Carey looked at the two large Widdrington menservants critically. He knew the other two slightly, both Carlislers and often used for dispatches. They would take Lady Widdrington to Newcastle and then wait there for the next dispatch bag from Burghley down in London.
‘Well, they look dangerous enough to keep off any chancers,’ he admitted. ‘And so do you. But what happens if a horse goes lame while you’re in the middle of some waste?’
‘Have you heard anything, Sir Robert?’
‘No. But I’m not happy.’
Henry looked at him with his jaw set square. ‘There could be another reason for that,’ he said after a moment.
‘Well, there is,’ said Carey lightly. ‘But I’m making allowances for selfishness and I’m still not happy.’
Henry gestured with his lance. ‘Go and talk to Lady Widdrington. You know my opinion; I’d willingly turn back to Carlisle and stay there, but my lady...’
‘Your father’s letter was certainly very... peremptory.’
Henry set his jaw again and suddenly looked like the man he would be in a few years’ time. Then he swallowed and broke the illusion of maturity.
‘I wish you were a reiver, Sir Robert,’ he burst out. ‘I wish you could sweep down on us with all your men and carry her back to your peel tower.’
Then he shut his lips very firmly and looked as if he expected Carey to laugh at him for his romantic notions.
‘I won’t deny the thought had crossed my mind,’ Carey said slowly. ‘But why do you wish that? Is she so unhappy with Sir Henry?’
Henry had the peculiar expression of someone who is longing to explain a great deal but can’t bring himself to the necessary disloyalty.
‘What’s she going back to, and why is she in such a hurry about it?’ Carey hadn’t meant to sound so peremptory but his heart had gone cold.
Young Henry stared ahead for a few moments longer and then said, in a rush, ‘Well, Sir Robert, you know if someone has to have a tooth pulled, they’re either one way or the other. Some people put it off for as long as possible, and others get it over with as quick as possible.’
For a moment Carey didn’t understand. ‘But she... Oh.’
Even Henry’s spots were glowing red and he looked quite wretched.
‘It’s his right,’ he mumbled. ‘And he’s a very suspicious man. It took him a long time to... to calm down when she came back from Court. And now...’
Carey understood perfectly. His voice became remote.
‘Is he likely to kill her?’
‘Well...’
‘Widdrington, I want to know what she’s facing.’
‘Well... I don’t think he’d kill her. You see, he needs her to nurse him when he’s having one of his attacks of the gravel in his bladder.’
‘Couldn’t he marry again?’
‘I don’t think any of the families near us would give him one of their daughters. And none of the widows would take him either,’ Henry explained damningly. ‘He had to send all the way to Cornwall to get her, remember.’
With some part of his mind, Carey planned to have a great many words with his father the next time they met. But for Lord Hunsdon, Elizabeth would never have married Sir Henry. On the other hand, then they might never have met.
‘How did your mother die?’ Carey demanded, too angry to be tactful.
Young Henry said nothing, which was much worse than an answer. Carey took a deep breath, looked back over his shoulder at Elizabeth riding sedately along. Her face was perfectly normal, though she still looked thoroughly annoyed.
Certainly Philadelphia could have no idea. It hadn’t really occurred to him, although he had no quarrel with a man exercising proper authority over his wife. Obviously, what Young Henry was alluding to was more than that. Coldness trickled down his spine as he wondered if Sir Henry had the brainsickness he knew that Walsingham’s inquisitor Topcliffe certainly had. He couldn’t ask Young Henry, he wouldn’t understand.
Henry was speaking again, in a low mumble.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I was saying, my father might make her do penance if she’s... er... if he thinks she’s committed adultery.’
‘What, spend Sunday standing outside the church in a white sheet with a candle?’
Henry nodded. Carey looked over his shoulder again. Elizabeth was watching him now, so he turned back in case she saw his face. Considering her pride, he suspected she would prefer to be beaten.
Young Henry was screwing up his face as if he was trying to find the courage to ask something insolent. Carey knew immediately what that was and pre-empted it.
‘Your stepmother, Mr Widdrington,’ he said coldly and clearly, ‘is the most virtuous woman I have ever met. I won’t deny I’ve been laying siege to her with every... every device I have, and I have got nowhere. Nowhere at all.’
Despite the beetroot colour of Henry’s face he seemed happier. He nodded.
‘But I suppose, given Sir Henry’s nature, he isn’t likely to believe it, even without Lowther to poison the well for us.’
Henry nodded again. Carey rode along for a moment.
‘Christ, what a bloody mess.’
