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Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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outlawed, of course.”
“Hm, yes, well. I’m very worried about this quarrel between you and Lowther, Robin. He’s a dangerous man to cross.”
Carey picked up his goblet off the small table beside him a little too carefully. Barnabus who knew how he loathed being called Robin by anyone except women and relatives, grabbed a cloth. All he did was drink.
“My lord,” he said formally, “you have two options. You can confirm Lowther as Deputy and let him take back the ruling of your Wardenry as he did while your father was ill. If that’s what you plan, let me know and I’ll be on my way back to Newcastle as soon as your father’s in his grave.” Scrope blinked unhappily and twiddled his thumbs.
“Or,” continued Carey in the same dangerously quiet voice, “you can ignore his howling, confirm me as your Deputy and support me if I have to fight him.”
“Well, I…”
“Tell me now, my lord. If my position is insecure I can do nothing at all to help you.”
There, thought Barnabus with satisfaction, if you want your father buried nicely, there you are.
“Do you think you can deal with Lowther?”
“Oh yes, my lord. I can deal with Lowther.”
“Right,” said Scrope, still twiddling. “yes. Right. I’ll confirm you as my Deputy of course and I’ll support you…”
“To the hilt, my lord. Otherwise, I go back to London.”
“Yes, to the hilt, of course, right.” As if he had only just noticed the compression of Carey’s lips, Scrope began wandering to the door. Carey stopped him.
“My lord.”
“Er, yes?”
“I want my warrant before dawn tomorrow.”
“Warrant. Dawn. Right. I’ll tell Richard Bell to have it ready. Yes. Um…good night, Robin.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Scrope shut the door carefully and went on down the stairs. They heard his voice in the lower room and the creak of the heavy main door. Barnabus got ready.
“JESUS CHRIST GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” roared Carey, causing the shutters to rattle as he surged to his feet and kicked the little table across the room. The goblet hit the opposite wall but luckily was empty. Scrope’s half full goblet rolled after it, bleeding wine, and Carey had the stool in his hand when Barnabus shouted, “Sir, sir, we’ve only found the one stool, sir…”
He paused, blinked, put the stool down and slammed his fist on the desk instead.
“ Good God !” he shouted slightly less loudly. “ That lily-livered halfwitted pillock is Henry Scrope’s son, I can’t bloody believe it, JESUS GOD…”
Barnabus was mopping busily and examining the goblets, only one of which was dented, fortunately. He could take it to the goldsmith when he went tomorrow. What was left of the table would do for firewood. Simon, he noticed, was cowering in the corner by the bed while Carey paced and roared until he had worked his anger off. Those who doubted the rumours about Carey’s grandfather being King Henry VIII on the wrong side of the blanket, and not the man who complaisantly married Mary Boleyn, should see him or his father in a temper, Barnabus thought, that would set them right.
He beckoned Simon over and sent the trembling lad out for some more wine. By the time he came back, Carey was calm again and looking wearily at the pile of papers Scrope had brought.
“God’s truth,” was all he said, “He’s set it for Thursday and it’s Monday now. How the devil does he think I can organise anything in two days…?”
Tuesday, 20th June, before dawn
Dodd was roused out of sweet dreams concerning Janet two hours before dawn and an hour before he would normally get up. He had pulled his jack on and was feeling for his sword before he woke up properly and heard Red Sandy telling him it wasnae a raid, it was yon scurvy git of a Courtier in the yard wanting to inspect them again.
He stumbled out of the barracks to find the scurvy git standing there, flanked by his two body-servants holding torches, waiting patiently for his men to appear.
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“Hm, yes, well. I’m very worried about this quarrel between you and Lowther, Robin. He’s a dangerous man to cross.”
Carey picked up his goblet off the small table beside him a little too carefully. Barnabus who knew how he loathed being called Robin by anyone except women and relatives, grabbed a cloth. All he did was drink.
“My lord,” he said formally, “you have two options. You can confirm Lowther as Deputy and let him take back the ruling of your Wardenry as he did while your father was ill. If that’s what you plan, let me know and I’ll be on my way back to Newcastle as soon as your father’s in his grave.” Scrope blinked unhappily and twiddled his thumbs.
“Or,” continued Carey in the same dangerously quiet voice, “you can ignore his howling, confirm me as your Deputy and support me if I have to fight him.”
“Well, I…”
“Tell me now, my lord. If my position is insecure I can do nothing at all to help you.”
There, thought Barnabus with satisfaction, if you want your father buried nicely, there you are.
“Do you think you can deal with Lowther?”
“Oh yes, my lord. I can deal with Lowther.”
“Right,” said Scrope, still twiddling. “yes. Right. I’ll confirm you as my Deputy of course and I’ll support you…”
“To the hilt, my lord. Otherwise, I go back to London.”
“Yes, to the hilt, of course, right.” As if he had only just noticed the compression of Carey’s lips, Scrope began wandering to the door. Carey stopped him.
“My lord.”
“Er, yes?”
“I want my warrant before dawn tomorrow.”
“Warrant. Dawn. Right. I’ll tell Richard Bell to have it ready. Yes. Um…good night, Robin.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Scrope shut the door carefully and went on down the stairs. They heard his voice in the lower room and the creak of the heavy main door. Barnabus got ready.
“JESUS CHRIST GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” roared Carey, causing the shutters to rattle as he surged to his feet and kicked the little table across the room. The goblet hit the opposite wall but luckily was empty. Scrope’s half full goblet rolled after it, bleeding wine, and Carey had the stool in his hand when Barnabus shouted, “Sir, sir, we’ve only found the one stool, sir…”
He paused, blinked, put the stool down and slammed his fist on the desk instead.
“ Good God !” he shouted slightly less loudly. “ That lily-livered halfwitted pillock is Henry Scrope’s son, I can’t bloody believe it, JESUS GOD…”
Barnabus was mopping busily and examining the goblets, only one of which was dented, fortunately. He could take it to the goldsmith when he went tomorrow. What was left of the table would do for firewood. Simon, he noticed, was cowering in the corner by the bed while Carey paced and roared until he had worked his anger off. Those who doubted the rumours about Carey’s grandfather being King Henry VIII on the wrong side of the blanket, and not the man who complaisantly married Mary Boleyn, should see him or his father in a temper, Barnabus thought, that would set them right.
He beckoned Simon over and sent the trembling lad out for some more wine. By the time he came back, Carey was calm again and looking wearily at the pile of papers Scrope had brought.
“God’s truth,” was all he said, “He’s set it for Thursday and it’s Monday now. How the devil does he think I can organise anything in two days…?”
Tuesday, 20th June, before dawn
Dodd was roused out of sweet dreams concerning Janet two hours before dawn and an hour before he would normally get up. He had pulled his jack on and was feeling for his sword before he woke up properly and heard Red Sandy telling him it wasnae a raid, it was yon scurvy git of a Courtier in the yard wanting to inspect them again.
He stumbled out of the barracks to find the scurvy git standing there, flanked by his two body-servants holding torches, waiting patiently for his men to appear.
At
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