‘It means he was shot from very close behind him, which argues that he knew his murderer and didn’t mind him being there. And then whoever did it wasn’t interested in theft, which cuts out practically anyone on the borders.’
‘That or he was afraid the jewels would be recognised,’ added Elizabeth Widdrington.
‘Killed Sweetmilk?’ asked Henry Widdrington, picking up one of the sheets and squinting at it.
‘Not Swanders. He doesn’t own a dag. A knife in the ribs would be more his mark. Can you take the bass part?’
Henry Widdrington whistled at the music. ‘I can try.’
Elizabeth had already taken the alto sheet. At least Robert had had the sense not to buy the four-way sheets which had the different parts printed as if on a four-sided box, thought Philly—they were almost impossible to make out.
Robert carried the complete song to Scrope, who was still fiddling with the fah string and humming to himself.
‘Ah, mm, yes. Yes I see, dear me, they get more intricate every year, look at this bit... Philly, you mustn’t let your throat tighten on the higher notes, you know, or it will come out like cats.’
Robert laughed. ‘It usually comes out like cats anyway,’ he said, ‘but it’s all the rage at Court at the moment, God help... I’m sorry, Philly.’
Robert had a good tenor voice which went well with Philadelphia’s high true but weak soprano. Elizabeth Widdrington had a powerful alto, but was out of practice at sight-reading and Henry Widdrington, with his still unformed bass, had a tendency to lose his place and blush furiously under his spots. Scrope, who had an extraordinary reach on any keyboard and could sight-read anything first time, though his voice was appalling, took each of them through twice separately, rapping with his toe to give the time. At last they all took deep breaths, waited on Lord Scrope’s signal and launched into ‘When Philomela Lost Her Love’. After three collapses and Philadelphia’s helpless attack of giggles when she got lost amongst the fa-la-las they managed to work through to the end and stood looking at each other with satisfaction. Then they sang it again with gusto and the beautiful intertwining medley of voices briefly turned the grim old Carlisle keep into an antechamber of Westminster.
THURSDAY, 22ND JUNE, BEFORE DAWN
Sitting on the bench, rubbing his sandy eyes, and trying to convince himself that the walls were not really coming towards him, Bangtail ventured to call out to his half-brother Ekie, in whom the Graham blood had run true and who was certain sure to hang, if only for the various bills against him that had been fouled in his absence.
‘Ekie?’ he asked, ‘Ekie, are ye there?’
‘God Almighty,’ growled Ekie, ‘the bastard Courtier’s shut his goddamned screeching at last and now you wake me up. What is it, Bangtail?’
‘What should I say, Ekie?’
‘Eh?’
‘Shut up,’ yelled somebody else, ‘some of us want to sleep.’
‘I mean when the Deputy comes to question me, should I tell him about Netherby and the Earl?’
‘Jesus Christ, I don’t care. Tell the git what you want, it willna make no odds.’
‘I think he thinks the horses are for a foray into England.’
There was a moment’s silence and then somebody snorted with laughter, Young Jock’s voice by the depth of it.
‘Does he now? Well, let the man think what he likes.’
The others laughed.
‘He’ll want to know,’ persisted Bangtail.
Ekie sighed. ‘Bangtail,’ he said, ‘a’ your brains are in yer balls. D’ye think we know where the Earl of Bothwell’s planning to raid? D’ye think he’d tell us when he knows fine half of the men he’s got would sell him out sooner than fart? All anybody kens is it’s a long way to ride and there’s fighting and treasure at the end.’
‘Oh,’ said Bangtail sadly.
‘Tell him ye don’t know where we’re going and leave it at that and let him plump up the watches and guard all the fords and passes and tire himself out while we do the Earl of Bothwell’s business, whatever it is.’
Young Jock Graham didn’t know Carey very well, of that Bangtail was sure, but he didn’t dare ask any more and lay down on the pallet again. After a lot of scratching he slept.
He woke blearily when the door clattered and crashed open and Carey came in, followed by Dodd with a lantern. Jesus, wasn’t sunrise early enough for them, it was still black as pitch outside. Bangtail was too tired and miserable to protest when Dodd picked him up by the scruff of his jerkin’s neck and propelled him through the door so hard he banged his head painfully on the opposite door. He kept his feet and heard the protests from the other prisoners.
‘Go back to sleep,’ said Carey, ‘I only want to talk to my friend Bangtail here.’
There was a great deal of unsympathetic laughter.
‘Tell him nothing, Bangtail,’ said Ekie.
‘You got your pinniwinks on you, Courtier, you’ll need them for Bangtail,’ said Young Jock.
‘Ay,’ said Ekie, ‘but I know where I’d put them, I’d crack his nuts for him, that’s what I’d do...’
‘Shut up,’ yelled Bangtail, beginning to shake as Dodd clapped his wrists in manacles and Carey motioned him out the thrice-barred door behind the Sergeant.
They wound up in Carey’s own office chamber where his servant, looking as heavy-eyed as Bangtail felt, was just on his way to fetch some morning bread and ale from the buttery. Carey sat at his desk and looked sadly at Bangtail.
‘What the devil are pinniwinks?’ he asked.
Bangtail’s mouth was too dry to answer so Dodd said grimly, ‘Thumbscrews.’
It was impossible to say what Carey thought of thumbscrews by looking at his face. Bangtail supposed it was too much to hope that the Courtier was one of those eccentric folk who disapproved of torture.
‘Are there any in the castle?’ asked Carey casually.
