‘If I had any, I might be, sir. But there’s a goldsmith in the town will give me a good rate on it and I know what you plan for tomorrow so if I might make so bold and strike while the iron’s hot, as it were, I’d rather have what I’m owed now than wait another year...’
Carey winced. ‘I still owe the tailors...’
‘...far more money than you can pay, sir,’ said Barnabus, putting down the cramoisie doublet and picking up the new black velvet one. ‘However they’re in London and...’
‘...and you’re here and can make my life miserable.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus blandly. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
Carey made a face, took his sword off, leaned it against the wall and went to the third chest. He opened it, scattered shirts and hose until it was empty, and then released the false bottom. Barnabus stared at the money with the blood draining from his face.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Thirty-eight pounds, ten shillings and fourpence, including the money I lent you last month,’ Barnabus answered mechanically, still hypnotised by the gold and silver in front of him.
Carey counted the cash out, and handed it over.
‘Wh... where did you get it all from, sir?’
‘I robbed a goldsmith on Cheapside.’
Although he was fully capable of it, if necessary, Barnabus didn’t find this funny. ‘Lord Hunsdon...’
‘My father gave me some but the Queen gave me the rest and if I lose it, she’ll put me in the Tower. It’s a loan, anyway,’ said Carey sadly, ‘and it took an hour of flattery to stop her charging me interest. So for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut, Barnabus. If somebody robs me before I can use it and I go into the Tower, you’re going into Little Ease and staying there.’
‘Never, sir,’ said Barnabus, recovering a bit now Carey had put the false bottom back in the chest. ‘I’d be in Scotland, you know that.’
Carey said ‘Ha!’, went back to the desk and sat down. ‘They’d rob you blind and send you back naked, that’s what I know. Now then, my lord Scrope will be here in a little while when he’s had supper with some of the arrangements for the old Lord’s funeral which he wants me to organise. Any chance of a bite...’
As luck would have it, Simon came in at that moment with part of a raised pie, mutton collops, good bread from Scrope’s kitchen and some cheese Lady Scrope herself had made, according to Goodwife Biltock, and some raspberry fool.
The talk of the funeral took twice as long as it needed to because Scrope would not keep to the point. Carey dealt with him patiently, sitting at his desk, writing lists and making notes like a clerk, until the question of horses came up.
‘What do you mean, my lord, there are no horses? You mean, no black horses?’
Scrope was up off the chair that Biltock claimed Queen Mary had sat on and was pacing up and down the room, the flapping false sleeves on his gown guttering the rushlights.
‘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.’
