Once more she followed the Earl of Mar, through the over-crowded rooms of the best house in Dumfries, full of nobles dressed in French fashions or sober dark suits, and their multiple armed hangers-on, up the stairs, between the guards in the narrow second-storey passage lined with rooms, and the Earl unlocked the door again.
‘My lord,’ she said. ‘I may need bandages and salves and the like.’
‘Knock on the door and call through what you need,’ said the Earl stiffly. ‘It will be brought.’
The door opened: it was an irregularly shaped room, very small, with a bed in it and a table, and unexpectedly bright tapestries on all the walls, full of complex erotic doings of the Olympian gods, swans and bulls and cupbearers and the like. The light streamed in through a small window. Carey was standing by the table, trying ineffectually to wash his face in a bowl of water. He straightened up at the first sound of their coming in, and he stood there now, a comical expression of horror and dismay under the water and blood on his face. Lord Above, he was embarrassed, his face was flushed. Elizabeth swallowed the tender smile that would have offended him mortally. Why were men so vain?
She stood and looked at him for a moment until she could speak without a tremor and then turned sharply to the Earl.
‘My lord, I want two bowls of water, one hot, one cold with comfrey or lovage in it, and at least four clean white linen cloths. I want any comfrey ointment you might have in the place, I want a good store of clean bandages and a clean shirt and hose for him and...’
‘I’ll see it done, my lady,’ said the Earl of Mar, his face masklike.
‘I may also need splints: send in at least four withies, about this thick and so long and a knife to cut them with.’
‘No knife.’
‘My lord, please don’t be ridiculous. I will be responsible for the knife.’
‘Hrmhrm.’
‘Do you have laudanum in the house?’
‘I dinna ken.’
‘If you have, I would like some. You say the bonesetter’s drunk?’
‘The surgeon. Ay.’
‘Well, I shall do my best, my lord.’
She marched into the room, heard the door shut and lock behind her and could have kicked herself for forgetting to ask for an older lady to act as chaperone. Well, no matter, she had done enough already to enrage her husband: merely confirming all his suspicions might even cheer him up.
The silly goose had tucked his hands behind his back. His shirt, which was one of Philadelphia’s making, she saw, was in a revolting mess, stained to ruination with mud, blood, sweat, and something pink, and torn in several places. His hose were black and so less obviously disgraceful, but still disgusting. He smiled crookedly at her because his mouth had swollen, though much of the blood had come from his nose and some cuts on his forehead and cheeks.
‘Have mercy, my lady,’ he said trying for rueful charm. ‘Don’t be angry with me.’
She simply could not think what to say to him, since what she wanted to do was run to him and hold him tight and kiss him and then slap him as hard as she could. Instead she walked to the bowl of water, looked at it for a moment, carried it to the tiny window and carefully tipped it out. Dirty water splattered its way down the roofs below. The silence between them was very awkward.
Somebody knocked on the door: one of the guards opened it, and two boys came in, each carrying a bowl of water and a man followed them with his arms piled high.
‘The hot water on the table,’ she snapped. ‘Cold water on the floor. Where is the comfrey that should be in the water?’
‘The Earl says we havenae got none.’
‘Very sloppy. Do you have splints?’
The man produced several withies, some too wide, and a very small but sharp knife and put it on the table. Elizabeth took the clothes, cloths and bandages from him and laid them out on the bed.
‘Out,’ she snapped. ‘And tell the Earl I want a woman to come in here with me, to protect my reputation.’
‘Ay, my lady,’ said the man, hiding a grin. If she had been at home, Elizabeth would have cuffed his ears for the knowingness of it.
‘You, wait,’ she said imperiously as the boys trotted out again. ‘So I do not get my hands dirty, would you please take Sir Robert’s boots off him? Take them away and get them cleaned.’
For a moment the man looked mutinous, then as Carey sat still smiling on the bed and stuck out a foot, he did as he was told, walking out with them held well away from his smart cramoisy suit. The door locked behind him.
‘Stay there,’ Elizabeth ordered Carey, who made a wry face and also did as he was told, sitting meekly on the edge of the bed with its half-tester above him.
She took one of the white cloths and wrapped it round her waist for an apron so as not to spoil the expensive grey wool of her kirtle, took another cloth, dipped it in the hot water and began dabbing carefully at his face in silence. When that was clean at last, she came close and examined the cuts on his head.
‘Where’s Hutchin?’ he whispered at once.
‘Downstairs with Young Henry. I thought it better to keep an eye on him.’
Carey smiled in obvious relief, making her wonder what was so important about the boy.
‘That’s good. Where’s Dodd?’
‘I believe he’s gone to the Johnstones.’
‘Hm.’
‘And what made these cuts?’ she demanded.
‘A dagger’s jewelled pommel, wielded by an enraged minion.’
She sniffed. ‘None of them are bad, I’ll leave them as they are. There’s blood on the side of your shirt,’ she added. ‘What happened there?’
