“It might happen, in the excitement.”
“Nay,” whispered Long George. “Once.”
Carey sighed. “Where did you get the pistol?”
No answer.
“He canna talk,” said the woman sharply. “He’s sick and hurt, sir. Can ye no’ wait till he’s better?”
Carey straightened up, nearly hitting his head on a roofbeam, and turned to her.
“Do you know where Long George got his pistol, goodwife?” he asked.
Her thin lips tightened and she folded her arms. “Nay, sir, it’s nae business of mine.”
“Or either of you?” Both the other men shook their heads, faces impenetrably blank.
Carey sighed again. Almost certainly the pistol was stolen goods from somewhere and completely untraceable now it was in bits on the Scottish border. Trying to swallow the coughing caused by woodsmoke and a foul mosaic of other smells, Carey moved to the doorway, bent ready to duck under the half-tanned cowhide they had pegged up out of the way so that the surgeon could see to cut.
On an afterthought he felt in his belt pouch and found a couple of shillings which he put into the hard dirty hand of Goodwife Little. From the smell of it, the pot on the fire had nothing in it except oatmeal.
“I’ll ask the surgeon if he has any laudanum,” he said. “If he hasn’t, I’ll talk to my sister about it.”
Oppressed by the hostility of their stares and the smells of blood and sickness in the little hut, Carey went out to where the surgeon was waiting and told him to come for his fee to the castle in Carlisle, and come to him personally. The surgeon did not carry laudanum, since that was verra expensive, and an apothecary’s trade foreby. Carey returned to Dodd, mounted and they continued wearily back to Carlisle. Behind them the children stood in a hesitant row outside their hut, arguing over whether they should ask to be let back in again.
***
They went into Carlisle Castle by the sally-port in the north-east wall and led their horses between the buttery and the Queen Mary Tower to the castle yard which was bare save for two empty wagons parked in the corner. Carey handed Sorrel’s bridle to Red Sandy and told Dodd to see to the horses and put their rebellious fee in the pen by the kitchens and then try and make sure all of them got some sleep and food before evening. There was no chance any of his men would go prudently to bed early that night, when the taverns would be full of their friends and relatives come in for the Sunday muster. In the meantime, if he could get his report to Lord Burghley written and ciphered quickly he might catch the regular Newcastle courier before he left at noon.
He climbed the stairs to his chambers in the Queen Mary Tower, found nobody there at all. Damn it, where were the two servants he paid exorbitantly to look after him? Feeling hard done by, he stripped off his filthy helmet and jack and left them on the stand. He opened his doublet buttons to take the pressure off his side, then answered the heavy door himself to a timid knock.
Surgeon’s fee paid, he decided he could stay awake until the evening. Sleeping during the day always made him feel frowsty and ill-tempered, and he was surprised to find himself so soggy and weary after only one night’s lost sleep. He stamped into his office, rubbing his itchy face, his head aching but the memory of the night’s doings clear. One of the many things he had learned when he attended Sir Francis Walsingham on an embassy to Scotland in the early eighties had been the vital importance of timeliness in intelligence. Burghley was not the spymaster that Sir Francis had been, but he needed to know about James VI’s mysterious German as soon as possible-which meant by Tuesday, with luck. Carey took a sheet of paper, dipped his pen and began to write, hoping that what he was writing was reasonably comprehensible.
An hour later Philadelphia came hurrying up the stairs, knocked and entered her brother’s bedchamber and found it empty. She heard snoring from the office, went through and found Carey with his head on his arms fast asleep at his desk.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she sniffed, and shook his shoulder gently. “Robin, if that’s a letter to Lord Burghley, you’ll drool on it and smear the ink…”
Robin grunted. Philly saw his doublet was open, pulled it back and saw blood on his shirt. Her lips tightened.
Moments later she was in the castle courtyard, sending every available boy scurrying to find Barnabus. The small ferret-faced London servant eventually arrived looking hungover and even uglier than usual.
“Good day, Barnabus,” she said with freezing civility. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”
“Er…” said Barnabus.
“I’m delighted to hear it. Are you free to do your job now?”
“I didn’t know ‘e was…”
“When I want to hear your excuses, I’ll ask for them. Now get up there and help me put your master to bed, you lazy, idle, good-for-nothing…”
“What’s wrong with him?” muttered Barnabus resentfully as they climbed the stairs. “‘E drunk then…?”
A tremendous backhanded buffet over his ears from Philadelphia almost knocked him over. Barnabus shook his ringing head and blinked at her in astonishment. Seeing her fury, and remembering whose sister she was, he decided not to say the various things he thought of, and carried on up the stairs.
Carey was extremely unwilling to be woken, but finally came groaning to consciousness and let his doublet and shirt be taken off him so that Philadelphia could attack the re-opened cut with rosewater, aqua vitae and hot water. She peeled the bandages off, making him wince.
“God damn it, Philly…”
“Don’t swear, and hold still. You’ve another bad lump on your head, what did that?”
Carey thought for a moment. “Sim’s Will Croser’s horse kicked me,” he said. “My helmet’s dented.”
“I’m not surprised. What was he thinking of?”
Carey blinked and said with dignity, “Insofar as Sim’s Will is capable of thought, I should think he was thinking I was an Elliot.”
“Hmf. I wish you wouldn’t get into fights.”
Carey began laughing. “Philadelphia, my sweet, it’s my job.”
“Hah! Hold still while I…”
“Ouch!”
“I told you to hold still. Barnabus, where are you going?”
“I was only getting a fresh shirt from the laundry.”
“Bring bandages and the St John’s wort ointment from the stillroom and small beer and some bread and cheese too.”
“I’m not hungry, Philly.” She bit her lip worriedly and felt his forehead, her gesture exactly like their mother. “No, I’m not sickening. I’m not as delicate as you think me. It’s Long George. He had to have his right hand cut off this morning. His pistol exploded and took most of the fingers from it.”
“I don’t see what Long George’s hand has got to do with you not eating,” said Philly, with deliberate obtuseness, getting out her hussif from the pouch hanging on her belt and cutting a length of silk. “Are you feeling dizzy, seeing double?”
“No, no,” said Carey. “I’m perfectly all right, Philadelphia.” She stepped back and stared at him consideringly. In truth he looked mainly embarrassed at having fallen asleep over his work, like some nightowl schoolboy. “Can you send out some laudanum to Long George’s farm? And some food?”
Her face softened a little. “Of course.” Carey nodded, not looking at her and she frowned again.
“I think you should be in bed so your cut can heal,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, anyway, I’m going to sew the edges up and then bandage it again to try and stop it from taking sick and don’t argue with me. Don’t you know you can die from a little cut on your finger, if it goes bad, never mind a great long slash like that? Go on. Sit on the bed and lean over sideways so I can get at it.”
She looked a great deal like her mother when she was determined, despite her inevitable crooked ruff. Sighing, her brother did what he was told. Barnabus shambled back with supplies from the stillroom and then went away again to fetch food. Philadelphia threaded her needle and put an imperious hand on his ribcage.