‘There now, sweetheart. Pennycook will see us right. Dinna fret, Kate.’
Monday 3rd July 1592, dawn
Barnabus Cooke awoke from a dreamless sleep into the belief that someone was beating him over the head with a padded club and kicking him in the ribs. The first was untrue, the second was true. It was Solomon Musgrave waking him into the worst hangover he had had since…Well, since his last hangover.
‘Laddie,’ said Solomon patiently, ‘ye’re blocking the gate.’
‘Urrr…’ said Barnabus self-pityingly, rolled onto his hands and knees and stayed there for a moment with his head about to fall off, his tongue furred with something that tasted of pig manure, and his stomach roiling. He was collecting the courage to stand. His clothes were all damp with dew, as was his cloak, and he had tangled himself up with a javelin.
‘Wha…what ‘appened?’
‘Some enemy o’ yourn must have poured too much beer and aquavita down your poor neck,’ said Solomon drily.
The soft mother-of-pearl light in the sky was stabbing his eyes, his body ached, he needed to piss, and he was shaking.
‘Oh God.’
‘Ay,’ said Solomon. ‘That’ll be him. Will ye get out of my way, Barnabus, or shall I kick ye again?’
‘Give me a minute, will you?’
‘Ye see, laddie, I would, but there’s a powerful number of people waiting for the gates to open and it’s no’ my place to keep them waiting, so…’
Solomon’s foot drew back and Barnabus scuttled out of range, hurting his hands and knees on the cobbles and stones. He reached the corner of the wall and used it to climb himself to his feet, then stood there swaying while Solomon completed his duties.
‘Ye’d best go see after your master,’ suggested Solomon kindly. ‘Ah heard him roaring for ye a minute or two back, now.’
Very carefully and gently Barnabus walked to the Queen Mary Tower. He was still climbing the stairs like an old man, one tread at a time, when he was almost knocked flying by Carey trotting down them. Carey was one of those appalling people who wake refreshed and ready for anything every morning about an hour before everyone else, and then bounce around whistling happily, avoiding death only because they move faster than the people who want to kill them. This morning he wasn’t whistling and was looking very bad-tempered, but otherwise he was his usual horribly active self.
Barnabus flailed helplessly on the step until Carey’s long hand caught his doublet-front and steadied him.
‘Where the devil were you last night…?’ Carey began, and then caught the reek of Barnabus’s breath. He looked critically at his shaking, swallowing pockmarked, servant and shook his head. ‘By rights I should give you a thrashing,’ he said conversationally, ‘for drunkenness, venery and abscondment.’
‘Wha…’
‘And it’s evident I don’t work you hard enough.’
‘But, sir…’
‘Shut up!’ Barnabus winced, though Carey hadn’t shouted very loudly. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you are? If I had wanted some idle beer-sodden fool without the wits of a caterpillar, who hasn’t even the sense to be where he’s ordered to be, when he’s ordered to be there, I could have hired me some brainless wonder from the Court. Couldn’t I?’
‘Sir.’ Briefly Barnabus wondered if a thrashing would be half as painful as Carey’s loud voice in the confines of the stairwell, and then decided it would. Definitely. He swallowed hard. Puking on Carey’s boots would not be a tactful thing to do, even if he hadn’t much left in his stomach to do it with.
‘And where the hell did you sleep last night? You’re soaking wet.’
‘I…er…I think I slept by the gate, sir.’
‘Passed out there?’
‘No, I…’
‘Get upstairs. I want my chambers immaculate; I want my clothes in order; I want my jack and fighting hose ready to wear, and I want my spare boots cleaned.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Barnabus despairingly. ‘I’m not very well, sir. I’m sorry sir…’
‘And,’ added Carey venomously, using Barnabus’s doublet front to pull him nose to nose, ‘if I find you snoring in bed when I come back, I’ll bloody well kick you out of it. Understand?’
Barnabus nodded, scurried past, up the stairs and through the door. Carey scowled and was heading for the stables when his sister caught sight of him.
‘Robin,’ she called. ‘Robin, can I talk to you for a moment?’
Carey wanted only to get in the saddle and ride out of the city so he could be away from crowds of people and do some thinking. He pretended not to hear.
‘Robin! I know you heard me.’
He stopped and sighed. ‘What can I do for you, Philadelphia?’ he asked politely. Philly came up to him looking very businesslike in a claret-coloured wool kirtle and bodice of black velvet, a lace-trimmed linen apron skewed halfway under her arm. She wrinkled her brow at him.
‘What’s wrong with you this morning?’ she demanded, clearly in no very good temper herself. ‘You didn’t drink enough to have a hangover, and you wrung Lowther dry as well. Why aren’t you happy?’
He wasn’t going to answer that question, which he saw too late was as good as a complete exposition to his sister.
‘Oh,’ she said, a little regretfully. ‘I see. I hoped Elizabeth might…Well, serve you right. I’ve got a great big bruise on my shin. You’ll be wanting something to take your mind off things. Come with me.’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to help me…do some persuading. You used to be fairly persuasive, as I recall.’
Carey harumphed, which almost made his sister grin despite her sore leg and sorer head, because it was so exactly the noise their father made.
Perhaps because he had a long list of muster-letters to write to gentlemen of the county, and a teetering pile of complaints from Scotland about the recent large raid on Falkland Palace, Carey went along with her meekly enough, until she took him round the back of the Keep into the scurry of sheds and old buildings there. Finally he protested.
‘What am I doing?’ repeated Philadelphia with fine rhetoric. ‘Why, nothing, Robin. Except assisting my husband in his duties,’ she said over her shoulder as she stalked ahead of him through the cool dim dairy to the cheese store at the back. Out of a corner she got a cheese that was never of her making, being stamped with a large C. Carey recognised it at once.
‘That one’s got weevils in it,’ he told her helpfully. ‘All the Castle ration cheeses have weevils, or worse. Why don’t you…’
She glared at him, hauled it onto the cutting board and gave him a knife.
‘You cut it, then. I want about half a pound.’
‘But, Philly…’
‘Go on, if you want to find out what I’m doing. I hate the way they wriggle even after you’ve cut their heads off.’
Carey did too, but he manfully cut the required piece and lifted it gingerly onto a platter. Philadelphia arranged nasturtium leaves and dill around it and looked about for somebody to carry it. One of her maidens hurried past in the passage, carrying a newly scoured butterchurn.
‘Nelly,’ she shouted. The girl was a round-faced doe-eyed creature with a wonderful crop of spots and the faint cheesy odour of all dairymaids. She blenched at the sight of what she was supposed to hold.
‘Don’t drop it,’ Philly ordered the horrified girl, as she swept into the wet larder by the Castle wall. She went purposefully to a barrel of salt beef in the corner of the room, this one with a no less ominous JP for James Pennycook on it, and used the tongs to fish up a piece of meat that managed to be as hard as wood and still stank, with a decorative light green sheen. Slicing it with great effort and her breath held, she arranged the whole on another platter, with some loaves of gritty bread and a dish of rancid butter, grabbed Carey’s youngest servant Simon Barnet as he wandered past still rubbing straw off his hose, and had him form a procession up to the Keep. She herself took a pewter jug, dived into the buttery, and filled it from the ale barrel that was shunned by anyone with a nose.