‘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.
‘Not bad,’ he allowed. ‘I know the Earl of Essex’s soldiers would still be scratching their backsides and wondering where their boots were. Now then.’
There followed a full hour of meticulous individual examination followed by shooting practice with the new longbows at the butts on the town racecourse. At the end of it Carey brought them back to the castle, stood in front of them and said simply, ‘I find you satisfactory, gentlemen.’
Carey opened up the account book and squinted at the figures. He blinked, his lips moved as he calculated and his face took on an irritated cynical expression. Just then a short figure erupted from the Keep and ran across the yard, comically dressed in shirt, hose, pattens and a flying taffeta gown. He was already gabbling in a high-pitched squeak that it would be quite impossible for anyone without the right training in accounts and mathematics to understand the very precise and detailed figures it was his job to...
Carey shut the book and smiled down at him.
‘What did you pay for your paymaster’s job, Mr Atkinson?’ he asked.
‘Sir Richard had fifty pounds from me, sir,’ said Atkinson, surprised into honesty.
‘For the two offices, the Armoury and the Paymaster?’
‘N-no, sir. Just the Paymaster clerkship.’
‘And how long have you held this particular lucrative office?’
‘Er... only four years and...’
