‘Congratulations?’ shouted Carmichael, his round red face beaming. ‘I wis never sae glad to get shot of an office in my life. D’ye ken what the King pays? Ain hundred pound Scots, that’s all, and I spend more than that on horsefeed in a season.’
Carmichael had a vigorous tufting of white hair all over his head, and broad capable hands, and his face had an almost childlike straightforwardness about it.
Carey winced sympathetically. ‘I had heard tell the place was ruination for anyone but a magnate,’ he said.
‘Ay, it’s the truth. And not a hope of justice fra the scurvy English either,’ Carmichael added with a fake glower. ‘Ye’re Deputy Warden now under Scrope, I hear. How d’ye find it?’
‘More complex than I expected,’ Carey answered. ‘And harder work.’
‘They do say peddling gie’s a man a terrible thirst,’ said Carmichael with a grin. Carey had the grace to grin back and accept a horn mug filled with beer. To his surprise, Dodd was given one as well. The beer was sour. ‘By God, that was a good tale I heard about you at Netherby. Jock o’ the Peartree held prisoner in his own brother’s tower... Nae doubt that’s when Bothwell’s ruffians found out about the horses at Falkland.’
‘It was. I can’t think how I let it slip out.’
Carmichael barked a laugh. ‘Ye did me an ill turn there, ye ken, lad. My cousin Willie Carmichael of Reidmire at Gretna’s in an awful taking about a black horse that was stolen that night and he reckons Willie Johnstone of Kirkhill’s got it.’ Carey raised his brows and said nothing. ‘See, the horse is the devil of a fine racer, though he’s only a two-year-old, he’ll bear away the bells at every meet he goes to next year if Cousin Willie can get him back and he’s writing me letters every week giving me grief about it like an auld Edinburgh wifie. I’ve written to Scrope about it, but can ye do aught for me?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Carey. ‘You know what it’s like with horses.’
‘Och, ye canna tell me anything about it. I mind the time some Dodds hit us for our stables, once, stripped out the lot of them.’
‘Did they?’ said Carey neutrally, not looking at the Sergeant. ‘What did they get?’
‘Och, it was a while back, a fair few years now, but they were nice horses—there was Penny, and Crown, and Farthing and Shilling...’
Dodd buried his nose in his beer. Was the old Warden teasing him?
‘Dodds and English Armstrongs it was, a nice clean job of it too. We never got them back nor a penny of compensation.’
Carey coughed. ‘I’m very sorry to hear of it, Sir John. I’m afraid I can’t help you with them, but I’ll see what I can do about your cousin Willie’s black horse. What’s it called?’
‘Blackie, I expect,’ said Carmichael. ‘The man’s got nae imagination.’ He tossed a chicken leg at a pile of dogs in the corner which promptly dissolved into a growling fight. ‘Meantime, what can I do for ye, Sir Robert?’
‘Tell me about your successor as Warden.’
‘Lord Maxwell.’ Carmichael nodded and smoothed out his white moustache. ‘He’s clever and he’s got something in the wind.’
‘Against the Johnstones?’
‘Of course. Who else? He was uncommon willing to be made Warden, which means he’ll use his Wardenry against Johnstone, and he’s rich and he’s cunning. I dinna like the man myself, ye ken, but he’s a good soldier.’
‘Catholic too, I understand.’
‘Ay, and that’s another matter. Ye may mind the trouble he caused hereabouts in the Armada year?’
‘Didn’t the King arrest him for backing the Spanish?’
‘Ay, and executed a couple of dozen of his kin.’
Carey whistled. ‘And he’s going to be made the new Lord Warden?’
Carmichael shrugged. ‘The King’s a very forgiving prince when he wants.’
‘Must be.’
‘Ay, well, Maxwell’s been in Spain and France and all over, brought home some fancy foreign tastes. A while back he had his ain personal wine merchant fra foreign parts, and his ain personal wine merchant’s wifie as well.’ Carey raised his eyebrows quizzically and Carmichael barked with laughter. ‘Ye wait till ye see her, lad. She’s moved on fra the Maxwell now, dropped him like an auld glove once the Earl of Mar showed an interest in her. Even the King tolerates her and God knows, he’s no love o’ women nor foreigners.’
‘Spanish?’ asked Carey.
Carmichael shook his head. ‘Italians.’
‘How very cosmopolitan of the Maxwell.’ Carmichael snorted and finished his beer. ‘Tell me, my lord Warden,’ Carey went on, ‘any Germans about the Court at the moment?’
This produced an interesting result. Carmichael drew back and went still.
‘What d’ye know of him?’
‘I saw him arrested by the Earl of Mar.’ Carey described the sinister encounter, which had been coloured over for Dodd and almost obscured by the wounding of Long George.
‘Well, I dinna ken meself, because I’ve not been in Edinburgh inside a year, but I think he was an alchemist. I think he was going to make the King a Philosopher’s Stone or gold or some such, in Jedburgh, and it all went wrong. He made an enemy of the King and that’s an ill thing to do, mark my words.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I heard, he got the Boot to learn him better manners and then the King handed him over to some Hanse merchanters from Lubeck who hanged him for some bill he’d fouled over in Germany.’
Carey sighed. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to him.’
Carmichael shrugged.
‘How about his Majesty the King, God bless him?’ Carey continued after a moment. ‘Do you know what he’s planning to do with his army?’
