‘Was that tale about your husband what you told the King, to get me out? About the swapping of the firearms?’
‘I told him more than that,’ she snapped, still unwilling to be mollified. ‘I told him what you did last month to stop Bothwell’s attempt at kidnapping him. Anyway, all I needed to do was tell him what Spynie was up to. You know the King likes you.’
Carey shrugged, then grinned, tightened his arms around her bearlike. She could feel his heart beating against hers.
‘Magnificent, beautiful, capable woman,’ he whispered. ‘Come back to Carlisle with me. Leave your old pig of a husband, come live with me and be my love.’
For a moment she struggled with temptation, more amused than offended by his rapid recovery. He found her mouth, began kissing her intently. Why not, she thought, why not? I’ve taken my punishment for it, why shouldn’t I take the pleasure? She was letting him overwhelm her, she didn’t care that she had the taste of the blood from his lip in her mouth, that he smelled of blood and sweat and surprisingly of wine... And then one of the splints on his fingers jarred on one of the raw places on her back and they both winced away together. He was puzzled, she was suddenly enraged with herself and him.
‘No, no, no,’ she snapped, jumping up and straightening her cap with shaking fingers. ‘How can you want me to break my marriage vows that I made in the sight of God?’ The words sounded pompous and false because they were false; she knew she would have broken any vow in the world if she could have done it without destroying him.
His face was nakedly distressed. ‘Because I am so afraid,’ he said, quite softly. ‘I’m...I’m afraid that Sir Henry will kill you or break you before he dies. And I love you.’
Infuriatingly, the door unlocked, opened and two boys and a manservant processed in carrying food: a cockaleekie soup, bread, cheese and some heels of pies, plus a large flagon of mild ale. The manservant stretched his eyes a little, to see her standing beside a half-naked man, even if she was fully dressed.
‘Now,’ she said, turning to the Scot as businesslike as she could manage, considering that she was trembling and close to tears. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Archie Hamilton, ma’am.’
‘Well, Archie, do you think you could act as Sir Robert’s valet de chambre?’
A short pause and then, ‘Ay, ma’am, I could.’
‘Excellent. Clear the table, lay the food. I shall leave while you help him to dress. Be very careful of his hands.’
She walked out with the boys carrying the bowls of dirty water, waited in the little passageway and fought to get control of herself. At last Archie re-emerged and she went in again, quickly made a sling for his arm. They had laid the table for two and she sat herself down again at the other end of the bed, so the table was between them, and dipped some bread in the soup.
Carey was in a plain black wool suit of good quality though a little small for him, with a plain shirt and falling band, a short-crowned black felt hat on his head. He was still pale and moved his left arm as little as possible, but somehow, despite it all, he was in good spirits. He ate and drank as if he were not facing another dangerous interview with the King of Scotland. Elizabeth could only nibble and sip.
‘What’s wrong, my lady?’ he said. ‘This is good; it’s from the King’s table, I think. Are you very offended with me?’
She shook her head, but she could see he had thought up something amorous and courtly to say by way of apology and further invitation.
‘If I burn with love...’ he began and she interrupted him brusquely.
‘You’re still a prisoner,’ she said. ‘I can’t think how to get you out.’
He smiled, winced and touched his lip, drank his ale very carefully. Sometimes he was so easy to read: there went the courtly phrases back into the cupboard in his mind marked ‘For soothing offended females (young)’.
‘Never you worry about it,’ he said, switching to irritating cheeriness. ‘I know the King and he’s a decent man. It’s hardly treason to sell your enemy eighteen dozen booby traps.’
‘Who were they for?’
‘The Wild Irish, I expect, poor sods.’
‘Don’t you feel sorry for them?’
‘Yes. I also feel sorry for Bonnetti if he hangs around in Ireland long enough for them to find out what he’s brought. I’ll ask the King to make sure he gets away with them.’
‘And the real guns?’
Carey’s eyes were dancing, though he was careful not to smile again.
‘We’ll see what we can do.’
They finished their meal, talking amiably and distantly about young Henry and his awkwardness, and the Grahams. Robin said nothing more about Elizabeth leaving her husband and coming to live with him. It was impossible anyway, and always had been. If news of any such behaviour came to the Queen’s ears, which it would, she would strip Carey of his office and call in all the loans she had made him. He would be bankrupt, on the run from his creditors and with no prospect of ever being able to satisfy them because the Queen would never allow him back at court again. Frankly, unless he turned raider, they would starve.
When they had finished, Carey wandered to the locked door, kicked it and shouted out for the Earl of Mar. It opened and the Earl was standing there, his face as austere as before.
‘Ye’ll be wanting to see His Highness again.’
‘If he wants to see me, my lord.’
‘Ay, he’s cleared an hour for ye.’
‘Excellent. And thank him for sending Lady Widdrington to tend to me, she is unparalleled as a nurse and far better than any drunken surgeon.’
‘Hmf. Ay.’
‘My lord Earl,’ said Elizabeth. ‘May I ask what’s happening to my husband?’
The Earl sniffed. ‘That’s for the King to decide, seeing he’s under arrest.’
‘And Lord Spynie?’
Another much longer sniff. ‘Ay, well,’ said the Earl. ‘The King’s verra fond of him, ye ken.’
‘Yes,’ she said with freezing politeness. ‘So it seems. Sir Robert, what would you suggest I do now? May I serve you further or should I tend to my husband?’
