‘Quiet. Off you go.’
Thomas the Merchant went, but Elizabeth Widdrington stayed for a moment.
‘Will you try and arrest Jock Hepburn?’
‘Yes,’ said Carey. ‘It might have to wait until after Bothwell’s raid and we can lift him quietly without too much trouble, but yes.’
‘Why? He only killed a Graham, an outlaw.’
‘Sweetmilk wasn’t an outlaw, yet. He wasn’t killed in a fair fight, he was murdered so Jock Hepburn could avoid a fight.’
‘Why...’ Elizabeth paused, ‘why did you take so much trouble over it?’
Carey looked down at his hands. ‘Do you know what justice is?’ he asked at last, in an oddly remote voice. ‘Justice is an accident, really. It’s law that’s important. Do you know what the rule of law is?’
‘I think so. When people obey the laws so there’s peace...’
Carey was shaking his head. ‘No. It’s the transfer of the duty of revenge to the Queen. It’s the officers of the Crown avenging a man’s murder, not the man’s father or the family. Without law what you have is feud, tangling between themselves, and murder repaying murder down the generations. As we have here. But if the Queen’s Officers can be relied on to take revenge for a killing, then the feuding must stop because if you feud against the Queen, it’s high treason. That’s all. That’s all that happens in a law-abiding country: the dead man’s family know that the Crown will carry their feud for them. Without it you have bloody chaos.’
It was strange to hear anyone talk so intensely of such a dusty subject as law; and yet there was a fire and passion in Carey’s words as if the rule of law was infinitely precious to him.
‘All we can do to stop the borderers killing each other is give them the promise of justice—which is the accidental result when the Crown hangs the man who did the killing,’ he said, watching his linked fingers. They were still empty of rings and looked oddly bare. ‘You see, if it was only a bloodfeud, anyone of the right surname would do. But with the law, it should be the man that did the killing, and that’s justice. Not just to take vengeance but to take vengeance on the right man.’
‘So you’ll make out a bill for Sweetmilk Graham and go through all the trouble of trying Hepburn and producing witnesses and finding him guilty...
‘And then hanging him, when a word to Jock of the Peartree would produce the same result a lot more easily. But that wouldn’t be justice, you see, that would only be more feuding, more private revenge which has nothing to do with justice or law or anything else. Justice requires that the man have a trial and face his accusers.’
‘But you think Jock Hepburn did it.’
‘Who else was there?’ said Carey. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, took a breath, and then paused. ‘But at least at a trial he could argue against my suspicions.’
‘It’s a complicated thing, this law,’ Elizabeth said, trying to speak lightly. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to explain it to Jock of the Peartree?’
Carey smiled lopsidedly. ‘No, never in a thousand years.’
It was so hard to sit there and not move nearer, not hold her hands out to him. Why was it so hard, even after all this time? After all they had first met in ’87 when he was on that difficult and dangerous embassy to King James, and again in the Armada year when she had been at Court with Philadelphia. They had played at all the light, silly, sweet confections of loverlike convention, half joking, half deadly serious.
He looked awful, but despite the brown walnut stain and clownish bruising, there was something in his blue eyes and the way he smiled that had the power to hypnotise her, make her forget all her faith in God and hard-held virtue, everything. When she had read sceptically the verses about the romantic disease of love poured out by the sonneteers, she had never believed it was such a dangerous uncomfortable beast. But she had been wrong. She looked at the floor so as not to be caught, flushed and struggled. No, she thought harshly, I’m a married woman and unfaithfulness is breaking a vow I made in God’s presence. That’s all. And now I have to go, so I can think straight.
She stood up. Carey stood as well, moved towards her.
‘Thank you,’ he said gently, ‘I know what you did for me.’
No, she couldn’t stand it, in another moment she would burst into tears and tell him how she had paced the castle through the day in terror of his death and let him kiss her and then it would be too late to stop. He wanted to kiss her, any fool could see he needed less than half an excuse to reach out and catch her to him... her face as flushed as a girl’s, she hung her head, muttered something half-gracious, and fled through the door.
Behind her Carey stared after her, reddening with frustration. Then he yelled, ‘GOD DAMN IT!’ and threw his stool at the wall.
SATURDAY, 24TH JUNE, LATE AFTERNOON
Lemons, Barnabus thought, lemons, the walnut juice stain comes off with lemons, no problem there, Barnabus, all you need to do is find some lemons. It appeared, however, that there were none in Carlisle. The few lemons that had made the long journey from Spain and the south of France, to wind up in the market as slightly wizened specimens, had been snapped up by Lady Scrope the previous week to make syllabubs. Food prices had gone sky high all over Carlisle, what with the unreliable harvest weather, and the arrival of dozens of gentlemen and attendants from all over the March. Thomas the Merchant had bought up most of the spices in Carlisle the night Henry Lord Scrope died and had made a very hard bargain with Lady Scrope.
The boys scattered, talking intently. Barnabus went to Carey’s chamber where he finished polishing Carey’s best boots and checked the starching and sewing of the new ruff his master was to wear at the funeral. The new black velvet suit was hanging up ready for wear and very fine Carey would look in it too, even if he wasn’t ever likely to pay for it. It was quite plain with only a little black braid over the seams and the panes of the hose decorated with brocade. Barnabus would have liked there to be a bit of slashing and a lining of tawny taffeta, but Carey had forbidden it and insisted on cramoisie red silk lining as being more suitable. Eight months in Paris as a youth of nineteen had given Carey very decided ideas about clothes, which ten years of service at Court had confirmed.
Barnabus was just about to make sure that his own best suit of fine dark blue wool was in a reasonable state, when there was a hammering on the door. He opened it to find Goodwife Biltock, bright red with heat and rage, standing there holding Young Hutchin Graham by his right arm twisted up behind his back and his left ear.
‘What is the meaning of this, Mr Cooke?’ she demanded, sweeping into the room past him.
‘Er...’
‘Why would this young scoundrel want to steal lemons from the kitchen, eh?’
Barnabus knew his mouth was opening and shutting. Goodwife Biltock shoved Young Hutchin into the corner, where he sat rubbing his ear and looking embarrassed. The Goodwife squared up to Barnabus, her broad face on a level with his chest, and shook her finger under his nose.
‘Sixpence a lemon,’ she snapped, ‘I’ll sixpence a lemon you, you thieving clapperdudgeon...’
Barnabus backed away. ‘Goodwife, Goodwife...’
‘Send boys out to steal from the kitchens would you...’
‘Goodwife, I only said if they could find lemons, I would pay sixpence for them. It’s to take the walnut stain off Sir Robert’s face and hands, that’s all.’
As he’d hoped it would, that slowed her down.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Well, fair enough. I can’t spare you any lemons, but I can give you verjuice which has the same quality of sourness.’ She turned to Hutchin Graham. ‘You, boy!’ she barked, ‘I’ve got an errand for you, come with me.’
As she herded Hutchin out of the door ahead of her she glowered at Barnabus.
‘Mind your manners, Mr Cooke,’ she said, ‘I know you and where you’re from.’ Barnabus could think of nothing to do except bow. If anything her frown became fiercer. ‘I’ll send this thief back to you with the verjuice. My advice is to beat him well.’
