FRIDAY, 23RD JUNE, NOON

Netherby tower was roofed with stone against fire and had a narrow fighting parapet running round it behind the battlements. In the south-east corner was the beacon, a large blackened metal basket raised up on a ten-foot pole with a pile of firewood faggots under tarpaulin at the base. Carey cleared the wood away and tied Jock of the Peartree to the pole in a sitting position, using the rope binding the faggots. The firewood he piled as makeshift barricades across the parapet by the trapdoor.

Every so often he would poke his head over the wall and shoot an arrow at the men with the battering ram, so they’d run for cover. Way down below him, he could see Bothwell, his brocade doublet shining in the sun, foreshortened like a chessman, waving his arms and shouting more orders. He popped his head over and dropped one of the stones kept ready for sieges, close enough to the Earl to make him dive for cover.

Arrows came sailing over and clattered harmlessly onto the roof. That roof could have done with some attention, Carey thought, much of the mortar around the stones was cracked and rotten. On a sudden inspiration, he heaved up a couple of the loosest stones and dragged them over to the trapdoor, piled them on top.

‘Who the hell are ye?’ demanded Jock.

Carey told him.

Jock mulled it over for a bit, then growled: ‘Ye’ll never get out of this.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve got you as a hostage. You’re an important man,’ said Carey, sitting down again and taking a sip of beer from the leather bottle. He wasn’t too worried about thirst since there was a full rainwater butt at the north-western corner, set there to put out besiegers’ fires. On the other hand, his belly was cramping him.

Jock spat. ‘D’ye think the Earl willna shoot to save my skin?’

‘No,’ said Carey agreeably, ‘I think with the mood he’s in, he’d perfectly happily shoot through you to get me, but Wattie’s your brother...’

‘They must be aye sentimental in the south,’ sniffed Jock, ‘Wattie’d shoot as well.’

‘Well, I suppose, so would John,’ admitted Carey, thinking of his pompous whingeing elder brother in a similar situation. ‘Still, he might hesitate. His aim might be off. He might even talk to me, negotiate some arrangement.’

‘Are ye hoping for ransom?’ demanded Jock of the Peartree.

‘No. I hadn’t thought about it.’

Jock laughed shortly.

‘There’s no other way ye’ll get off this tower still breathing, lad, so ye’d best think about it now and right hard.’

It was in fact perfectly true that Carey had no idea how he was going to get off the top of Netherby tower in one piece. When he came to Netherby he had had a vague plan that involved stealing the Dodd and Widdrington horses quietly early in the morning as soon as he knew where Bothwell was planning to raid and making off back to Carlisle as fast as one of them could carry him. Once that was no longer possible, thanks to Lowther’s machinations, he had simply reacted according to instinct.

‘What do you think I’m worth on the hoof?’ Carey asked after a pause.

‘Everyone knows Scrope’s a rich man. A thousand pounds, perhaps,’ said Jock consideringly. Carey whistled.

‘He might not pay that much.’

Jock clearly regarded this as a feeble attempt at bargaining.

‘Well, if ye’re Lord Hunsdon’s son, he’ll stump up for you. Of course, first ye’ve got to get yon Earl to talk civilly to ye, and that might take a while.’

‘He is very upset. What are my chances?’

‘It’s always possible,’ Jock allowed, ‘a one-legged donkey with spavins could win the Carlisle horserace, but I wouldnae put my shirt on it.’

‘I think you’re a bit of an optimist, Jock,’ said Carey drily.

Jock laughed again, then winced. ‘Ye could loosen my arms a bit,’ he suggested, ‘I canna feel my hands.’

Carey leaned over cautiously and felt one of the hands. It was a little swollen, but not too bad.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve got too much respect for you, Jock. I don’t want to waste all the care I had of you if you take it in your head to jump off the top of the tower.’

‘I think it’s you’ll be making the jump from a high place in the end.’

‘No,’ said Carey, leaning his head back and feeling very tired, ‘he won’t hang me.’ Jock looked dubious. ‘That’d be too quick for Bothwell.’

Jock grunted. ‘I never said he’d hang you first. That’d be after he’d skelped and roasted you. And I’ll be first in with the whip, believe me.’

Carey had his eyes half-shut. ‘Oh, I believe you, Jock. And yet, you know, one reason I came here was so I could find out who killed Sweetmilk.’

Jock’s face changed. The long craggy canyons in it deepened, the mouth lengthened, and his chin fell on his chest.

‘Poor Sweetmilk,’ he said, ‘he was such a bonny wee bairn, running after me and laughing.’ Jock’s chin quivered, then hardened again. ‘Anyway, what do ye care, Deputy, he’s one less Graham you’ve got to chase over the Bewcastle waste.’

Carey thought of trying to explain the idea of an impartial law enforcement officer, as interested in the wanton killing of Grahams as in cattle raids and suchlike, but decided it would take too long.

‘I don’t want you blaming Dodd,’ he said at last, ‘and I’m puzzled about it.’

‘What’s to puzzle about, the lad was shot in the back.’

Carey shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t be interested, it was only a theory of mine.’

FRIDAY, 23RD JUNE, EARLY AFTERNOON

Jock was watching the bottle as Carey drank from it, too stiff-necked to admit he needed a drink. Carey found one of the rags for lighting the beacon, went to the rainbutt to wet it and came back to Jock. He held the bottle for Jock to drink, then mopped the dried blood off Jock’s face with the rag. Jock tolerated this in grim silence. On a thought Carey went back to the rainbutt, found two buckets there, filled both of them and brought them to where he was sitting with Jock.

‘Does Netherby have any long ladders about?’ he asked.

‘I hope so.’

Carey peered over the parapet again, saw somebody with an arquebus taking aim and ducked down just in time. The crack sounded in the distance, but the bullet didn’t even splinter the wall. He picked up one of the buckets and poured it over the side, producing a yell of anger from below, then went and refilled it.

The next time the men with the battering ram from the log pile backed up, Carey shot at them with one of their own arrows. Three more came sailing over the wall, before Bothwell yelled for them to stop.

‘Why did you do this?’ asked Jock.

‘A number of reasons,’ Carey said. ‘Firstly, I wanted to know what Bothwell needed all the horses in the West March for.’

‘Och, that’s easy. I’ll tell you, since you’re going nae further with it. We’re running a big raid deep into Scotland, to Falkland Palace, to lift the King and hold him to ransom for a big pot of gold. It’s about two hundred miles, so we’ve all needed remounts.’

Carey breathed cautiously. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you’re kidnapping King James.’

‘Ay,’ said Jock. ‘Bothwell says he’s worth the Kingdom if we can get him.’

‘Right,’ said Carey again. ‘Of course, Bothwell tried before at Holyrood and he didn’t manage it. That’s why he’s an outlaw.’