Scrope sat down behind the table, but did not invite Carey to be seated. ‘If you don’t mind, Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘I must ask you to account for your actions since yesterday afternoon.’

With an effort Carey thought back. He told the story baldly. He had learned from a good source of a large Graham raid out of Netherby, threatening Archibald Bell and also Lady Widdrington who would be vulnerable on the Stanegate road.

‘I take it that Mick the Crow is still in the Gatehouse gaol,’ Carey commented at this point. ‘I put him there because he wouldn’t tell me the name of the man that sent the letter to Wattie.’

Lowther’s heavy face was unmoved.

‘He’s not there now.’

‘Did you release him, Sir Richard?’ asked Carey innocently.

‘Ay, I did. There was no charge and no need to keep him when he’s wanted at home for haymaking.’

‘There was a charge. It was a charge of March treason for bringing in raiders.’

‘Pah,’ said Sir Richard. ‘He’d done nothing; I let him go.’

‘Do continue,’ said Scrope.

As a younger man, Carey would have argued about this but now he only gave Sir Richard a hard stare before telling how he had asked to borrow Lowther’s patrol and had done so.

‘Speaking of which, ye offered me my note of debt back, did ye not?’ said Lowther offensively.

Silently Carey took the paper out of his belt pouch and handed it over. It was no loss, he reflected, since it was very unlikely Lowther was the kind who worried overmuch about paying his gambling debts. Lowther took it, squinted at it and tore it in pieces.

‘Ye said you knew where to find some of King James’s horses,’ he accused. ‘Well, did ye find ’em?’

‘No,’ admitted Carey. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Hah,’ said Lowther, rather theatrically, Carey thought.

‘Go on,’ put in Scrope.

‘I’m fairly sure the horses were there, my lord,’ he added. ‘But obviously the people holding them got word I was on my way and hid them.’

It suddenly struck him how that could have happened and he mentally cursed himself for a fool as he continued, ‘I didn’t want to take Lowther’s men into a fight against the Grahams...’

‘And why not?’ Lowther had the infernal impudence to demand.

‘Because, Sir Richard, I didn’t trust them,’ Carey said as insolently as he dared. Lowther’s bushy eyebrows were already almost meeting; he couldn’t scowl any more deeply. ‘So I went to my own Sergeant Dodd at Gilsland and he helped me call out the Bells and Musgraves. With their help, we met Wattie Graham and Skinabake Armstrong at the Irthing ford early this morning and put them to flight.’

‘Well done,’ said Scrope. ‘It seems you have had a busy time of it.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Doesna mean nothing,’ said Lowther. ‘It only shows he was anxious to be out of Carlisle last night. He could have given his order any time in the past week.’

Carey was itching to punch the evil old bastard, but he kept reminding himself that this was no time to lose his temper. He had had a swordmaster once, a big dark heavy man with wonderful lightness of foot, who deliberately goaded him into a fury, then disarmed him and knocked him on his arse in the mud to demonstrate how temper could undo him. Occasionally he remembered the lesson in time.

‘On the evidence of a knife owned by your servant and a glove owned by yerself that I found by the body.’

‘How frightfully convenient for you,’ Carey drawled. ‘Did you have much trouble stealing one of my gloves?’

‘Are you suggesting that I put them there?’ roared Lowther, the veins standing out on his neck.

‘Really, Sir Robert...’ began Scrope.

‘With respect, my lord,’ Carey said through his teeth, ‘I’m sorry to find you have such a low opinion of my intelligence.’

‘How dare ye, sir? I never was so insulted in all my...’

‘For God’s sake, Sir Richard,’ Carey shouted back at him, temper finally gone. ‘What kind of fool do you think I am? Leave one of my gloves beside a corpse? Why not simply sign my name on his face and leave it at that? Or didn’t you think of it when you watched them cutting his throat, you old traitor?’

That did it. Lowther drew his sword and put himself between Carey and the table where his own weapon lay. Carey backed hurriedly into a fighting crouch, pulling his poignard from its sheath behind his back and his little eating knife from the one by his belt pouch.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen...’ said Scrope, jumping to his feet. ‘Sir Richard, I insist you put up your weapon...’

Lowther ignored him. ‘Call me traitor, would ye, you ignorant puppy...?’ he hissed. ‘Ye prancing courtier, ye... You had his throat cut and ye know it, because the poor wee clerk was an obstacle to ye and ye couldnae see another way to it...’

Carey circled, part of him vividly aware Lowther was trying to put him in one of the corners of the room. That same part was looking at Lowther’s stance and the very experienced way he held his sword, and furthermore its length compared to a poignard, and not liking what it saw. Surely Scrope would do something. He did.

‘Sir Richard,’ he wailed. ‘I will not have my officers duelling...’

‘He’s ignoring you, my lord,’ Carey said. ‘You’d better...’

‘Your officers,’ snarled Lowther sideways to Scrope, but not taking his eyes off Carey. ‘I’m the Deputy Warden in this March. What was good enough for yer father is good enough for ye, boy, and don’t you forget it.’

Of course, thought the part of Carey that was getting ready to fight for his life, I’m wearing a jack and morion and he isn’t; that’s something, isn’t it?

‘Put your sword away, Sir Richard,’ pleaded Scrope. ‘I order you to stop.’

Don’t order him, you fucking fool, Carey thought; make him. Your father would have killed him just for drawing a blade in a council chamber.

There was a faint creak of hinges behind Carey. He didn’t dare turn his head to look. Then came a long clearing of somebody’s throat.

‘Sir Robert,’ said Sergeant Dodd’s doleful moan. ‘We’ve found Simon Barnet for ye. If ye’re busy, we can come back.’

Much of the murderous rage went out of Lowther’s face to be replaced by something resembling embarrassment. Carey straightened a little, moved sideways so he could look at both Lowther and the door. Dodd was wearing his most stolid expression, but he had his still sheathed sword in his hand, ready to throw to Carey. By God, Carey thought affectionately, I was in luck the day Scrope put you under my command.

To Carey’s surprise, the presence of Dodd alone tipped the scales for Lowther. Belatedly, he realised what he was doing, put his weapon back in its sheath and folded his arms.

Carey put his own blades away meekly enough, not sure what he felt nor why he was shaking. Was it anger or fear or relief? All of them, probably. He wondered a little at the shake since it never happened after he had been in a proper fight. Dodd rebuckled his sword belt, still looking dismal.

‘We are... ahem... somewhat busy,’ Scrope said to Dodd. ‘Why have you brought the boy here?’

‘Because he has a tale to tell I thought ye might wish to hear, my lord,’ said Dodd.

‘What on earth could a boy...’