The knife was shaking hard now. ‘I can learn,’ croaked Leigh.

‘Ay, ye could,’ said Dodd, consideringly. Behind Leigh something white appeared at the little window. ‘But could ye learn fast enough? The prime raiding season starts in August, after Lammastide, and we’re well into July already, sir.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ye’d have a lot to learn, ye ken. Are ye in one of the Carlisle trained bands, or did ye pay another man to take your place? Ay, I see ye had a substitute—and why should ye no’, ye’re a busy man, a prosperous merchant, an’ there’s nae reason in the world why ye should waste yer time out on the race course playing about wi’ pikes and arquebuses and the like...’

Carey barked his shoulders painfully, easing them through the window, then snagged his shirt on a piece of glass and had to free it. He caught the beam above the windowseat with the tips of his fingers and hefted himself through as quietly as he could, with his knife in his teeth and his tongue and lips as far back from its edge as he could grimace. He sucked his stomach in as far as it would go and prayed devoutly as he hauled his hips through past the points of the broken window panes. And then his knees were in, he could drop to the ground quietly, while Dodd droned impassively on about civic duties and Leigh’s own children. Carey was a head taller than Leigh. So with the back of John Leigh’s neck and his expensively furred brocade gown only a pace in front of him, Carey took his dagger lefthanded from his mouth, reached over the man’s shoulder to clamp Leigh’s wrist in his right hand and brought the hilt of the poignard down as hard as he could twice on the back of Leigh’s head.

Leigh grunted and collapsed, dropping his knife as well. Julia Coldale fell too, then picked herself back up onto her hands and knees and was sick. She looked up at Carey, past his hairy calves and his bare knees and his now ragged white shirt to his face, made a soft croak and fainted.

Dodd looked at him impassively and handed his sword back.

‘I’ll go and fetch in yer suit, shall I, sir?’ he asked.

‘If you would, Sergeant,’ said Carey.

THURSDAY, 6TH JULY 1592, DAWN

‘Wh-what are you doing with my husband?’ Mrs Leigh demanded. She was in her smock and dressing gown and her hair in its nighttime plait.

‘We’re arresting him, Mrs Leigh,’ said Dodd. ‘Would ye kindly move away?’

‘Wh-what for?’

‘Trying to kill Julia Coldale,’ came Carey’s voice from above. ‘He nearly succeeded as well.’

‘That little whore,’ sniffed Mrs Leigh. ‘My husband has nothing to do with the bitch.’

That’s what you think, mistress, thought Dodd, who could think of one reason why a man would give a woman money. He didn’t say that, mainly because he didn’t want to bring on Mrs Leigh’s labour.

‘We only just stopped him throttling the life out of her,’ said Carey. ‘Please, Mrs Leigh, out of our way.’

She did move back into the doorway of the shop. Jock Burn was standing there as well, licking his lips. As he went past, John Leigh looked desperately at his wife.

‘Matilda,’ he whispered. ‘Do something.’

She looked away.

They had a full escort of small boys and dogs by the time they got back to Carlisle Castle and Carey was beginning to puff and blow a bit with Julia’s weight. She had managed to stop whooping by then, so he put her down and she leant very prettily on his arm, trying to give him the occasional trustful smile. Oddly enough he didn’t smile back.

They were running out of space for prisoners; there was only the Lickingstone cell left apart from the hole under the Gaoler’s floorboards which was reached with a ladder. In the end they decided the hole was the least bad of the two.

‘Chain him,’ said Carey.

‘But sir...’ Dodd protested. ‘He didnae actually kill her.’

‘Only by the Grace of God,’ said Carey coldly. ‘And besides, haven’t you worked out why? Chain him.’

‘Ay sir.’

John Leigh sat down on the bench in the Gaoler’s room with his head bowed while Dodd locked his feet together in the leg irons. When he had climbed down awkwardly, and the ladder pulled up again, Carey looked at Dodd.

‘Fetch at least four men from the barracks and go and arrest Jock Burn. If you can’t find him, tell the men on the City gates that they’re on no account to let him out. And have the Crier give his name at the marketplace.’

‘Ay sir,’ said Dodd, wondering what on earth he was at but not inclined to argue with the expression on Carey’s face.

Philadelphia had already taken Julia Coldale up to her stillroom, given her a dose of something unpleasant and painted her usual infusion of comfrey on the terrible bruises around her neck.

By the time her brother arrived looking grim and followed by a puzzled Richard Bell, Philadelphia had decided she should be put to bed.

‘I have to speak to her first,’ said Carey. ‘I must know...’

Philadelphia drew him aside and whispered fiercely at him. ‘The poor girl can hardly breathe, let alone speak; you can talk to her tomorrow...’

‘It must be today,’ said Carey implacably. ‘Unless Scrope can get the inquest adjourned.’

‘What’s that got to do with—?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

He gently put her aside and went to stand over Julia who had started weeping quietly into her apron.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will you talk to me now?’

‘Ay,’ she whispered.

By that time the jury for the inquest were assembling at the town hall and Scrope was putting on his black velvet court gown and his gold chain of office, while the prisoners were fetched out of their various cells. Carey sprinted up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower to his own chamber to change his clothes to his good black velvet suit and found Simon Barnet asleep and snorting on the truckle bed.

Finally ready, Carey ran down the stairs again to join the tail end of the inquest procession, with his hat in his hand. Ahead, guarded by Sergeant Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon and Lowther’s men, were all of the prisoners, including John Leigh: Barnabus shambled along looking frowsty and bad-tempered, Kate Atkinson walked with her head bowed and Andy was having trouble with his leg irons. It was a slow march. Dodd fell in behind him at the Keep gate with his four men and no prisoner.

‘No sign of him?’ Carey asked.

‘Nay sir,’ said Dodd mournfully. ‘We were too late. He must have run as soon as we left. I did the rest of what ye said.’

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ muttered Carey. ‘Why the hell didn’t I think of it?’

‘Well, sir,’ Dodd was comforting. ‘Ye couldnae arrest Jock Burn as well as his master wi’ only the two of us and a half-dead maid to carry; Jock would ha’ made mincemeat of us.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And ye’ve caught the master good and proper, sir.’

‘Have you got the shirt?’

‘Ay sir, but no’ the knife. I’ll send Bangtail for it; he’s a fast runner.’

Bangtail sprinted off from the end of the procession. Carey saw Janet Dodd among the crowd at the entrance to the town hall, a very formidable sight in red, black and brocade, surrounded by many of Kate Atkinson’s gossips, likewise dressed in their Sunday best. There was no sign of Mrs Leigh, which was hardly to be wondered at.

THURSDAY, 6TH JULY 1592, 11 A.M.

Edward Aglionby looked impressive in his budge-trimmed green velvet gown, black damask doublet and hose and tall hat. He stood on the steps of the hall as the Castle procession arrived and greeted Scrope with suitable respect.