Carey coughed, smiled apologetically, spread his throbbing hands. ‘I gave it to a friend of mine, but I don’t know where he’s gone.’
The atmosphere had cooled considerably. ‘When did ye give it?’
‘When I heard Sir Henry coming and realised he had a warrant.’
‘Mf. This friend o’ yourn, did he ken it was gold he was carrying?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
King James looked regretful. ‘Ay well, nae doubt of it, he’s ower the Border by now.’
‘He might be.’
‘And ye say ye’re still in search of the right guns for Carlisle, the ones that came fra the Tower o’ London?’
‘If I can find where Spynie’s got them hidden, Your Majesty.’
The King was still half-astraddle the chair, gazing out of the portable glazed window, occasionally sipping from his wine goblet. Carey stayed where he was, his face itchily stiff with dried blood, weariness weighting every limb, and his throat cracked down to a whisper. God, for some beer and a bowl of water to wash in.
After what seemed a very long time, King James seemed to come to a decision. He swung his short bandy legs to the floor and stood up.
‘My lord Earl,’ he said, ‘have Sir Robert taken to the tapestried chamber upstairs, give him the means to clean himself and a surgeon brought to him, and find him some clothes. When he’s eaten and drunk his fill, bring him back to us.’
‘Your Majesty is most merciful,’ said Carey humbly, wondering if this would give the King’s men time to comb the streets for Young Hutchin. King James’s eyes narrowed.
‘Ay,’ he snapped. ‘Merciful maybe, but I’m no’ daft and if I find out any of this is a lie, ye’ll be begging me to gie ye back to Lord Spynie before the day is out.’
Carey bowed his head. None of it was a lie, he had told strictly the truth, but he had certainly not included any of the things he had learned or guessed from what the German told him. He wasn’t daft either.
He got himself to his feet after the King had rolled from the room, looked at the Earl of Mar and waited. The procession re-formed itself. He needed all his concentration to stay on his feet since his brain was spinning with weariness and tension, and he had to keep his head high in case anyone he knew should recognise him.
***
Elizabeth Widdrington was waiting with Young Hutchin Graham and her stepson Henry in an anteroom when they saw the Earl of Mar and the guards go by. She recognised Robin only by his height and the way he moved: his face was a mask of blood with an unhealthy grey tinge underneath. Her first emotion was sheer breathtaking joy that he was alive and could still walk. She stood and followed quietly behind, no longer caring what happened to her afterwards. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Sir Henry would kill her if he got out of this. The King had told her he would be arrested along with Lord Spynie. It was more than likely that he would try to take her down to destruction with him, if he could.
They took Carey to one of the upper rooms, and the key turned in the lock, she could hear it clearly. She waited on one of the narrow landings until the Earl of Mar came by and then she stepped in front of him and curtseyed. He blinked down at her.
‘Ay,’ he said. ‘Lady Widdrington.’
‘My lord,’ she said. Her voice stopped in her throat. What was she going to ask him? To see Carey? For what reason that wasn’t concerned with her unruly heart? And if he let her? What price her honour then? Would she make all Sir Henry’s accusations and suspicions true?
‘Hrmhrm,’ said the Earl of Mar, old enough to read her sudden dumbness. ‘If it’s Carey ye’re after, he’s still under arrest, but the King’s more pleased wi’ him than angry, and I’m to call the surgeon.’
Her heart thundered stupidly; she had seen him walking, why panic? But still her voice shook.
‘Is... he... is he badly hurt?’
‘Nay,’ said the Earl kindly enough. ‘He’ll need splints on a couple of his fingers for a few weeks and his thumbs will be sore enough for a while, but he’s no’ half so bad as he looks.’
She nodded silently, enraged with her husband for hurting Robin, perversely also furious with Robin for making it so easy for him. She wanted even more to see him, was hoping the Earl of Mar would ask a question that made it possible for her to ask, and also hoping that he would not.
Her second prayer was answered, he did not. He made a courteous bow to her, which she returned, and when she had stood aside he carried on down the stairs, leaving two of his men on guard by the door.
She went back to where Henry was waiting at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Did you see him?’
If she spoke she would certainly weep. What was wrong with her? His hands would get better, given the chance. She shook her head, tilting her face so that the unshed tears would stay in her eyes, led the way brusquely back to the anteroom, where she waited to find out what would become of her husband and if she would have another audience with the King.
‘Was he...’ Henry began, stopped himself and began again as he hulked along beside her. ‘Did they... er...’
‘Torture him?’ Her voice came out metallic in her determination not to break down. ‘I think they had started but the Earl of Mar reached them in time.’
Henry clearly had many more questions to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to ask any of them. Instead he nodded, dropped his hand from her arm.
‘Lady Widdrington.’ It was the Earl of Mar’s voice again, austere and somehow colder than it had been.
She turned and curtseyed.
‘His Highness the King asks if you will consent to tend to Sir Robert Carey,’ said the Earl, ‘since it appears the surgeon is drunk.’
For a moment she stood there stupidly. Should she risk it? But what the King asked, even in Scotland, was a command. She could hardly say no.
‘Of course, my lord,’ she said gravely.
‘Your stepson and page must stay here.’
Henry stepped back beside Young Hutchin, looking nervous. He was still too gawky to be entirely happy at being on his own, surrounded by the nobility of Scotland. She must send him to London soon, so he could get some polish. The roguish Young Hutchin Graham looked far more poised and at home than he did.
