She picked up her skirts and ran.
Carey went blindly after her through the covered way, through the Captain’s gate and under the starclad night to the Queen Mary Tower. He climbed the stairs feeling heavy and tired, found his bedchamber dark and empty. He lit a rush-dip from the one lighting the stair, poured himself some wine and sat looking at the pewter tankard for a long time. He had never seen tears on Elizabeth Widdrington’s face before.
***
At the Red Bull, Jemmy Atkinson counted out the money in front of the men he had employed to beat up his wife’s lover. Billy Little’s brother Long George had somehow come into the matter as well. Never mind, they weren’t asking any more for him.
‘You told him, Sergeant?’
‘Ay,’ said Ill-Willit Daniel Nixon.
Atkinson’s thin lips pursed with satisfaction.
‘Mr Atkinson?’ said Long George. ‘What happens if Andy Nixon remembers who we are and sues for assault and battery?’
‘You didn’t let him get a look at you?’
‘Not much of one. But he heard Sergeant Nixon’s voice at least.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Atkinson. ‘All of this has been arranged through Sir Richard Lowther. If there’s a court case Sir Richard will be your good lord and see to the jury, and Nixon knows he’ll not get off so lightly next time.’
They looked at each other and nodded, but Long George was still frowning worriedly. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve again.
‘Well, but, master,’ he said, ‘Sir Richard’s not Deputy Warden any more.’
Atkinson’s face grew pinched and mean. The actual Deputy Warden, Sir Robert Carey, had wanted to sack him from his office as Armoury Clerk on discovering that most of the weapons in the Carlisle armoury had disappeared, to be replaced with wooden dummies. The Warden had been Atkinson’s good lord on that occasion, protesting that they didn’t have anyone else in Carlisle capable of dealing with the armoury. Carey had in fact sacked Atkinson from his other, even more lucrative, office of Paymaster to the Garrison, after somehow getting hold of and reading the garrison account books.
‘I have every confidence in Sir Richard’s ability to send that nosy long-shanked prick of a courtier running back to London crying for his mother,’ he said venomously.
‘Mm,’ said Long George. He started to say something and then thought better of it.
‘And in addition no one else will be witnesses, will they?’
‘No,’ said Ill-Willit Daniel.
Long George and his brother stayed in the common room until late, playing dice for pennies with their new-gotten wealth. Atkinson too seemed to be waiting for something, and sat drinking in solitary splendour. At last Billy touched Long George’s arm and he turned to see Lowther advancing towards Atkinson. Long George stayed still and hoped he’d be invisible.
SUNDAY, 2ND JULY 1592, MIDNIGHT
Solomon Musgrave was a big fat man with one arm and no teeth; he had lost an arm in action under Lord Hunsdon during the Rising of the Northern Earls, and so he had a permanent position in the Carlisle garrison despite being useless for fighting. He generally kept the gate and slept happily through the day, living as nocturnally as the Castle cats. He was usually the first to see the beacons that told of reivers over the Border and had the job of waking the bellringer who lived permanently up at the keep. Occasionally he bribed one of the boys to do his job, but as a general rule he liked it. It was peaceful in the night and his eyes were so adjusted to darkness that he found daylight often too bright for him and hard-edged.
And he saw a great deal. To his private satisfaction, he knew more about what happened in the Castle than anyone else. He had watched the new Deputy try and coax his ladylove to bed and receive his setdown. He had heard the Scropes in their usual arguments as their yawning maid and manservant got them undressed and he knew that Young Hutchin Graham was doing his best to bed one of the scullery maids, with no success whatever.
He stood at his sentrypost, admiring the stars as they wheeled across the sky, and heard somebody approaching the barred main gate.
Solomon Musgrave tilted his halberd against the stone quietly and leaned over the battlements. There was a hiccup and a loud belch, followed by the noise of puking. The words that floated up to him were too slurred and distorted for understanding, though he recognised the voice and grinned.
Looking across at the Queen Mary Tower, which still had the shutters on the window open, he saw the faint light of a rush-dip still burning. The lusty and fire-eating young Deputy could wait all night for his servant. Barnabus Cooke had had a skinful: more than a skinful. Singing floated up in the silence, something mucky about a Hatter’s Daughter of Islington, wherever that was, and then more swearing.
‘Shut that noise,’ he called down. ‘Folks wantae sleep.’
‘Lemme in,’ came the answer. ‘C’mon, or I’ll sing.’
Solomon Musgrave grinned. ‘Ye can sleep there or find a bed. Ah dinnae care which, but if ye sing I’ll spear ye like a fish.’
There was another loud belch. ‘Come on,’ whined the Londoner below, ‘I’ve... got to shee to hish honour Sir Robert Carey inna morning.’
‘Then I’ll do his honour a right favour and keep ye out. Ye’d fell him with yer breath the way ye are, I can smell it from here. Go to sleep.’
‘He’ll beat me if I’m abess... abs... not there,’ came the pathetic bleat.
‘And nae more than ye deserve,’ said Solomon Musgrave primly. ‘Shame on ye, to be so drunk. Go to sleep.’
‘She was only a ’atter’s dooooorter an’ she...’
Quietly Solomon went along the sentry walk, picked a slim javelin from its sheaf, went back and listened to the adventures of the Hatter’s Daughter for a few seconds until he was sure of his aim, then threw. There was a satisfying whipchunk sound, and the vibration of the wooden shaft. The caterwauling stopped. After a moment, Barnabus’s voice came again.
‘Wotcher do that for?’
‘I said I would.’
‘You could’ve killed me.’
‘Ay. Next time I willnae miss. Go to sleep.’
There was more sullen muttering and cursing, then shuffling and rustling sounds. Solomon Musgrave squinted down and saw that, from the look of it, Barnabus had picked up the javelin, rolled himself up in his cloak with his back against the wood of the door, pulled his hat over his eyes and gone to sleep. A noise that combined the music of a pigpen and the regularity of a sawpit rolled up towards him.
Solomon Musgrave sighed. ‘Ah wish Ah’d known the man sounded better drunk and awake.’
