‘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.’
