‘Barnabus, the man’s mad. He’d probably think he could charm her round.’
‘And could he, sir?’
‘Who knows? If I understood that well how Her Majesty’s mind works, I’d be rich. He’s got good legs, he might. He surely thinks so, anyway.’
Barnabus nodded. ‘And the other things, sir?’
‘The other problem is Dodd’s horses. I gave my word on it that he’d get them back, and I’ll lay all Westminster to a Scotsman’s purse the nags are eating their heads off at Netherby right now. And I don’t like the sound of Jock of the Peartree believing Dodd was the man that killed Sweetmilk, so I want to find out who really did it.’
‘What are you planning, sir?’ asked Barnabus warily, knowing the symptoms of old.
Carey grinned at him, confirming all his fears. ‘It seems the answers to all of my riddles lie at Netherby and so...’
‘Oh no sir, we’re not going to Netherby tower?’
‘You’re not, I am.’
‘Sir...’
‘Shh. Listen. I’ll borrow Daniel’s clothes and his pack and you can shave off my beard and brown my face and hands and then...’
‘Sir, sir, ’ow do you know you can trust ’im, ’e’s a thief and he’s a northerner and...’
‘He’s a relative of mine. Also, we’ll have his clothes and we’ll give him to Madam Hetherington to keep safe for us.’
‘What do you mean, sir, relative? What sort?’
‘Ask my father.’
‘Oho, it’s like that is it?’
‘It’s like that, and if you gossip about it, I’ll skin you.’
‘But look sir,’ he said conscientiously trying again, ‘why couldn’t you send Swanders in there instead of you, if you need a spy so bad, I mean, if they topple to you, you’re done for, ain’t you? Daniel...’
‘It’d be worse for him. They’d likely hang him if they thought he was a spy, but they might not kill me. Anyway, I want to know who killed Sweetmilk Graham so I can bring him to justice and get Jock of the Peartree off Dodd’s back. There’s the makings of a very nasty feud there, when they’ve finished with their raid.’
‘What about the Earl of Bothwell, you said yourself ’e’s mad and I’ve heard tell ’e’s a witch besides, won’t ’e know who you are?’
Carey shook his head. ‘I doubt it. It’s four years since I was at King James’s Court and he met me with a number of other gentlemen. There was the football match, but I don’t see why he’d remember that either. I’ve got unfinished business with him anyway.’
‘What sort of unfinished business?’
‘He practically broke my shin bone taking the ball off me.’
‘Sir, you can’t...’
‘Oh shut up, Barnabus, I know you mean well, but my mind’s made up.’
‘Well can I come with you...’
‘Absolutely not. What would Daniel Swanders the pedlar be doing with a servant from London—you’d stick out like a sore thumb.’
‘So would you, sir, you don’t sound like...’
‘Ah was brought up in Berwick, Barnabus,’ said Carey, switching to a nearly incomprehensible Northumberland accent, ‘an’ I rode a couple of raids meself when I were a lad.’
‘Oh bloody hell, sir.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said Carey primly, ‘Lady Scrope doesn’t like it. Now you run out and find an apothecary; buy some walnut juice and borrow shaving tackle from Madam Hetherington on your way back. I’ll talk to Daniel.’
Barnabus left the bawdy house at a dead run and sprinted through an alleyway into English Street, heading for the castle. Once there he quartered the place looking for Lady Widdrington and found her at last in the kitchen supervising the making of sweetmeats for the funeral feast. He panted out his tale to her, she took it all in and frowned.
‘He’s mad,’ she said.
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Barnabus disloyally. ‘Ma’am, will you come and talk him out of it...’
Barnabus sprinted back down Castle Street and English Street, bought the walnut juice at one of the apothecaries, made a quick detour to an armourers in Scotch Street and came panting and blowing into Madam Hetherington’s an hour after he left.
When he’d recovered a little, he found Carey and Daniel Swanders drinking and eating an excellent dinner of baked chicken and a bag pudding, reminiscing in harsh Northumbrian voices about some escapade they had both been involved in as boys.
‘What kept you, Barnabus?’ asked Carey, switching back to his normal way of speaking, ‘I was starting to get worried.’
It was so odd to hear him: one minute he was a northerner to the life and the next minute he was as understandable as any of the Queen’s courtiers. Barnabus sat down to what was left of the meal and got his composure back.
‘I couldn’t tell you weren’t a Northumbrian myself, sir,’ he said, ‘but what about a native, couldn’t he tell?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, it’s wonderful how he can do it, I wouldna ken if I didna ken, you follow.’
