Henry nodded. Carey looked over his shoulder again. Elizabeth was watching him now, so he turned back in case she saw his face. Considering her pride, he suspected she would prefer to be beaten.
Young Henry was screwing up his face as if he was trying to find the courage to ask something insolent. Carey knew immediately what that was and pre-empted it.
‘Your stepmother, Mr Widdrington,’ he said coldly and clearly, ‘is the most virtuous woman I have ever met. I won’t deny I’ve been laying siege to her with every…every device I have, and I have got nowhere. Nowhere at all.’
Despite the beetroot colour of Henry’s face he seemed happier. He nodded.
‘But I suppose, given Sir Henry’s nature, he isn’t likely to believe it, even without Lowther to poison the well for us.’
Henry nodded again. Carey rode along for a moment.
‘Christ, what a bloody mess.’
Abruptly he swung Thunder away from Henry’s horse and put his heels in again. Thunder exploded straight into a gallop, catching his rider’s mood. Carey let him have his head, though he got no pleasure from it now, and then brought him to a stop under a shady tree where he dismounted and walked Thunder up and down to let him cool more slowly, and waited for the Widdringtons. He stood watching them as they came up and cursed himself for being so obtuse, for thinking he was playing a game with Elizabeth when she was in fact gambling with her life. She reined in beside him and he came to her stirrup and looked up at her.
‘My lady,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll leave you here.’
‘What were you talking about with Henry?’
He also wondered how much she knew of what was in his mind, but she wasn’t a witch, only a woman.
‘We were agreeing with each other about the dangers of travelling in this March with horses that need more rest,’ he lied bluntly. It wasn’t a lie. He was worried about it.
‘We shall be well enough,’ said Elizabeth sedately. ‘Thank you for your concern, Sir Robert.’
‘Good day to you, Lady Widdrington,’ said Carey, uncovering to her as they continued past. ‘God speed.’
***
Barnabus knew better than to say anything to his master when Carey slammed into his chambers with a face as dark as ditchwater and went straight to the smaller room he used as an office. He sat down at the desk, opened the penner and took out pens and ink. Summer sunlight like honey streamed in through the window and he looked up at it once and sighed, then drew paper towards him and dipped his pen.
There was silence as the pile of muster letters grew steadily on one side of the desk. Barnabus finished mending netherstocks that had gone at the heels and canion-hose that had been unequal to the strain of being worn by Carey. For all he liked to look so fine, he was terribly hard on his clothes-one reason why he was so heavily in debt-and it had got a great deal worse since they moved north.
Somewhere around noon they had a visitor. James Pennycook and his son-in-law knocked tentatively at the door and, after wine had been brought, Barnabus and Michael Kerr were told to leave and shut the door.
‘What’s Mr Pennycook after?’ Barnabus asked Kerr as they sat on the stairs, waiting to be called back. Michael Kerr fiddled with one of the tassels on his purse, looked up at the arched roof and said, ‘Och, it’s the usual. Mr Pennycook wants to know his price.’
‘What for?’
‘For not interfering with the victualling contracts.’
Barnabus sucked his teeth. ‘What a pity Mr Pennycook didn’t send you to me first,’ he said meaningfully.
Kerr looked knowing. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Expensive, is he?’
‘Very,’ said Barnabus. ‘And very unpredictable. He’s got to be approached just right, has Sir Robert.’
The low muttering inside had stopped suddenly. Barnabus braced himself.
‘Barnabu-u-us,’ came the roar.
Barnabus opened the door and went in. Mr Pennycook was standing in the middle of the floor, looking pinched about the nostrils.
Carey was by the fireplace with his back turned.
‘Barnabus, escort Mr Pennycook to the gate, if you please.’
‘Yessir,’ said Barnabus briskly and came forward. ‘This way sir,’ he said confidingly. ‘Best to leave now.’
‘But…’ said Pennycook.
‘Good day to you, Mr Pennycook,’ said Carey curtly and walked through into his office, where he sat down.
Barnabus sighed heavily at more riches unnecessarily thrown away-after all, it wasn’t as if Carey had yet seen a penny of his legendary five hundred pounds per annum.
‘See,’ he said to Michael Kerr, as he led the two of them down the stairs again. ‘He’s a bit touchy, is my master.’
Pennycook was looking ill as he walked unseeing through the gate and into Carlisle town. Barnabus made no haste on his way back and by the time he got up the stairs again, Carey had finished the pile of muster letters and put them to one side. He paused, wiped and put down the pen, stretched his fingers and brushed stray sand from the desk in front of him. He looked as if he was fighting a battle with his conscience again, then he sighed and turned to the pile of complaints that were flooding in about the horses reived in the previous weeks-both those that Jock of the Peartree Graham had stolen as his remounts, and those he and the other Grahams had successfully lifted from the King’s stables at Falkland. Carey considered for a moment and then started painstakingly compiling two lists of victims, booty, victims’ surnames or affiliations, value of horse stolen (generally very high, by their owners’ accounts) and area. The pen whispered softly across the paper, with the occasional rhythmic dip and tap on the ink bottle while the light coloured into the slow afternoon of high summer.
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.