Abruptly he swung Thunder away from Henry’s horse and put his heels in again. Thunder exploded straight into a gallop, catching his rider’s mood. Carey let him have his head, though he got no pleasure from it now, and then brought him to a stop under a shady tree where he dismounted and walked Thunder up and down to let him cool more slowly, and waited for the Widdringtons. He stood watching them as they came up and cursed himself for being so obtuse, for thinking he was playing a game with Elizabeth when she was in fact gambling with her life. She reined in beside him and he came to her stirrup and looked up at her.
‘My lady,’ he said gently, ‘I’ll leave you here.’
‘What were you talking about with Henry?’
He also wondered how much she knew of what was in his mind, but she wasn’t a witch, only a woman.
‘We were agreeing with each other about the dangers of travelling in this March with horses that need more rest,’ he lied bluntly. It wasn’t a lie. He was worried about it.
‘We shall be well enough,’ said Elizabeth sedately. ‘Thank you for your concern, Sir Robert.’
‘Good day to you, Lady Widdrington,’ said Carey, uncovering to her as they continued past. ‘God speed.’
***
Barnabus knew better than to say anything to his master when Carey slammed into his chambers with a face as dark as ditchwater and went straight to the smaller room he used as an office. He sat down at the desk, opened the penner and took out pens and ink. Summer sunlight like honey streamed in through the window and he looked up at it once and sighed, then drew paper towards him and dipped his pen.
Somewhere around noon they had a visitor. James Pennycook and his son-in-law knocked tentatively at the door and, after wine had been brought, Barnabus and Michael Kerr were told to leave and shut the door.
‘What’s Mr Pennycook after?’ Barnabus asked Kerr as they sat on the stairs, waiting to be called back. Michael Kerr fiddled with one of the tassels on his purse, looked up at the arched roof and said, ‘Och, it’s the usual. Mr Pennycook wants to know his price.’
‘What for?’
‘For not interfering with the victualling contracts.’
Barnabus sucked his teeth. ‘What a pity Mr Pennycook didn’t send you to me first,’ he said meaningfully.
Kerr looked knowing. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Expensive, is he?’
‘Very,’ said Barnabus. ‘And very unpredictable. He’s got to be approached just right, has Sir Robert.’
The low muttering inside had stopped suddenly. Barnabus braced himself.
‘Barnabu-u-us,’ came the roar.
Barnabus opened the door and went in. Mr Pennycook was standing in the middle of the floor, looking pinched about the nostrils.
Carey was by the fireplace with his back turned.
‘Barnabus, escort Mr Pennycook to the gate, if you please.’
‘Yessir,’ said Barnabus briskly and came forward. ‘This way sir,’ he said confidingly. ‘Best to leave now.’
‘But...’ said Pennycook.
‘Good day to you, Mr Pennycook,’ said Carey curtly and walked through into his office, where he sat down.
Barnabus sighed heavily at more riches unnecessarily thrown away—after all, it wasn’t as if Carey had yet seen a penny of his legendary five hundred pounds per annum.
‘See,’ he said to Michael Kerr, as he led the two of them down the stairs again. ‘He’s a bit touchy, is my master.’
Barnabus finished polishing Carey’s helmet and sword, his boots and other tack, then gathered up yesterday’s shirt and moved to the door. He suddenly thought of something and coughed. What was the betting Carey hadn’t eaten all day? Perhaps some vittles might mend his mood.
Barnabus coughed again gently and when that got no response said, ‘Sir, shall I bring up something to eat?’
‘What?’ The voice was irritable. Carey was recutting the nib of his pen which had worn down.
‘Food sir. For you, sir?’
Carey waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m not hungry. Get me some beer.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Barnabus, confirmed in his suspicions.
The shirt went into the Castle laundry with the other linen and Barnabus wandered to the kitchens where the idle little cook had his domain. He had gathered together a tray of bread, cheese, raised oxtongue pie, sallet and pickle and was going to the buttery for beer, when a boy stopped him in the corridor.
It was Young Hutchin Graham, his boots and jerkin dusty and his blond hair plastered to his head with sweat.
‘Mr Cooke,’ said Young Hutchin in an urgent hiss. ‘I wantae speak to the Deputy.’
‘Well, you can’t,’ said Barnabus pompously. ‘He’s very busy.’
‘I must, it’s verra important.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Young Hutchin looked furtive and unhappy and then shook his head. ‘Ah’ll tell it to the Deputy and naebody else.’
‘You can give me the message and I will ask the Deputy if he wants...’
