to keep it fra Wattie Graham,’ Bell explained.

Carey stared into space, his mind working furiously. He was remembering the cardgame at the Mayor’s house. Suddenly he knew who had killed Jemmy Atkinson.

‘I supposed you haven’t got the reiver any more?’

‘Nay, we ransomed all of them back, the minute Skinabake’s man turned up wi’ the money.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘Ay, it was Fire the Braes Armstrong.’

‘And where does he live?’

‘The Debateable Land, seeing he’s at the horn for murder and arson in two Marches.’

Carey came to a decision.

‘Mr Bell,’ he said. ‘I’ll be straight with you. I don’t want to take blackrent, which is against the law, but I’ll take my rightful Wardenry fee for protecting your cattle, which is two pounds.’

‘Ay,’ said Bell. ‘But I want yer protection in the future.’

‘You have that,’ Carey explained. ‘It’s one of the duties of the office of Deputy Warden to protect you from raiders.’ Dammit, thought Carey, really it’s the only one. ‘You shouldn’t have to pay me rent for that; the Queen’s supposed to do it.’ Not that she did, or not regularly. ‘You only pay me a fee for a particular raid.’

Bell was looking deeply suspicious.

‘Are ye tellin’ me to pay my blackrent to Lowther?’

‘No, Mr Bell, I’m telling you to give me two pounds sterling and call it quits. Keep the money. Buy weapons or steel bonnets for your family or even a new plough or whatever. Just give me information when it comes to you and turn out to fight for me when I call and that’s all the blackrent I want.’

Bell’s mouth was hanging open. Carey was glad neither Dodd nor Barnabus were there to tell him he was mad turning down good cash; he even felt a little mad and reckless doing it. But he was grateful to Bell for solving Atkinson’s murder for him and besides, if he himself took blackrent like Lowther, how could he stop anyone else from doing it?

Bell had a broad spreading grin of incredulity on his face.

‘Are ye tellin’ me ye willna set on anybody to raid me if I dinna pay ye off?’

‘Yes,’ said Carey, wondering if every Borderer would now think him soft, as well as Dodd, the garrison and Jock of the Peartree. ‘I want my Wardenry fee, though. I have to live too.’

‘Ay,’ said Bell, still grinning. ‘Ay, o’ course ye do. Ay.’

He took two handfuls of crowns and shillings from his purse and carefully counted them out. Then he spat on the palm of his hand and held it out to Carey.

‘Ah’ll come out for ye, Deputy,’ he said. ‘There’s ma hand, there’s ma heart.’

Carey spat on his own palm and grasped Bell’s firmly.

‘And mine, Mr Bell,’ he said. ‘Pass the word, if you will.’

‘Ay,’ said Bell, still grinning as he put away his purse and moved to the door quickly before Carey could change his mind. ‘Ay, I will. By God,’ he added, shaking his head and Carey heard him laugh as his hobnails clattered down the stairs.

***

Edward Aglionby, Mayor of Carlisle, was expecting a visit from the new Deputy Warden and was ready for it when, belatedly, it came. The Deputy arrived on horseback and seemed to be in a tearing hurry, but he invited the young man into his solar for wine and wafers and even asked him to dinner.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Aglionby, I’m bidden to my sister’s table and in fact I’m going to be late. But I must talk to you first.’

Edward Aglionby stood with his arms crossed, waiting.

‘You know, of course, that there was an attempt made on your packtrain by Wattie Graham…’

‘And Skinabake Armstrong. Yes, Sir Robert. I also know that it was you who prevented it, thereby saving me a great deal of gold and trouble.’

Aglionby waited for the new Deputy’s demand, but it seemed Carey wanted to shillyshally first, asking irrelevantly about Atkinson’s inquest.

‘Yes,’ he answered the Courtier. ‘The case does fall under City jurisdiction. In fact my lord Warden was quite willing for the Carlisle Coroner to hear the inquest, although my lord has empanelled the jury.’

Carey nodded. Given a very tight spot, with Lowther on the one hand badgering him to find Carey or his servant guilty and Philadelphia badgering him on every other hand to find someone else, Scrope would gratefully wriggle out.