‘Perhaps it’s Lord Scrope putting him up to it. Perhaps he’s turning the screw on the price.’

Pennycook sat back in the carved chair, looking relieved. ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘That must be it. He’ll get the difference between what the Queen pays and what we ask, and he’ll have put his Deputy up to the game... I dinna like this talk of lawyers, though.’

‘Well, you started it,’ Kerr pointed out. He was pacing up and down, looking very worried. ‘I wish ye hadnae. That young Deputy’s mad...’

‘Don’t trouble your head, Michael. It’s Lord Scrope.’

‘No, but...’ Michael Kerr was rethinking his own theory. ‘It must have been a surprise to him, when he saw the... the... er, vittles brought in. I saw his face. He’s not that good an actor, and he was angry wi’ his little wife as well. No. It’s the Deputy. And I know what he’s up to.’

‘What?’

‘See, if it was just a bribe he was after, he would have come to you privately and said, this is what I’ll do unless... And you would have argued a bit and then paid it. This was too public. If he suddenly changed his tune, him or Scrope, and says the vittles is fine, well, it’s an embarrassment.’

‘So?’ asked Pennycook warily.

Michael Kerr drank some wine.

‘He’s after the victualling contract himself,’ Kerr said grimly. ‘Or he’s doing it for some big London merchant.’

Pennycook screwed up his face in horror. ‘But they canna supply from London...’

‘Or in Newcastle or where he grew up in Berwick. Anyway, they only back him. He insists on the wastage clauses and that gives him the way out of renewing. Then Scrope will give him the contract and then...’

He didn’t have to explain it. The two of them were as deep in the business as they could be. There were ships already on their way from further down the coast and packtrains from Scotland, all of which would need paying soon—and with what, if not the Queen’s money?

Pennycook’s face was a bony mask and Kerr felt sick.

A servingman knocked at the door and then slid round it.

‘Mr Pennycook, sir,’ he said, cap in hand, ‘Andy Nixon’s waiting downstairs. He’s desperate to see ye, sir.’

‘What does he want?’

‘Willna say, sir. Only he has to see ye now.’

***

Elizabeth Widdrington regretted having to leave Carlisle, in a way, but in another way it was a relief to have the decision taken from her. She would have liked to give her poor horses more rest—after all they had been from Netherby to Falkland Palace and back in a week—but she would take the journey to Widdrington very gently and spend four days on it, rather than the two it had taken her coming the other way.

She sighed, signalled for her menservants to carry the packs down from her chamber in the Keep, and followed after them hoping she would find the two men-at-arms Scrope was lending her, but not Philadelphia’s persistent brother.

Like them, he was waiting for her at the stables. She paused by the muck heap before he saw her, and watched him for a while. It was likely to be her last good stare at him, so she took her time. Cramoisie wool for his suit was a dangerous colour for him, but this was the right shade of purple red: his hose were paned and padded but not foolishly so, and made his long legs very elegant; his doublet had a slight peascod belly for fashion’s sake, the kind a man could only get away with if his own stomach was as flat as a pancake. The fit was perfect across his broad shoulders. It was trimmed with black braid and had a row of carved jet buttons down the front that caught the light. She found it horrifying to think what the buttons alone might have cost, never mind the London tailoring that shrieked from every line of his clothes. He was wearing a plain linen collar on his shirt, rather than a ruff.

She smiled a little. There was no question he was vain, but she couldn’t help forgiving him for it. He had evidently changed his mind about regrowing his little Court beard because he had shaved that morning. His hair was still dyed black though showing dark chestnut at the roots. She had saved his face quite consciously for last, his long mobile face with that jutting Tudor nose, his blue eyes which could make her laugh only by dancing and quirking an eyebrow... Oh, for goodness’ sake, he was only flesh and blood and she was mooning like a lovelorn girl.

She ignored those tediously sensible thoughts and stayed where she was, watching. At the moment he was talking to one of the grooms; now he went and greeted his charger, a large black beautiful creature completely out of place among the scrawny tough little hobbies. He smiled, patted the shining arched neck affectionately, gave him some salt from his hand. It hurt her deep inside her chest—where her heart was, she assumed—to see the casualness of that affection. If only he knew it, she valued that in him far more than his unconcealed passion for her. Passion, she believed, could only be fleeting, no matter what silly poets might say, but kindness... That was built into a man, or it wasn’t. She had never seen her husband show kindness to any creature: from his horses, his dogs, his servants, his son, his wife, from all of them he simply expected obedience, in exchange for not beating them or humiliating them.

And that memory brought her back to earth with a vengeance. She took a deep breath, let it out again to quell any foolish tremors, and forced herself to march forwards.

Her grooms had prepared the horses. Young Henry was there checking hooves and legs. Carey turned to face her, one long hand still at his favourite horse’s neck. He bowed to her, she curtseyed. Young Henry straightened up, patted the hobby’s neck and shook his head.

‘I’m not happy, ma’am,’ he said to her in his surprisingly deep voice. ‘They’re still not recovered.’

‘Why the haste, my lady?’ asked Carey.

For a moment there was a flood of words in her mouth, battering at her teeth to be let out. Because if I stay in Carlisle much longer, Robin, you’ll have me in your bed and that would not only mean ruin for both of us, it would be a wicked sin in the face of God. The words were so bright in the forefront of her mind, for a second she thought she had said them, but his expression didn’t change the way it would have. She swallowed hard and the nonsense subsided. For answer, because her throat wasn’t working properly, she took a letter from her sleeve and gave it to him.

Carey took it; his eyes narrowed at the seal. He opened it, and read it. The blue stare scanned the curt lines from her husband, and then lifted to hers.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘You told him what you had done to help me at Netherby. Was that wise, my lady?’

A week before she had lent him the Widdrington horses to provide cover for his masquerade as a pedlar, knowing full well it would take a miracle if she was to see them again. Although the miracle had happened, wrought by Carey somehow, still...

‘It would have been foolish to do anything else,’ she said coldly, ‘since his friend Lowther would have told him the full tale, with embellishments. At least this way, I cannot be accused of dishonesty.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘But you understand, I simply cannot stay here against my husband’s clear orders.’

‘You told him the horses would be overtired?’

‘At the time I wrote to him, I didn’t know whether I would get them back.’

‘I wish you would stay a day or two more,’ he said. ‘I could give you a proper escort then, when my men come back from haymaking.’

‘We have our own hay to get in,’ Elizabeth said. ‘That’s partly why he’s... angry. And the reivers will be busy too.’

‘Not the broken men,’ said Carey. ‘They can steal what others mow and stack.’

Elizabeth shrugged. There was no help for it and she saw no point in putting it off. ‘I’m sure my husband’s name will be some protection,’ she said.

‘Not in this March. In the East March, certainly, the Middle March perhaps, but not...’

‘Sir Robert, there is simply nothing to discuss. I must start for home today. Are the horses ready, Henry?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As ready as they’ll be without a couple of days’ more rest.’

She clicked her fingers at one of the grooms, and he led her horse up to the mounting block. He would have offered her his arm to mount, but Carey was there first. The flourish he gave the simple act of helping her into the saddle could have been meant for the Queen of England, and she knew perfectly well he did it that way on purpose.

‘Do you never ride pillion?’ Carey asked, smiling up at her.

‘I prefer to make my own mistakes,’ she told him severely and he smiled wider. ‘Goodbye Sir Robert,’ she managed to say, without the least wobble in her voice, and felt quite proud of herself for doing it.

Young Henry was in the saddle as were the other four men, all of them wearing their jacks and carrying lances. Henry’s jack betrayed him by its new pale leather. Nominally, Young Henry was in command as her husband’s heir and those who wished to think it true, could do so. Elizabeth nodded at him, checked that her hat was well pinned to her cap and hair, and let him take the lead out of the stable yard.

She had already embraced Philadelphia and exchanged courtesies with Lord Scrope, though the two of them were in the main castle yard to see her off. She rode with her back so straight that her horse skittered sideways uneasily, catching the desperation she was cramming down tight inside herself. She breathed deeply, took the mare in hand and forced her to behave herself.

She simply would not—she refused to—look over her shoulder, though she knew that Carey was there, staring at her departing back as she passed the gate and started down through Castlegate on the long road for Newcastle.