‘It’s good practice for a Captain to do so sometimes,’ said Carey blandly. ‘That way, he and his men get to know each other better, which is important in a fight.’

This was certainly true, as far as it went. However, he generally ate with them at one of the many Carlisle inns, not in the Keep hall where this rubbish was served up to those of the garrison who had spent or gambled all their pay.

Scrope was watching hypnotised as a maggot broke from the safety of the cheese and began exploring the rest of the platter. No doubt it was in search of its friends still hiding in the meat. Perhaps they could have a little party... Get a grip on yourself, man, Carey told himself, as he sat down beside Michael Kerr and drew his eating knife to cut the bread. Simon came rushing back with the goblets and plates, laid them out and Philadelphia served them all from the jug, curtseyed again and swept from the room, followed by Simon and Nelly.

Carey was enjoying the row of stunned expressions. Lord Scrope had been told often enough about the appalling quality of the garrison rations and he had in fact carried out a short inspection. But clearly it had taken the sight of the muck laid out on plates ready to eat to bring home to him just how badly he and the Queen were being cheated.

The junior clerk swallowed stickily. With a flourish straight from the Queen’s Court, Carey offered the platter to James Pennycook, who flinched back.

Scrope coughed. ‘I think we’re in agreement then, gentlemen,’ he said lamely. ‘The old contract is renewed for the following year. I’ll have Bell draw up the notice...’

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ said Carey very politely. ‘I was wondering if you’d had a chance to sort out the question of wastage?’

‘Wastage?’

‘Yes, my lord. When I was in the Netherlands...’

‘My brother-in-law has served with the Earl of Essex in the Low Countries,’ explained Scrope. ‘He’s an experienced soldier.’

‘The Earl of Essex, eh?’ said Pennycook. ‘Is he the Queen’s minion... er... favourite?’

‘Yes,’ said Carey pleasantly. ‘I received my knighthood from him. The Queen was very put out; she said she had wanted to knight me herself since I’m her cousin.’

There, you Scotch bastard, he thought. Chew on that.

‘Do have some of this meat, sir,’ he added. Pennycook smiled feebly, held up his hand and Carey, deliberately misinterpreting, gave him two generous slices. Oh dear, he’d got some severed weevils as well.

‘While I was fighting the Spaniards, I learned a great deal,’ he continued, taking some of the food onto his own plate. No help for it, he had to do it, thanks to Philadelphia. ‘Particularly from Sir Roger Williams, a most reverent and experienced soldier.’ They weren’t really listening; they were watching him cut a slice of cheese that was veined with blue mould, tap out the foreigners. ‘He always got on very well with his purveyors.’ He ate the cheese while the men who had supplied it watched in fascination, realising to their dismay that if he ate their food, common courtesy dictated that they must too. There was an acrid musty tang to the cheese, not too bad, really, he thought to himself. It was actually better than the frightful stuff they’d eaten on board ship when fighting the Armada. He swallowed and continued. ‘The contracts were generous—as yours are—but always included a clause stipulating that any food that was unfit to eat was sent back to the purveyors and its price subtracted from the next payment.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Scrope, with an air of pleased surprise. Pennycook picked up a piece of bread, nibbled on it. Carey could hear his teeth grating on the grit, sand, sawdust, ground bones and God knew what else these thieves adulterated the flour with. Pennycook put it down. Michael Kerr had eaten a piece of cheese and was blinking unhappily at the crock of butter. The junior clerk looked at the meat and wisely decided to nibble on some bread. Thank the Lord, Philadelphia hadn’t seen fit to offer them any of the salt herring as well; Carey had recognised the barrels as ones that had been condemned as unfit for the English fleet in the Armada year, four years ago.

Scrope put down his knife with a bright smile. ‘You’d have no objection to a clause like that in our agreement, would you, gentlemen?’

Carey thought about braving the meat, but decided to stick with the cheese since the bellyache you got from that rarely killed you.

‘But the food we supply is of the verra highest quality,’ protested Pennycook automatically, falling straight into the trap. Michael Kerr choked on his ale.

‘Of course it is,’ said Carey smoothly. ‘I’m sure that, as with Sir Roger, we will hardly need to use the wastage clause. The Queen will approve as well. She was very concerned at some of the troubles my brother has had with his victuallers in Berwick. Can I offer you some cheese, Mr Pennycook?’ Mr Pennycook, who was, as Carey knew, one of the victuallers to the Berwick garrison, shut his eyes, shook his head.

‘That’s settled then,’ said Scrope, who sometimes behaved as if he were not quite so foolish as he looked. ‘We’ll include the clause in the new agreement. A splendid idea, Sir Robert; thank you.’

Pennycook and his men glowered at him in unison and he favoured them with a particularly sweet smile.

‘Ehm,’ said Pennycook, his voice rather higher than normal. ‘This is all verra weel, Sir Robert, my Lord Warden, but we canna go about putting in new clauses to the victualling contracts wi’ nae mair than a wave of a hand... The advocates to draft it will cost a fair sum, d’ye not think?’

Mr Pennycook had small brown watery eyes and a pale bony face gone very waxy. There was a pause while he seemed to be struggling for words. ‘Sir Robert?’ he said, drawing his rich brocade gown tight about him. ‘Surely ye canna be threatening me wi’ legal action?’

‘Threatening you, Mr Pennycook?’ Carey laughed artificially. ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I was only agreeing that while we’re briefing lawyers to draw up the new wastage clauses in the victualling contracts, we should get our money’s worth and have them look at the contracts as a whole as well. Wasn’t that what you said?’

Mr Pennycook had in fact paid good money to the young lord Scrope’s father and Sir Richard Lowther to keep the contracts unexamined. He made a little rattle in his throat.

‘After all,’ Carey added confidingly, ‘clerical errors do creep in, don’t they, what with copying and recopying.’

For a horrible moment Mr Pennycook wondered if this strange creature had actually read the contracts, and then decided it was impossible. Nobody except a lawyer could understand a word of them. He fixed on high indignation as the only possible escape.

‘And now ye’re dooting ma word.’

‘Far from it, Mr Pennycook,’ Carey said affably. ‘Why would I do that? Have some more ale.’

‘I’ll not sit here and be insulted,’ Pennycook said, rising to his feet with dignity. ‘Good day to ye, my Lord Warden, Deputy.’ He fixed the thoughtful Michael Kerr with a glare and said, ‘Are ye with me, Michael?’

Kerr stood, made his own bows and followed Pennycook from the chamber in a rush of dark brocade and velvet. Scrope sat staring at the green meat before him and frowned worriedly.

‘Was that wise, Robin?’ he asked and began twiddling his knife in and out of his spidery fingers. ‘Our stores are nearly empty.’

‘Well, my lord,’ Carey said. ‘Sir Roger told me that until the contract’s signed, you have them at a disadvantage. They need you more than you need them. Pennycook has warehouses full of food that no one can sell anywhere else, bought dirt cheap, and harvests paid for in advance. If his contract is not renewed, then he’s a ruined man.’

‘Hm. I never thought of that. So you think he’ll come round?’

‘Definitely.’

‘There isn’t more in this, is there, Robin?’

I wish you wouldn’t call me by that name, Carey thought, but shrugged.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not after the victualling contract yourself, are you? Or for somebody you... heh... know?’

Carey made a little shake of his head. He hadn’t in fact thought of it that way, but it was an interesting idea. Everyone knew victualling contracts were pure gold...

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ he said honestly. ‘But it’s a thought, isn’t it?’

Scrope beamed at him. ‘Get Simon to clear this dreadful rubbish away,’ he said. ‘I’m not at all hungry.’

MONDAY, 3RD JULY 1592, MORNING

Pennycook walked speedily away from the Castle, trailing his factor and junior clerk, collected two further henchmen at the gate and went to his house.

‘How much d’ye think the new Deputy Warden wants?’ Pennycook asked Michael Kerr as they sat with spiced wine and wafers to settle their stomachs. Michael was his son-in-law and he valued the young man’s advice.

Kerr shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s so simple as that,’ he said. ‘I heard Thomas the Merchant offered him the usual pension and he turned it down flat.’

Pennycook half choked on his wine. ‘Eh? But he’s a courtier, is he no’?’

Michael Kerr shrugged. ‘He is, but that’s what I heard.’

‘Good... Heavens.’