‘Let me wipe my face, at least,’ begged Carey. ‘I cannot see His Majesty like...’
There was a dour look of amusement around Mar’s mouth. ‘Och, never ye mind what ye look like,’ he said gruffly. ‘He’s no’ sae pernickity as yer ain mistress.’
‘But, my lord...’
The Earl of Mar tutted like an old nurse and banged on the door. A young page with one oddly ragged ear opened it to them and blinked at the apparition without expression. The guards left him at the door and stood there, not to attention, but simply waiting in case they were needed.
In they tramped, Carey more acutely embarrassed than he could have imagined: every minute of training during his ten years’ service at Queen Elizabeth’s court told him that it was not far off blasphemy to appear in front of royalty in such a bedraggled state. Without the assured armour of well-cut clothes and a good turn-out he felt as tongue-tied and confused as any country lummox. Her Majesty would have been throwing slippers and vases at the smell of him by now.
Something deeper inside him suddenly rebelled at his own ridiculous shyness, anger rising at his craven fear of disapproval by someone who was, whatever God had made him, still only a man.
The man in question, who could sentence him to a number of different unpleasant deaths, was standing by a table, stripping off his gloves, with wine stains down one side of his padded black and gold brocade doublet. He was watching Carey gravely, consideringly.
Realising he was standing there like a post, Carey made to genuflect, remembered in the nick of time that he had chains on his ankles and went down clumsily on both knees in the rushes, jarring his hands.
‘Sir Robert, I’m sorry to see ye like this.’
He was expected to respond. How? What would work with Queen Elizabeth might annoy King James and vice versa. On the other hand he would never ever have been brought so easily into the Queen’s presence after a charge of treason had been made. Even in a letter, abject contrition would have been the only course. But this was not a brilliant, nervy, vain and elderly woman, this was a King three years younger than himself, who would almost certainly be King of England one day. King James might be unaccountable, with odd tastes, but he was at least a man.
‘Your Majesty, I’m sorry to be like this,’ Carey said, trying for a glint of wry humour.
‘Ay,’ said King James. ‘No doubt ye are. What the Devil’s happened to your hands?’
Carey looked down at them. The Earl of Mar’s handkerchief splint hid his broken fingers which had settled down to a steady drumbeat throbbing, but the others were swollen and the ones that had felt the thumbscrews were going purple. His last remaining gold ring on his little finger was almost hidden by puffed flesh.
‘My Lord Spynie was impatient to hear his tale,’ explained the Earl of Mar.
King James’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s nae right to torture one of the Queen’s appointed officials, let alone my ain cousin, does he no’ ken that? Why did ye let them take ye, Sir Robert, I had ye down for a man of parts?’
‘My Lord Spynie and Sir Henry Widdrington said they had a Royal Warrant. It had your signature on it. Naturally, in Your Majesty’s own realm I had no choice but to surrender.’ He omitted the detail of being outnumbered and outgunned.
King James made an odd sniff and snort through his nostrils. ‘A Warrant?’ he said. ‘With the Privy Seal?’
Carey nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. And your signature.’
The King turned to the Earl of Mar.
‘He’s no’ to have access to the Seal nor the signing stamp any more,’ he said, ‘if this is how he uses it.’
The Earl of Mar’s face took on a patient expression.
‘Ay, Your Highness.’
‘And take the gyves off the man’s legs. He’s never going to attack me with his hands in that condition.’
Mar beckoned to one of the guards, who came over and took the chains off Carey’s ankles. He was not invited to stand, and so he didn’t. No matter, he had knelt for hours at a time while attending on the Queen in one of her moods.
King James went to the carved chair placed under the embroidered cloth of estate and sat down, ignoring the large goblet of wine standing on a table by his hand. His face had somehow become sharper, more canny.
‘Now then, Sir Robert. What was it ye were so determined to keep fra my lord Spynie?’
‘Your Majesty, may I begin the tale at its right beginning?’
The King nodded. ‘Take your time.’
Where the hell to start? Carey took a deep breath, and began with the German in the forest and Long George’s pistol exploding.
An hour later he had finished, his throat beginning to get infernally dry and croaky. King James had interrupted only to ask an occasional sharp question. Running out of voice, his knees beginning to ache and his left hand turned into a pulsing mass of misery, Carey finally brought himself into Lord Spynie’s clutches and left the tale there.
‘Ye say the German’s down in the wine cellar now?’
‘His corpse is, Your Majesty.’
‘Hmm. And ye say the false guns ye sold to Signor Bonnetti explode at the second firing?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
King James started to laugh. He laughed immoderately, leaning back in his chair, hanging one leg over the arm and hooting.
‘Och,’ he said, coming to an end at last. ‘Och, that’s beautiful, Sir Robert, it’s a work of artistry, it surely is. Ay. Well, my lord Earl, what d’ye think?’
The Earl of Mar was stroking his beard. ‘I think we can believe him, Your Highness.’
King James leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘What did ye get for them and where did ye put it?’
Carey’s gut congealed again. ‘That was what my Lord Spynie was so anxious to know.’
‘Ay. So am I.’
