‘Er... nothing.’
‘Barnabus,’ growled Carey. ‘If you’ve...’
‘Shut up, please, Robin,’ said Philadelphia to her brother. ‘Now please don’t play me for a fool, Barnabus. You’re not well and you have to tell me everything that ails you. I’m worried you might be coming down with a gaol fever.’
Remembering the gaol fever he had caught on board ship after he had gone to fight the Armada in 1588, which had almost killed him, Carey looked carefully at Barnabus again, then shook his head.
‘No. You see, Philly, he’s been in gaol before.’
‘Born there,’ said Barnabus with some satisfaction. ‘It can’t be gaol fever, my lady. I’ve had both kinds and it’s like the smallpox; you don’t get it twice.’
‘Well then, what’s the matter with your water?’
‘Er...’ Barnabus looked at the ground. ‘I’m pissing green, my lady. And... er... it hurts.’
There was a penetrating silence. ‘I expect it’s because of Lowther...’ Carey began.
‘Unless Lowther’s a worse man than I take him for, that’s not Lowther. That’s the clap.’
Neither Carey nor Barnabus knew where to look, while Dodd by the door listened in fascination.
‘It’s that bawdy house, isn’t it? Madam Hetherington’s? The one Scrope sneaks off to occasionally?’
Both Barnabus and Carey made an extraordinary strangulated noise.
‘And I suppose you’ve got a dose too, have you, Robin?’ demanded Philadelphia in withering tones.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Carey with great emphasis. ‘For God’s sake, Philly...’
‘Don’t swear. Well, Barnabus, there is nothing whatever anybody can do for the clap, no matter what they say, except let nature take its course. You should drink as much mild beer as you can and eat plenty of garlic to clean your blood. You’ll have to give him lighter duties until he’s better, Robin. Anyway, he should rest for today and I think his nose may need resetting eventually. Drink this.’
Barnabus meekly drank down one cup of bogwater and looked relieved when the other cup turned out to be a lotion to put on his nose and face. Carey recognised the smell as the same stuff Philadelphia had been painting him with all the previous week. As far as he could tell it had done him no harm.
Baker came back from the midden and at Philadelphia’s bidding, put the bucket inside the cell where Barnabus could reach it and use it. Carey snapped his fingers for the bunch of keys he carried, took it and unlocked the chains around Barnabus’s ankles.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Barnabus, rubbing his legs and stretching. ‘I hate to scour the cramp-rings.’
‘Nobody chains my servant,’ said Carey ominously, ‘except me. So watch it, Barnabus.’
They came out, Carey still carefully not meeting Philadelphia’s eyes. Dodd was as straight-faced as he knew how, though he thought that Barnabus was getting undeserved soft treatment.
‘Have you fed the other two prisoners, Mr Barker?’ he asked.
‘Oh ay, sir. They got garrison food, same as Barnabus.’
Poor bastards, thought Dodd. When Janet turns up I’ll send her in with some proper vittles.
‘Did ye want to talk to ’em, sir?’ he asked.
Carey thought about it. ‘No, I don’t think so, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I need more information.’
And where was he proposing to get it if he didn’t even want to talk to his prisoners, Dodd wondered sourly, but didn’t ask. Philadelphia remained quiet as they walked out of the dungeons and into the silky morning sunlight, all washed clean by the rainstorms of the previous day. She looked about and sighed.
‘You called me from checking over the flax harvest, Robin,’ she said. ‘So I’m going back to it.’
Carey nodded, with the expression of a man who wants to say something comforting but doesn’t quite know how. He remembered the report he had written for Scrope and gave it to Philadelphia to pass on to her husband. She tossed her head, took it and marched off across the yard, trying to pull her apron straight as she went. Dodd felt he was not called upon to comment and so he followed Carey silently as he strode down to the Keep gate and past Bessie’s into Carlisle town.
WEDNESDAY, 5TH JULY 1592, MORNING
Dodd was very shocked when he realised Carey was about to go straight into the house with red lattices and the sign of the Rainbow over the door down an alley off Scotch Street.
‘Sir,’ he protested. ‘I dinna...’
‘You’ve got a mucky mind, Sergeant,’ said Carey. ‘I’m only making sure Barnabus was telling the truth about where he was.’
‘Oh.’
From the way Madam Hetherington greeted the Deputy Warden with a curtsey and a kiss, it was obvious he had been there before, which further shocked Dodd’s sense of propriety. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the bawdy house—he’d been there a couple of times himself, when drunk, and prayed Janet would never find out about it—only he felt it was a bad thing for an officer of the Crown to be seen entering the place in daylight. Carey didn’t seem to care; no doubt Londoners, courtiers and lunatics had different standards in these things.
‘No, mistress,’ said Carey courteously to the lady’s enquiry. ‘I want to talk to you about my servant Barnabus Cooke.’
They were led into her office and wine was brought for both of them. Dodd sipped his cautiously and then found to his surprise that it tasted quite good.
Carey smacked his lips as he put the goblet down.
‘I now know who has managed to find the only decent wine in Carlisle.’
Madam Hetherington had sat down on a stool beside a table clear of anything except some embroidery and she smiled modestly.
