A Chorus of Innocents (26 page)

Elizabeth did her best not to be cynical. Possibly that was true, though she doubted it. Never mind, Jock Tait had come round with no persuasion at all.

Young Henry nodded once. “We'll have a hue and cry for them the minute your statement's done,” he said, “I think they're with Geordie Burn at the moment. Who now says he never intended to ransom you, my lady, he just gave you shelter.”

“Hmf,” said Elizabeth, “you expect liars to lie. Well?”

“Well, my lady, will I go back to my father and tell him you're tired.”

“No, because he'll hit you again.” The combined Widdringtons who were probably the twenty best riders of that numerous and ferocious surname started looking about at each other for someone who would be mad enough to go and tell the old man his wife was disinclined to meet him.

Brother Aurelius stepped forward with a smile on his round face. “I'll do it,” he said. “My lady Widdrington is tired and needs her rest although I have to admit we don't really have anywhere here at the abbey that's suitable for a lady.”

“What did he tell you, Mr Widdrington?” she asked.

“He told me to take some men and fetch you to him.”

Elizabeth's lips compressed together until all the blood left them. “I wish I knew why he treats me like a blood enemy, not his wife,” she said. Nobody answered her.

Brother Aurelius came close to her and said kindly, “Perhaps ye'll come and bear me company whiles I clean up the kitchen,” he said. There was no guile in his voice but Elizabeth almost said no. Then she thought again, shrugged and went with him.

There wasn't a lot to do in the kitchen as the stew and the bread were finished and there was no more food anywhere. Elizabeth brought back the wooden bowls and spoons, scoured them out with silver sand and polished them, while Brother Aurelius gave a quick wipe to the inside of the great cauldron he had clearly used daily for the last thirty years with no more than a wipe each time. It was a surprise the stew didn't taste better, really. He asked her how she had come to Sir Henry and what he had done and how she had tried to be a good wife to him. She found herself pouring out her heart to him, while he sat by the remains of the fire with his head oddly tilted a little to the side, propped on his hand so she didn't have to look him in the eyes.

“And has he always beaten ye?”

She sighed. “Yes. Sometimes he hits me, sometimes he knocks me down. Sometimes he uses his belt. I'm used to it now but I wish he would tell me what he wants of me so I can do it if I can.”

Brother Aurelius took a deep breath in and let it out again.

“It seems he wants me dead now,” she added, “if Henry's right that he arranged with Geordie Burn to take me captive.”

“Are ye sure of that?”

“No, I'm not. But my stepson is quite convinced.”

“And he sent your stepson with men to bring you back.”

“He's showing off. Showing me he has men at his back and I don't.”

“Hmm. Lady Widdrington, I'll ask ye to do a hard thing. Come with me into the toon to meet your husband, on your own. Will ye do it?”

Her heart was dull and grey that had been lit up with joy that morning. After the fire, the embers. She had to go back to him, it was her duty and besides she had nowhere else to go. But she wished and wished she were a man…Actually a man had little choice as well. Robin was as bound by ties of family and duty as she was.

She sighed. “Yes, Brother Aurelius, I will.”

She followed him back to where the Widdringtons had made themselves comfortable with a small fire from some of the beams of wood they'd uncovered. The four monks were sitting in a row near it, Brother Constantine still trembling like a leaf but smiling benignly, Brother Justinian reading his prayer book, Brother Ignatius chatting to one of the men, the Lord Abbot Ninian sitting with his mouth a little open watching the proceedings with amazement and suspicion.

The hobbies were lined up and tethered, most of the men had their helmets and jacks off and the boys were singing one of the psalms. It was a domestic scene. There was a pause and then two voices lifted, singing Tam Lin between them, one Jimmy Tait's in its silver perfection, the other a man's bass voice, a little gruff and out of practice but with a power and force in it that made the eldritch parts with the faery folk more frightening as Tam Lin turned to fire and water in the Queen of Elfland's spell.

She stood just outside of the fire circle, listening to the sound, listening as Jimmy and Jock Tait sang together for the first time.

Brother Aurelius went forward and spoke to Young Henry who nodded and gestured at everyone. The old monk then went quietly to each man and got some kind of answer, while three of the Widdringtons sang the rude song about Lusty Jean and the Fine Young Knight. And then he came back to her.

“I have talked to every one of the men,” said Brother Aurelius. “I and they are ad idem about certain things and they too believe that your kidnapping was really an attempt upon your life. Let us go down to the town now. I believe your husband is at the Spread Eagle inn.”

It wasn't really so late, it was just it got dark early. Elizabeth was aching and still quite hungry after the stew and bread, but mostly she was tired. At least she didn't have to ride tonight since Brother Aurelius was striding down the road from the abbey. Since the townsmen used the church for reformed services on Sundays, it wasn't too bad and had stones laid on the muddiest bits.

She didn't want to go, she wanted to run in the opposite direction, to Reidswire where Robin was waiting for Sergeant Dodd and the tooth-drawer. And yet her feet kept following the sandals of Brother Aurelius.

Thursday Night 19th October to Friday 20th October 1592

Mr Anricks insisted on hurrying to meet Carey at Reidswire, a place often used for Middle March Warden meetings and as summer pasture. Now the wind swept across it and the rain was horizontal, though by the time they got there, perhaps there was an hour of daylight left and for a wonder the rain had stopped temporarily. The Sun pretended to be fighting to shine through the cloud, but was really sulking.

Carey came out of the sheepshelter where he had lit a fire from the supplies left there by the men who used it. Two dogs were with him who first barked and then fawned on Dodd and Anricks, probably in hopes of food. He tried to smile but couldn't because of the way his face had ballooned, and also he was afraid of having his tooth drawn because the last time he had to have it done, on the left side, it had hurt so much.

There wasn't a chair so Carey sat on a rock with his back to the dry stone wall shelter, and Mr Anricks tipped his head back and took a look.

“Hm,” said Mr Anricks. He poked about with shining steel instruments while Dodd stood and stared across the hills where nobody was pasturing cattle and Carey made occasional squawks as Anricks probed a sensitive spot. The dogs lay nearby watching with interest.

“Two teeth have to come out, Sir Robert,” said Anricks, “though that may save the third which is a wisdom tooth.”

“Get on with it,” growled Carey, his hands in fists.

“All in good time,” said Anricks, delving about in his pack and bringing out a brown glass bottle and a cloth. “Would you hold him up, please, Sergeant. Now, I want you to breathe in the fumes from this sweet oil of vitriol, keep doing it. I know it's an acrid smell and you'll feel drunk and dizzy and then you'll fall asleep. When you wake up, your teeth will be out.” The dogs got up and retired some distance from the smell and the younger one started barking again.

“Are you sure…?”

“Ay, he's telling the truth, sir, I've seen him dae it in Jedburgh.”

Suspiciously Carey started sniffing the cloth, he got chatty, talking a lot of nonsense about being executed and a little later he slumped sideways, despite the barking. Immediately Anricks tipped him back, put his pliers in and pulled, then he did it again and then he mopped up some ugly-looking pus that came spilling out of the hole until it was all good red blood. Dodd took a look at the teeth—one was practically gone with two holes right through it and the other had a long tunnel going right down, both were black. Horrible. Teeth weren't meant to be black or brown, they were meant to be yellow. Dodd's teeth were a good ivory colour and not a hole in them either. He had let Anricks check earlier.

It took a little while before Carey came to again, and in that time Anricks explained how he wanted to do an empirical investigation into toothworms which would involve checking Dodd and Carey's stools for worms. Dodd was happy enough to say yes, wondering what Carey would say.

Carey was obviously in a lot of pain when he came round but he shook Anrick's hand and promised him at least a gold angel for taking out the teeth; he felt better already. His jaw swelling was already going down, certainly. The dogs came back cautiously but stayed away from Anrick's pack. Dodd recognised them and said hello—it was a good notion of the Courtier's to bring them, mind.

Dodd was pleased with himself. He had found a tooth-drawer and gotten Carey's bad teeth drawn, now they could go back to Carlisle.

But no they couldn't. “Why not?” Dodd wanted to know. “Why d'ye want tae stay in this Godforsaken place…Ach, it's Lady Widdrington.”

“I have to know if she's all right or if her bastard of a husband has…hurt her again.”

“Why? Why d'ye have to know? What can ye do about it if he has? Eh?”

“I have to know,” said Carey, muffled by the cloth soaked with aqua vitae he was stopping the bleeding with.

“Jesu, ye're…”

“Gentlemen,” said Anricks, who was carefully repacking his pack. He had used clean cloths to wipe the instruments he had used and was closing the top. There was another picture there of a fearsome looking worm with large teeth itself coming out of a black tooth with a hole in it, which had made Dodd quite queasy to look at.

“…never going tae pit yer heid in a noose again. Sir Henry's a bad man tae cross as ye found in the summer…”

“I have to make sure…”

“Gentlemen!”

“Ay and ye'll do her harm as well…”

“Shut up, Sergeant, you don't have to come with me if ye're affeared…”

“By God, I'm no' affeared o' any man but it's stupid tae…”

“GENTLEMEN!”

Mr Anricks had produced quite a shout though he coughed afterwards. Carey turned his head to him from glaring at Dodd. “What?” The younger dog said “Wuff?” in exactly the same tone.

“I will ride back into Jedburgh and I will find out what is happening to Lady Widdrington. When I have found out I will take whatever action I consider is appropriate.”

“With respect, Mr Anricks, I don't think a tooth-drawer can really…”

“Nay sir, he's a pursuivant for Sir Robert Cecil. He showed me his commission.”

Carey put out his hand for it imperiously. A minute later he had sat back down on the rock and leaned his head back.

“What's going on?” he asked. “Why are you here, Mr Anricks?”

“I don't know what's going on, but I am certain that the Maxwell is embroiled in it somewhere, which is why I desire to go to the West March. But first I will ride back to Jedburgh and find out what is happening to Lady Widdrington.”

“Why?”

“Because I like the woman, Sir Robert, and for good and sufficient reasons to do with her husband and his activities with Lord Spynie.”

“Will you tell me what they are?”

“No. Or not now. I have no evidence. Is there any chance you will keep my identity secret or is it gone the way of all flesh now, seeing I've told three men?”

“I won't tell anyone except my lord Burleigh,”

Anricks smiled gently. “His son is my very good lord so I am quite happy for you to do so. In the meantime I want to get back to the Newcastle road before full dark and so I'll be going.”

Dodd bore him company on the way there to make sure he didn't miss the path in the dusk, leaving Carey to take a nap in the little shelter by the fire. By the time he came back, Carey was snoring away with the dogs on either side of him and would not be woken. The old lymer lifted his lip to Dodd and warned him off. And moreover the Moon was behind more clouds making the night pitch-black. Dodd sighed, brought the hobbies into the shelter so no one would ask why they were there, and rolled himself up in his cloak across the door opening. He hoped no one would wake him because burying people took time and was a lot of effort.

Thursday Night 19th October to Friday 20th October 1592

The Spread Eagle inn was still full of men and lights, torches and candles, a game of ninepins causing uproarious betting, with Sir Henry and Lord Spynie standing in the centre of a knot of hangers-on, holding pewter tankards of the double-double beer, shouting at each other about whether a ram would beat a billy goat in a fight and whether a shod hobby went better than an unshod one in a race in the woods.

Into this hurdy-gurdy came a small modest figure who sat in the corner, drank mild ale, and watched. When he wished, Simon Anricks could be almost invisible. He wasn't sure what he could do about Lady Widdrington and her husband, and he wished he hadn't said that he would do anything nor let out that he was Sir Robert Cecil's man. But what was done was done and if too many people knew what he was, well, he would have to go back south to Bristol and his wife and children. And to be truthful, he would prefer that. Rebecca came to him in his dreams sometimes and told him off for crimes like getting wet or not eating regularly and he always took her in his arms when she did because she was his wife and he loved her. He woke up cold and lonely, so if his cover was blown, he wouldn't mind that much.

Yet he was here because Sir Robert Cecil had been seeing the edges, the outlines, the flippers, and tail of a monstrous plot. Something was going on in Scotland, something that might perhaps give the King of Scotland the throne of England a little earlier than necessary, if you were suspicious, if you thought the King of Scotland might be the kind of man who would do that. The Queen was certainly old, fifty-nine this year, but, unfortunately for James, in excellent health. Was His Majesty of Scotland getting impatient, was he wanting something more than his pension? Were the Spaniards, in particular the ever-patient Spanish king, influencing him? Or was it all imagination, dreams, and fantasy—the way suspicious minds sometimes come up with plots that don't exist? He had agreed to come out of his pleasant retirement yet again to try and find out, agreed because there were important people in London town, particularly Dr Hector Nunez, who wanted to find out something about the Scottish king as well.

He sighed and ordered the ordinary, which turned out to be haggis again. In London it was all steak and kidney pie and liver and onions, here in the North, haggis—thrifty huswifery using up the unpreservable offal first.

He watched Sir Henry, a short, squat man, with a good greying moustache and corrugated ears which spoke of gout and quite possibly stones in his bladder. He was shouting at Lord Spynie still, who was enjoying himself with his hard-cases at his back, still a good-looking young man though his jawline was blurred with too much booze and his eyes were puffy. Anricks wondered why he wasn't with the King and who was with the King now. That was very interesting. Why wasn't he with the King?

Spynie had been in trouble in August, something to do with the Earl of Bothwell and goings on in Dumfries, a series of events involving Sir Robert Carey and Lady Widdrington, which Anricks still wasn't clear about. He had read all the papers reporting what had happened, including a copy of Sir Robert's own private report to his father, and he was damned if he could make out what had been going on. Had King James somehow managed to buy Carey, turn him against his Queen? That was possible, given the length of the two interviews with the Scottish monarch that Carey had been granted.

Somebody had come into the commonroom, and Anricks recognised the round-headed Austin friar. Brother Aurelius was a kindly faced old man with a natural tonsure and not very much white hair, his face oddly familiar-looking. The barman served him with mild ale and no money changed hands; Brother Aurelius went and stood near Sir Henry and Spynie and waited to be noticed.

It took a while. Sir Henry's broad face was red, and his voice had been getting steadily louder. He was laying a bet with Lord Spynie on a fight to be held at the Carlisle race course of three rams against three billy goats to settle the matter.

At last Spynie asked Brother Aurelius' opinion on the matter, in a way that showed he didn't expect anything.

“Ay,” Brother Aurelius agreed, “it's a tickle question. And more interesting than whether a shod horse or an unshod horse goes better because that was all settled before the Queen went tae England. I mind me that the Earl of Bothwell ran the race twice with the same four horses, two shod and two unshod, and then again with the shod horses unshod and the unshod shod.”

“What happened?” asked Sir Henry, “a dead heat?”

The monk's face beamed at him. “The unshod horses won both races. It was quite definitive.”

Away in his corner, listening for all he was worth, Simon Anricks smiled as well. It was too pat; he didn't believe it. Not without running the race again.

“That was the one before this Lord Bothwell, his uncle. Queen Mary's lover.”

Spynie smiled at him. “It's said he was a warlock, like his nephew. Perhaps he enchanted the race?”

“Ay, perhaps. In which case why run it? And in any case, my Lord Bothwell backed the shod horses.”

“Why are ye here?” asked Sir Henry. “I've never known one of you monks come into the inn.”

“No, there's nae reason to,” agreed Brother Aurelius. “We make our own aqua vitae and sell it tae the landlord here because it's so good, eh?” The barman smiled and nodded. “I've naething to do with that, it's Brother Ignatius and Lord Abbot Ninian that make it, I anely bring it into town. In the spring. Nay, Sir Henry, I'm here because I accompanied your lady wife here. She's sitting in the parlour now, putting herself around some haggis and mild ale.”

“Where are my men?”

“Och, Ah dinna ken. Back at the abbey perhaps, they wis making theirselves comfortable.”

Sir Henry paused at that. If he could but see it, there was a message to him in that from his men.

“Well I'm not paying for my wife to get fat on the haggis here. She can wait for me without guzzling…”

“Nay need,” said Aurelius benignly, “it's off the abbey's tab which is
well
in credit. The thing is, Sir Henry, she's come back tae ye because it's her duty to dae it not because she wants to, which is a thing I find admirable but sad.”

Sir Henry drank theatrically and finished his quart. “Are you going to tell me how to manage my wife? You? You've never been married—unless it's tae a choirboy.” Some of the men laughed at that; Lord Spynie smiled.

Brother Aurelius was smiling too though the smile was a little strained and his face was redder. “Ay, perhaps it's a mite silly in me, that I should want tae speak up for a woman that's done her best to be a guid and obedient wife tae ye. She's made mistakes, ay, and she says now she shouldnae have come into Scotland wi'out your permission, but she thought since ye were here yerself it wouldnae matter if she came to organise the funeral of Minister Jamie Burn.”

Sir Henry snorted and put the pewter tankard down. “All I ask of her is that she stay at home and do as she's told. That's all.”

“Nay Sir Henry, that isnae. You ask of her that she have no gossips nor friends, that she has nae part o' the marriage bed wi' ye and that she take your ill-treatment of her. That is not what God meant marriage to be…”

“It's none of your business, brother—my wife, my business.”

“Ay, it is my business, Sir Henry, because I was once a Widdrington and I willna see ye bring shame on my surname with your goings on. The way ye treat your wife is only one of them, ye hear? My name was once Roger Widdrington and I'm yer uncle, in fact, d'ye mind? Yer father's younger brother? Yer memory's got worse if ye dinna remember me for I let ye fish in the abbey's fishponds when ye came to see me when ye were a wean, before the change. I've lived a long while and I still live at the abbey because I choose to and, thank God, the Jeddart folk are kind enough to let us stay until all of us go to God. But ye, Sir Henry, are an embarrassment and a shame tae the Widdrington name and, by God, it
is
my place to tell ye so.”

Sir Henry had an ugly expression on his face.

“You can't tell me off about my wife. She's mine.”

“Nay, she isna. She's a creature belonging to God and the way ye treat isnae designed to show her the error of her ways and bring her to better ones. It's designed tae hurt her and make her despair, Sir Henry. It's designed to bring her down. It's a shame and a scandal to your surname, so it is, there's not a one of your men that I spoke to that hasnae respect for your wife—more respect than for ye, though of course they fear ye.”

Sir Henry roared and grabbed Brother Aurelius by the throat of his robe, shoved him backwards to the bar and leaned him over.

“Shut yer face, old man…”

Brother Aurelius' face was as red as Sir Henry's and he had the same full-throated roar despite being bent backwards.

“Old man, is it? Ye're auld yerself, Henry. Ye're the headman of the Widdringtons, and ye bring shame on all of us by treating her the way ye do. There's no kinsman of yourn older than ye are, save me, and so I'll do it, I'll put the shame and the disgrace of it back on your own heid, Sir Henry. If ye do not treat your wife better and kindlier than ye have, may ye be cursed, may all your doings miscarry and may yer life be short.”

Sir Henry seemed to be turned to stone by this. Lord Spynie backed away from him and space opened up around him in the crowded commonroom.

Brother Aurelius flicked away the hand still holding him, stood upright and breathed deep. “See if that'll change your ways,” he said. “But I doot it.” He shook himself and walked to the door of the commonroom. “Ye're not long for this life, Sir Henry. I willna see ye again, I think. Good night to ye.”

When he came into the warm little parlour where Elizabeth was starting to doze off after an excellent meal, she saw at once he was still annoyed.

“Never mind,” she said to him. “I never thought you talking to him would help.”

“Nay missus, I mishandled it and let him sting me. I'm sorry—that, I am.” The old man looked so rueful she could have kissed him. Instead she brushed as much of the mud from her gown as she could and repinned her hat and cap to her head. Then she settled back.

“He knows I'm here. He can come and get me when he chooses and he'll want to keep me waiting so I'll be more affeared of him,” she said. “So I shall get some sleep.”

In the commonroom the shouting was louder yet, though Sir Henry's face had lost the bonhomie it had. Simon Anricks was watching him carefully, the way he looked at Lord Spynie, the way Lord Spynie looked at him. He was also casting ugly glances at Anricks, although Simon could think of no way in which he could have offended the man.

At last Sir Henry came over and sat down heavily in the chair next to Anricks. “Is it true ye use witchcraft to take out teeth?”

“No,” sighed Anricks, “I use sweet oil of vitriol which makes men sleepy so they pass out. It works on chickens as well. I can take out teeth without it but it's very much easier for me to use it.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No, I'm not,” said Anricks. His voice had become very level.

“Well it's a pity because I could find a use for a witch or a warlock now.”

Anricks nodded. “The friar's curse. Yes.”

Sir Henry drank, aqua vitae this time, and wiped his moustache. “I'll treat me wife as I choose.”

“Why?”

“What d'ye mean, why?”

“She's only a woman. If you're…ah…worried by the curse, you've only to treat her better and kindlier. That's what he said, isn't it? “If ye do not treat your wife better and kindlier then ye have, may ye be cursed, may all your doings miscarry and may yer life be short.” To avoid the curse, treat your wife better and kindlier than you have.”

Anricks met the man's eyes full on and Sir Henry found he had a cold acute look to them which chilled him. Anricks went on with the same deadly quiet in him.

“It isn't her fault that you're in debt to Lord Spynie and you can't pay it back. It isn't her fault that you haven't made anything like as much money as you thought you would from the Deputy Wardenship of the East March. And it isn't her fault that you've the gout and stones in your bladder and that causes you pain. But something about her is important to you, Sir Henry, and I'm surprised you've forgotten it.”

“What?” Sir Henry's moustache was jutting and his brows were right down. Anricks' voice was quite weak and whispery and it went softer still.

“Remember whose niece she is, Sir Henry. She is the beloved niece of my Lady Hunsdon and she is thus the niece of Henry Carey, Baron Hunsdon, who is the actual Warden of the East March, not you. He gave her to you in marriage as a part of the governance of the East March, not for your own satisfaction, nor in fact, hers. His wife is very unhappy at the way you treat her and so, naturally enough, is he. Because it embarrasses him too. Being a kindly man, he is angry at your cruelty.”

Sir Henry was staring at Anricks as though at a cockatrice. “How do you know…?”

The smile became colder and the weak voice softer. “If Hunsdon chose to come north to Berwick, he would find out a lot about the Deputy Wardenship you would prefer him not to know. If he were to kick you out of the Deputy Wardenship, which he might, you wouldn't be naked, no, you'd still have your surname. But your life would be considerably harder.”

“Are ye threatening me?”

“No, Sir Henry, I am telling you the facts of life. But you might consider kindness as a better policy all round. I've been married for years, and I like it. I have five children and another on the way and I love my wife. But you do not have to love your wife to have a perfectly pleasant life with her, if you treat her with some respect.”