‘I mean, no horses, black, white or piebald. We’ve what there are in stables but the garrison will need them to form an honour guard, but apart from the six you brought, the horse merchants say they’ve never known mounts to be so hard to find and the price in Scotland is astonishing, sixty or seventy shillings for a poor scrawny nag, I heard, and whether it’s Bothwell being in Lochmaben at the moment or what, I don’t know, but horses there are none...’

‘How many do we need?’

‘Six heavy draught horses at least to pull the hearse and fifty more mounts for the procession and we can’t use packponies so...’

‘Where have they gone?’

‘Scotland, I expect. I was hoping for black horses, of course, but any beasts not actually grey or piebald will do well enough, we could dye the coats...’

‘What’s the need for horses in Scotland, at the moment?’

Scrope blinked at him. ‘I don’t know. Probably the Maxwells are planning another strike at the Johnstones or the King is planning a Warden Raid at Jedburgh or Bothwell’s planning something...’

‘Bothwell?’

‘He took Lochmaben last week, didn’t you know?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever meet him at King James’s Court?’

‘I did,’ said Carey feelingly. ‘Once. No, twice, the bastard fouled me at a football game in front of the King. What’s he up to?’

Again Scrope shrugged. ‘It’s some Court faction matter in Scotland. I’m hoping Sir John Carmichael will let me know when he knows what’s going on.’

‘And the Earl of Bothwell’s taken Lochmaben, you say? How the devil did he do that?’

‘Nothing would surprise me about Bothwell. So he’s got all the horses in the north.’

‘Well no, the surnames have their herds of course, but they won’t loan them out to us no matter what we offer and...’

‘The surnames are refusing honest money? How much did you offer?’

‘Twenty shillings a horse for the two days.’

Carey put his pen down. ‘Aren’t you worried about this, my lord?’

Lord Scrope flapped his bony hands. ‘Philadelphia keeps telling me to be careful, but what can I do? It’s all happening in Scotland and until my father’s buried and the Queen sends my warrant, my hands are tied.’

‘With respect, my lord...’

‘Anyway, we simply must get this funeral organised, I will not have my father dishonoured with a miserable poor funeral. Lowther says he might be able to get horses.’

Barnabus winced, knowing how much his master disliked clumsy manipulation, but Carey only took a deep breath.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lord?’

‘It’s all over the castle.’

Barnabus prepared to duck, but Carey spoke quite quietly, counting off on his fingers in an oddly clerkish way.

‘Well, I...’

‘Tell me now, my lord. If my position is insecure I can do nothing at all to help you.’

There, thought Barnabus with satisfaction, if you want your father buried nicely, there you are.

‘Do you think you can deal with Lowther?’

‘Oh yes, my lord. I can deal with Lowther.’

‘Right,’ said Scrope, still twiddling. ‘Yes. Right. I’ll confirm you as my Deputy of course and I’ll support you...’

‘To the hilt, my lord. Otherwise, I go back to London.’

‘Yes, to the hilt, of course, right.’ As if he had only just noticed the compression of Carey’s lips, Scrope began wandering to the door. Carey stopped him.

‘My lord.’

‘Er, yes?’

‘I want my warrant before dawn tomorrow.’

‘Good night, my lord.’

Scrope shut the door carefully and went on down the stairs. They heard his voice in the lower room and the creak of the heavy main door. Barnabus got ready.

‘JESUS CHRIST GODDAMN IT TO HELL!’ roared Carey, causing the shutters to rattle as he surged to his feet and kicked the little table across the room. The goblet hit the opposite wall but luckily was empty. Scrope’s half full goblet rolled after it, bleeding wine, and Carey had the stool in his hand when Barnabus shouted, ‘Sir, sir, we’ve only found the one stool, sir...’

He paused, blinked, put the stool down and slammed his fist on the desk instead.

‘Good God!’ he shouted slightly less loudly. ‘That lily-livered halfwitted pillock is Henry Scrope’s son, I can’t bloody believe it, JESUS GOD...’

Barnabus was mopping busily and examining the goblets, only one of which was dented, fortunately. He could take it to the goldsmith when he went tomorrow. What was left of the table would do for firewood. Simon, he noticed, was cowering in the corner by the bed while Carey paced and roared until he had worked his anger off. Those who doubted the rumours about Carey’s grandfather being King Henry VIII on the wrong side of the blanket, and not the man who complaisantly married Mary Boleyn, should see him or his father in a temper, Barnabus thought, that would set them right.

He beckoned Simon over and sent the trembling lad out for some more wine. By the time he came back, Carey was calm again and looking wearily at the pile of papers Scrope had brought.

‘God’s truth,’ was all he said, ‘he’s set it for Thursday and it’s Monday now. How the devil does he think I can organise anything in two days...?’

TUESDAY, 20TH JUNE, BEFORE DAWN

He stumbled out of the barracks to find the scurvy git standing there, flanked by his two body-servants holding torches, waiting patiently for his men to appear.

At least they were lined up quickly since turning out fully armed in the middle of the night was something they did regularly, even if nothing much generally came of it. Lowther had always liked to make a bit of a show of a hot trod.

Once they were there, Carey nodded.