Skinabake came up beside him, shaking his head.
‘We’re out of it,’ he said without preamble.
‘Ay,’ said Wattie heavily, knowing a lost cause when he saw it. He shook his fist impotently at the Deputy Warden. ‘Ye’ll regret this, Carey,’ he shouted. ‘I’m no’ forgetting this.’
‘Ah, go home and cry, Wattie,’ sneered the Courtier. ‘I’ll give you a long neck one of these days, you bloody coward.’
Wattie’s neck swelled and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. He took a firm grip on his sword, kicked his horse forward to the water.
Skinabake got in his way and the hobby was anyway not inclined to go near the blood-tinged water.
‘Come on, Wattie,’ said Skinabake, highly amused. ‘Put a lance through him some other time.’
Wattie was shaking with rage. ‘Did you hear...’ he sputtered. ‘Did ye hear what he called me?’
‘Och,’ said Skinabake negligently, in a voice that carried. ‘He only said it to bring ye back in range of the bowmen there.’
Carey’s head went up. He had heard, as he was meant to. But Dodd had already shifted his horse in front of the Deputy Warden’s nag and had changed grip on his lance to bar his path.
Wattie spat over his shoulder, and began riding away north west, his men lightly gathered around him, the ones who had lost their mounts running at their friends’ stirrups. Skinabake’s outlaws were already breaking northwards for the Debateable Land.
Behind them, the heavy-laden packtrain owned by Edward Aglionby paced north west along the road, miraculously unmolested.
TUESDAY, 4TH JULY 1592, MORNING
The roofbeams of the Carlisle Castle stables vibrated with the already legendary Carey roar.
‘He’s what?’
Bangtail winced and stepped back a few paces. All the horses stamped and shifted and some of them neighed protestingly. Dodd had to hold the headstall of the hobby he was rubbing down, to stop himself being knocked over.
‘He... he’s in the dungeon, sir,’ Bangtail repeated. ‘Lowther put him there on a charge of murder.’
Carey advanced on him, still in his sodden jack and wet morion. His fists were clenched tight and two spots of colour flamed below the incipient bags under his eyes.
‘It wasna me, sir,’ yelled Bangtail, dodging behind one of the stall posts. ‘It was Lowther.’
Carey seemed to catch himself and stop. He breathed deeply, carefully unfisted his hands and folded them across his chest.
‘Start at the beginning, Bangtail, and tell me exactly what happened.’
‘Ay, well. It were Atkinson, ye see, sir, Jemmy Atkinson, the Armoury clerk, that used to be paymaster until you...’
‘I think I remember him.’
‘Well, what I heard was, he was found deid this morning, in an alley, with his gizzard slit, see ye, and so his wife sent for Lowther because he’s known to be Lowther’s man.’
‘Clear so far.’
‘An’ Lowther’s up to the Castle in a fearful bate just afore ye come in, sir, and I’d just arrived, see, and he says, it’s bound to be ye that did him in, because ye didna want him fer armoury clerk, but ye werena there and nor was Dodd, so then he says, ye must have set the thief that serves ye on to dae it, and so he’s gone up to the Queen Mary Tower and haled yer man out and thrown him in the dungeon and he’s making a complaint out against ye now, forbye.’
‘Is that it, that’s the full tale?’
‘Ay, sir, so far as I know.’
‘Well then, thank you for coming to tell me of it so promptly.’
Bangtail smiled. ‘We drew straws for it, sir, an’ I got the short one.’
Carey coughed. ‘Where’s Lowther now?’
‘He’s still in with the Lord Warden.’
‘Is he, by God! Well, go and keep an eye on him and try and see he doesn’t find out that I’m back yet. Go on, off with you.’
‘Ay, sir.’
As Bangtail trotted off on his mission, Dodd wondered what the Deputy Warden would do. For a moment as his colour faded he looked tired and thoughtful, and to be sure, his position was bad. Dodd knew that it wasn’t so much the question of whether or not Barnabus had actually slit Atkinson’s throat, it was whether Lowther could get the bill fouled against him and so hang him. Barnabus might even decide to turn Queen’s evidence to save his own neck and say that Carey had ordered him to do the killing. In London or in Berwick, Dodd didn’t doubt that Carey could muster enough influence to clear himself of such an accusation, but they were in Carlisle where his only important relative was Lord Scrope. And Lord Scrope was notoriously easy to persuade if got at right. It was unlikely but not completely beyond the bounds of possibility that Lowther might see Carey swing for the death of Atkinson, despite the Queen’s liking for him, whether he had anything to do with it or not. Or no: as a nobleman, he would face the axe. At best, with his servant hanged for murder, the blow to his prestige meant Carey would have very little chance of commanding obedience in the March.
Carey set his back against the loose-box wall, one leg bent, took his helmet off and with his eyes shut, rubbed the red marks left by the leather padding and the chin strap.
‘What’ll ye do, sir?’ asked Dodd morbidly, wondering if he should begin making overtures to Lowther. No, it would be a waste of time.
‘Hm? See Barnabus first.’
Carey didn’t have the keys to the inner door, but he gave Dodd his helmet, pulled aside the Judas hole and called softly, ‘Barnabus. Wake up.’
There were a couple of grunts and an adenoidal ‘Yes, sir.’
