‘Are we tae go back to Carlisle the morrow?’

‘No, Sergeant, we haven’t finished yet.’

‘And why the hell not?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, Sergeant. I appreciate you disapprove of what I’ve done and frankly I don’t care. But you can talk to me civilly or not at all.’

Dodd grunted. He struggled for self-control because as often happened, the loquacious little devil inside him was in a good mind to give the Courtier a mouthful and see how he liked it. But Dodd had paid thirty pounds English for the Sergeantship and he knew his wife wanted the investment back: the truth was, he was more afraid of his woman than he was inclined to give the Deputy a punch in the mouth, a fact which made him feel even more tired than he already was.

‘Why have we no’ finished, sir?’ Dodd said after a moment, with heavy politeness.

‘We haven’t retrieved the true Carlisle handguns from the Johnstones yet, Sergeant, the ones the Queen really sent us from the Tower armouries, and we’re not going until we do. Goodnight to you.’

FRIDAY, 14TH JULY 1592, BEFORE DAWN

If Sir Henry Widdrington had ever been priest-hunting with one of Sir Francis Walsingham’s men, things would have gone very differently, Carey often thought afterwards. Unlike the priest-finders, the Widdringtons had not properly scouted their target nor forewarned their helpers.

It was the shouting and ruddy light of torches in the black of the night that propelled Young Hutchin Graham out of his sleep by the fire. He ran to the window and squinted through stained glass to look out into the yard. The Maxwell guards were arguing with a square-shaped gentleman, hatted and ruffed and standing outlined in the open postern gate. There was a flash of white paper; the ominous phrase In the King’s name floated to Hutchin’s ears. Lord Maxwell himself and two of his cousins hurried through the dim hall, fully dressed and armed, to meet the men at the gate.

It suddenly occurred to Hutchin that he might have been a little too trusting of Roger Widdrington.

‘Och, God, no,’ he moaned, turned and sprinted through the parlour and up the spiral stairs to Lord Maxwell’s solar and through from there into the anteroom that had been given to Carey. The two enormous wolfhounds that he was sharing it with woke up and growled at him, and Carey himself sat up, blinking.

‘What is it?’

‘Sir, sir, I’m sorry, I thought it was Lady Widdrington, not Sir Henry.’

‘What? What are you blabbering about? And what the Devil’s that noise?’

Hutchin swallowed hard and fought for control. ‘It’s Sir Henry Widdrington, Deputy. He’s got a Royal Warrant to arrest someone.’

There was the sound of the gate bolts being opened.

Noticeably, Carey didn’t ask who the warrant was for. His eyes narrowed to chips of ice.

‘You’ve been passing information about my doings.’

‘Ay, sir,’ Hutchin confessed miserably. ‘To Roger Widdrington. I thought it was for my lady. That’s what he said.’

Carey was out of bed now, peering through the narrow window into the yard where Sir Henry and a large number of men were marching across between the horses and men camping out there, towards the hall door.

‘You halfwitted romantic twat,’ said Carey, feeling under his shirt and unbuckling a moneybelt. ‘Pull up your doublet and shirt.’

Mouth open, Hutchin did as he was told. Carey strapped it onto him, where it went round twice.

‘Och, it’s heavy, sir,’ said Young Hutchin Graham, waking up rather more and now beginning to take on a canny expression.

‘It’s gold and a banker’s draft.’

‘Christ.’

‘Don’t swear. Come with me.’

Carey led the boy out into Maxwell’s solar where there was a trapdoor let into the ceiling. He hauled a linen chest underneath, stood on it, opened the bolts, shoved back the trapdoor and then boosted Young Hutchin up into the dark spaces above.

‘What’s happening, sir?’ Young Hutchin asked, kneeling at the edge of the hole. ‘Where does this go?’

‘There’ll be an escape route via the roof, no doubt. I never heard of a Border lord yet that didn’t have one. Use it.’

‘What about ye, sir?’

‘Thanks to you, I think I’m about to be arrested by the King of Scotland.’

‘But can ye not come with me?’

‘Use your head, Hutchin. This is Maxwell’s bolthole. It’s me they’re after, and if I’m not here, his lordship will know where I’ve gone and they’ll catch both of us. Whereas nobody’s interested in you.’

‘Och, Jesus, sir. Will they hang ye?’

‘Certainly not. Being of noble blood, I’ve a right to ask for beheading. Here, catch this ring.’

‘Whit d’ye want me tae do, sir?’

‘You’ve a choice, haven’t you? You could go to Dodd if he’s still at liberty, or try and see Lady Elizabeth Widdrington, herself, in person this time and not through intermediaries. Show her the ring and ask for her help. She might even give it.’

‘Or?’

‘Or you could pelt off to your cousins and run for the Debateable Land with the gold that’s in that belt. Which might be safer for you in the short term.’

Young Hutchin said nothing.

***

Young Hutchin silently scrabbled at the heavy trap and put it back in its hole. Carey scrubbed the fingermarks off with his shirtsleeve, jumped down, pushed the chest back against the wall, kicked the rucked-up rushes about a bit and ran back to his anteroom, shutting and bolting the door behind him while the dogs milled around him looking puzzled, and the tramp of boots echoed on the spiral stair. First one and then both of the wolfhounds began to bark and growl menacingly, standing to face the door with their hackles up and their teeth bared. Carey patted them both affectionately. If he had wanted to make a fight of it, they would have given their lives for him, but he saw no point in that.

There’s nothing like a bolted door to please a searcher, old Mr Phelippes had told him once, it is so exactly the kind of thing one is looking for. Also the bolt gave Carey time to pull on his hose and boots, before the end of it cracked out of the doorjamb to the multiple kicking. He faced Sir Henry Widdrington and about five other Widdringtons with his sword in his hand. The wolfhounds began baying like the Wild Hunt.

‘What in the name of God is going on?’ he demanded over the noise.

Sir Henry Widdrington had a loaded wheellock dag in one hand and an official-looking paper in the other. He hobbled forwards a few paces on his swollen gouty feet, his face turned to a gargoyle’s by the torches and deep personal satisfaction. Like a town crier he read out the terms of the warrant in a booming tone.

From behind him Lord Maxwell called his dogs to him and they stopped barking, looked very puzzled, whined sadly at Carey and padded out to their master. Maxwell then, rather pointedly, left.

All was perfectly legal: the King of Scotland had made out a warrant for the arrest on a charge of high treason and trafficking with enemies of the realms of both Scotland and England (nice touch) of one Sir Robert Carey.

‘Let me see the seal,’ said Carey.

‘You’re not suggesting, I hope, that I would forge the King’s Warrant?’ said Sir Henry.