‘Haven’t you got it?’
‘No, my lord. To be bald, I haven’t a penny at the moment.’
Scrope blinked at him. ‘But you brought a large loan from the Queen with you. And you won a considerable amount from Lowther only last week.’
Carey coughed self-deprecatingly. ‘And I’ve spent it, my lord,’ he said. ‘And... er... lost it.’
‘On the horse-racing? On Thunder?’
Carey shrugged. ‘Not having the sale of the armoury clerkship in prospect, my lord, I felt I needed to raise cash to pay the men next month.’
Scrope wandered over to his beloved virginal, sat down in front of it and began stroking the lid. ‘Well, er... Robin, I’m very sorry, but I’m in a few difficulties that way myself.’
‘But, my lord, your estates yield...’
‘Oh, to be sure, to be sure, theoretically. Do you have any idea how much it costs to be March Warden? Especially if I’m to pay pensions to the families of men killed in my service? Let alone burying my father properly? The funeral cost me more than two thousand pounds, most of it cash which I had to borrow. And the Queen has not yet seen fit to send my warrant, nor any of my fees.’
Carey stared at his brother-in-law, half-thinking of Long George being put in the ground by his father as cheaply as a dead dog. Though a peer of the realm was not to be compared with a Border tenant farmer, of course, still the worms would find them equally tasty...
‘But, my lord, can you not at least advance me something against my own fees, for travelling expenses?’
Scrope began playing with a faraway expression on his face, something pretty and tinkling, making Carey want to slam the virginal lid shut on his spidery fingers. He shook his head.
‘Your sister was... ah... as hopeful of Thunder’s prospects as you were yourself. I’m afraid I have no actual money at all at the moment.’
The perky little tune tweedled up the keyboard and down again and Scrope’s attention was gone with it, far into the realms of music where grubby King Mammon held no sway. Carey bit his tongue on several unwise retorts and strode to the door.
‘Um... Robin?’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Ah... Thomas the Merchant Hetherington is reliable and not too... um... exorbitant. A penny in the shilling, mainly.’
‘Per month?’ Carey’s tone was undeniably sarcastic, but Scrope only coughed.
‘Er... no. Per quarter.’
Carey shut the heavy door behind him with exaggerated care and the gossamer notes faded into the darkness of the spiral staircase.
‘Did ye tell him of the guns?’ Dodd asked in the dusky courtyard, after Carey had ordered him curtly to make ready for a journey to Dumfries.
‘Good God, no. How on earth could I explain how I knew?’
‘We’re going into Scotland.’ Dodd stared into the middle distance, looking gloomy. ‘Ay. Tonight?’
‘No, no. Tomorrow. There’s a couple of things I need to do first and I need a good night’s sleep.’
‘We’re going into Scotland in braid daylight?’ Dodd was shocked and horrified.
Despite his money-worries, Carey grinned at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why not? We’re not planning to lift any livestock, are we?’
‘Nay, sir, but...’
‘Not that you’ve ever done any reiving in that area yourself, have you, Sergeant?’ Dodd’s neck reddened immediately. I really shouldn’t tease him, Carey thought to himself, it’s not fair.
‘Er... nay, sir, but...’
‘So there wouldn’t be any fear of you meeting any enemies, would there?’
‘Well, there would, sir, if ye follow me. There’s the Johnstones for one, and what’ll we do if we meet up with Wee Colin Elliot again?’
Carey gave him a cold blue stare. ‘Smile sweetly and bid him good day. We’re going to Court, not to a God-damned battle. Make sure you’re in your best jack and your helmet is polished.’
Dodd nodded sadly and went to check on his tack. It was clear he would infinitely have preferred a battle.
MONDAY, 10TH JULY 1592, EARLY MORNING
Carey’s sister refused to let Barnabus travel with them, which was deeply annoying since it meant Carey would have to do without a manservant at the Scottish court. Still, Barnabus was clearly very unwell, looking yellow, feverish and tightlipped. Philadelphia had put him back to bed in the little sickroom next to her stillroom with a brazier burning sweet herbs and a pile of blankets to help the fever. Carey, who had miraculously avoided ever catching a dose himself, hoped devoutly that he would stay lucky: Barnabus had been adenoidally eloquent on the trouble he had passing water and a number of intimate medical details that Carey could have done without. Philadelphia had also been firm on the subject of money.
‘I haven’t a penny,’ she sighed, busily stirring a steaming little pot over a dish of hot coals on her stillroom table. Putty-coloured and unnaturally still in the sickroom’s other bed, Walter Ridley snored heavily in the background. ‘I can’t even afford to buy embroidery silks, thanks to you and that big lolloping horse of yours,’ she added accusingly. ‘And my lord’s no help; he says I should have known better than to wager on anything with Sir Simon Musgrave, let alone horse-races. Why don’t you take Thunder with you and sell him at the Scottish court? King James likes good horseflesh, and he’s probably a bit short at the moment, what with the raid on Falkland Palace and everything.’
Carey looked at her with annoyance, because he hadn’t thought of that himself.
‘Isn’t it illegal to trade horses into Scotland?’
Philadelphia sniffed. ‘Don’t be silly, Robin, that law’s for peasants and their hobbies, not proper tournament chargers.’
It would be a wrench to sell Thunder. George, Earl of Cumberland had offered him forty pounds for the animal before he left London, and he had been too sentimental to take it. Besides, at the time he had just wheedled a loan out of the Queen and was feeling rich. But there was no denying that Thunder was eating his head off in Carlisle, was too big-boned and heavy for Border-riding and was very unlikely to win him any tournaments at the moment. He might make something in covering fees but not enough to earn his keep.
