19. Andrew

A NDREW Brancepeth Castle, County Durham, 12th May 1613

‘I REALIZE I ' VE SAID THIS already,' Sir David remarked from his seat on the bench in the stables, ‘but you truly are in the wrong business.'

I was bent low to the mare's hind leg, with my hands smeared in a sticky blend of dark brown pitch and resin and warm, melted mastic that I was applying as a poultice. She did not yet have the windgalls, but I'd felt the first beginnings of the swellings just above her fetlock that would cause her trouble if I did not give her care.

Absorbed in this, I did not look around. ‘Aye, so ye've telt me.'

‘You are very good at what you do, but it is clear to anyone with eyes that you are happier with horses than you are when apprehending fugitives like me.'

He was not wrong, but I would not have told him so. Instead I answered him, ‘I'm grateful for my place at court.'

‘I didn't say you weren't. But if you had the freedom to choose your profession, I doubt you'd choose to wear that scarlet livery.'

I straightened from the mare's leg, reaching for the little jug of oil to cleanse my hands while I looked down the stables' length – the clean and homely warmth of it, with all the horses huddled close. The storm had finally struck this morning, starting with a heavy rain an hour ago, and only a few minutes past, the thunder and the lightning rolled through with a vengeance, but they were now moving off and leaving only wicked wind that battered at the windows, making all within these stables feel even more sheltered. More secure.

This was my element. The sort of place where I could very happily begin my every morning, but, ‘Which one of us is free?' I asked Sir David.

‘A fair point,' he told me. ‘Certainly not me.' He watched me while I took the oil jug in hand and, with a rag, bent once again to oil the mare's hooves, then he said, ‘Nor yet my brother. His heart's always been within the stables, too.' He smiled. ‘I did spend many mornings just like this one, as a lad, at home at Abercairney, watching William with our grooms. He always had opinions on how best to see the horses cared for.'

‘He still does,' I told him, and allowed myself to share the smile, if briefly. I had long experience of being on the end of lectures from Sir William Moray.

I'd never heard Sir David laugh. He sounded like his brother. And being here, among the horses, talking lightly and relaxed, it was an easy thing for my mind to turn backwards to the days when I'd worked in the stables at Somerset House, for Sir William.

‘Instinct,' he'd told me once, when I was facing a problem with one of the foals, ‘is your best guide. The Lord gave you that for a reason, so use it.'

Sir David was saying, ‘It got him in trouble, though.'

I must have looked blank, because he explained, ‘Sharing his opinion. On our way down from Scotland, the year the king came to the throne. William was the Master of the Queen's Horse then, but there was an Englishman who also wished to have the post, and interfered in how the horses should be managed. William would not hold his tongue, he gave his own opinion, and it came to blows between them, and my brother lost his place.'

I'd heard this tale, and told him so. ‘It was unfair. At least the queen did let Sir William have the keeping of her stables, for I'd wager he was right in his opinion.'

‘William's always right,' Sir David said.

I heard the echo of his brother's voice then – not from years ago, but from the last time I had faced Sir William, on the day I'd learned I would be heading north to Edinburgh.

‘He has done nothing wrong,' he'd told me on that day, his tone as steady as his eyes. ‘You'll bring my brother here to London and they'll force him to stand trial for the prince's murder, and they'll judge him as they please, but he is innocent.'

The worst thing was, I knew that he was right. I felt it in my bones, but I was caught between my duty and my conscience just as surely as I would be trapped against this stable wall should the mare choose to lean her weight against me now and pin me there.

She did not lean. She arched her head to nudge my shoulder with her nose. She was a Turkish mare, coal black and beautiful, with an elegant head like a Barbary horse and soft eyes that by turn could be stubborn or gentle, and now seemed to hold quiet sympathy.

Straightening once again, I set the oil jug down and asked, irritably, ‘Where is Hector? The kitchens aren't that far. It shouldn't take this long to fetch back a bucket of ale.'

Sir David said he did not know. ‘Perhaps the servants in the kitchen aren't being cooperative. He's but a lad, he'd not know how to deal with that.'

‘I do.' I'd hung my hat upon a peg beside the stable door. I put it on now, so my uniform would have its full effect. Brutus, on the far side of the mare, looked round and glared at me, but I assured him, ‘Bide your time, I'll get to ye. And you,' I told Sir David, ‘wait here.'

He sat back obligingly, arms folded, but his eyebrows lifted. ‘Aren't you worried I'll escape?' It was an idle dare; he didn't mean it. Or at least, I hoped he didn't.

‘No,' I said. ‘Besides, there's nowhere ye can go that I won't find ye.' As I drew my cloak around me, I looked back. ‘'Tis as ye said. I'm good at what I do.'

Hector wasn't in the kitchens. No one there had seen him. Half concerned and half ill-tempered, I went back into the rain and sought him in the chamber we'd been given on the first floor of the central tower, but he was not there either. Nor had he been seen by Westaway, who was, as always, busy with his writing.

I was crossing through the hall when I heard voices. They were coming from the old stone stairs that had been carved much like a tunnel through the thickness of the tower's walls, descending from this level to the floor below.

I will admit that when I recognized one voice as Phoebe's, I moved quietly – more quietly, perhaps, than I had cause to. But I did not seek to spy upon them. When I reached the open archway at the stairhead, I made no attempt to hide my presence, and by simply standing there I blocked a good part of the light, yet neither of them noticed.

They sat several steps below me, unaware. The lad was huddled close against the wall, his shoulders hunched, his head supported by his hands, the picture of pure misery.

Phoebe said, ‘And anyhow, it won't last long. Storms never do. You'll see. It will be over soon, and you can fetch your – ale, was it?' When Hector nodded, Phoebe asked, ‘Is this for you or for the horse?'

She meant that as a quip, to cheer the lad, but Hector was past being cheered. ‘The horses.' And he told her it was for my cordial, and explained how we were going to give it to the mare, and why.

‘You do know a great deal about horses, Hector. I'm sure Logan thinks you are invaluable.'

The way he shook his head fair broke my heart. ‘He'll think that I'm a coward.'

‘Nonsense. Many men fear thunderstorms. You cannot live and not fear something.' Phoebe paused a moment, then as if she wished to prove that point, she said, ‘I was once so frightened of the plague I shrank from touching any stranger who might carry it.'

Her words struck deep. I thought of how she had reacted when I had first offered her my hand to try to help her, all those years ago. How she'd recoiled from me, and how I had taken it as personal rejection.

Hector asked, ‘How did ye learn tae not be feart?'

She shrugged. ‘I grew a little older and I learned that ladies could wear gloves. And then I grew a little braver and I laid the gloves aside. We rarely lose our fears completely, Hector, but you'll find all people have them. They do simply move beyond them.'

Hector thought about this. Then he said, ‘Not Logan, though. He isnae feart of anything.'

From where I stood, I couldn't see their faces, but there was a smile in Phoebe's voice when she replied, ‘Perhaps not Logan. But he is exceptional.'

For all that it felt wrong to stand and watch them, it yet gave me a warm feeling to hear Phoebe speak of me in such a way. And that warm feeling grew when I saw Phoebe lay an arm of comfort over Hector's shoulder, so the lad could be a child for just that moment.

‘You're a brave boy, Hector, honestly,' she told him, with a fond hug, ‘to come all this way with us, and on your own. You needn't worry you're not brave. And Logan knows it.'

Stepping back, I made a second entry to the room, and made it loudly, so they'd hear my boots upon the floor. This time, when I reached the arched stairhead, they'd both turned where they were sitting, and were looking up towards me.

‘Well done, lad,' I said to Hector. ‘I was hoping that ye might have had a minute to look in on Mistress Westaway, to see she was not frightened by the storm.'

Phoebe was quick of mind, and did not need to catch my eyes to understand what I was doing. ‘Yes,' she told me, ‘Hector did suggest these stairs because they're very quiet, aren't they, Hector?'

Hector, to his credit, though confused at first, was not the sort of lad to tell a total lie. He told me only, ‘I was glad tae keep your lady company.'

The stairs were dim, but I could see a tinge of red spread over Phoebe's features and I gathered she was less amused than I was by the choice of Hector's words. I said, ‘And I am grateful for it. Though ye might have chosen some place less confined.' I looked at the stone walls with open doubt. ‘Are not ye feart of spiders?'

Hector looked astonished. ‘No. Are you?'

‘I cannot bide the creatures.' Which was partly truth. ‘Wee, nasty, crawling beasties.'

Hector looked at Phoebe, whose return glance seemed to say, You see? What did I tell you? But when her dark eyes met my own, they shone with quiet gratitude.

I cleared my throat. ‘The storm is passing now, so if ye care to come with me and fetch that ale, we'll finish with the horses. I could use an expert pair of hands,' I said, ‘to help me.'

‘Aye, I'm ready.' Hector rose as though his legs were set on springs, and bounded up the stairs towards me.

As he pushed by me, I asked, ‘And will ye be all right now, Mistress Westaway, if we do leave ye here alone?'

Her smile, all on its own, would have cleared off the clouds and made space for the sun, and had I been a lad of Hector's age, it could not have had more of an effect upon me, though I tried to keep that fact well hidden.

She said, ‘Thank you, I believe I will.'

Old ghosts are stubborn things, sometimes. They like to linger, and to cling, and cloud our senses. Ducking low, I eased myself down the first few stone stairs so I could hold my hand outstretched to her, to help her to her feet.

I held my breath, I don't know why.

And then, quite naturally, she raised her own hand and I felt it fit warmly into mine, and with great care, as though she had been made of glass, I laid my thumb across her fingers.

Phoebe stood, and as she did, the old ghost fell away from us.

I let it fall, and for the first time in a long time, I had no last words to speak. I helped her to the stairhead, then I nodded and, with Hector at my side and still in silence, took my leave.

The sun was indeed shining when we set out the next morning. The mare's gait was normal, her hind leg improved, but to keep it protected I'd put on a new poultice and wrapped it well with a hose made of woollen cloth.

As I fastened the pillion onto the back of my saddle, Sir David examined the mare with concern. ‘Will she carry me still?'

‘Aye,' I promised him. ‘We'll keep our journeys short for the next few days, and she'll be fine.'

He tilted his head. ‘Will that not slow our progress to London?'

Adjusting a strap, I asked, ‘And are ye in such a hurry to get there?'

Sir David said nothing at first, but I felt him observing me. Then he said, in a faintly amused tone, ‘No. No, I am not.'

I wasn't, either, for various reasons. One of them was seated close behind me as we rode out through the castle gate and made our way along the village street, between the facing rows of houses. And another one was riding to my left.

I cast a sidelong look at Laurence Westaway and wished, not for the first time, that I didn't have the Sight. He looked his own self now, but when he'd greeted me at break of day, I'd seen him in his winding sheet. It had been gathered at his throat.

When it has reached his neck , I heard again my mother telling me, ye'll ken his time is very close and can be counted then in days .

He saw me watching him, and smiled. ‘A fair day.'

‘Aye, it is.'

He said, ‘?"This castle hath a pleasant seat." That's from a play I saw last spring at the Globe Theatre, by the King's Men. They were speaking of a Scottish castle, but it aptly describes Brancepeth.'

I agreed. ‘A pity that the constable was not at home.'

‘Oh, but he was.' His eyes were sly. ‘Did not you know? He was the whole time in his tower chamber, hiding from us. Yes, indeed,' he told me, when I looked at him in disbelief. ‘I had it from his servant.'

‘And ye did not think to tell me?'

‘There seemed little point. The reason we were being fed so well,' he said, ‘was to distract us. I had no desire to lose such a delicious distraction.' He looked smug. ‘And anyway, the constable was never going to show himself until we left. He thought the king had sent you to arrest him.'

I could feel my thoughts revolving. ‘Why would he think that?'

‘'Tis difficult to fathom,' agreed Westaway. ‘Although his servant told me that the constable is not well liked by many of the villagers, nor by the keepers of the deer parks, who have all accused him of mismanaging the castle for the profit of his friends and of himself. There is apparently some stained glass that was sold without the knowledge of the king, and many deer were shot and taken from the parks. And there were other issues. Letters have been written.' With a face that was all innocence, he added, ‘That was how his servant came to speak to me, in fact. He noticed I was writing, and he wondered whether it was a report, you see, intended for the king.'

He looked so virtuous I could not help but be suspicious. ‘And what did ye tell him?'

Westaway said calmly, ‘Well, my boy, you know I do not like to tell a lie. I told him yes, it was.' His mask slipped briefly when his eyes met mine. They showed their mischief. ‘That was quite a tender leg of mutton they did serve us yesterday at dinner, was it not? And that French claret was impeccable.'

Of course I laughed, but it was laughter tempered with a sense of loss, for Westaway would not be coming home with us, and I knew that without him, home would never be the same.

A little beyond Brancepeth, in the shelter of the forest, I once more took off my scarlet doublet and put on the blacksmith's father's clothes.

Sir David said, ‘It's like being back at court, with all the masques and costume changes.'

From Brutus's saddle, I sent him a dry look. ‘Ye may blame your cousin Patrick for the spectacle. We'll be upon a more well-travelled road, and he may well have gone ahead of us and spread his lies.'Tis safer for us all if I'm not seen to be a Messenger.'

Behind me, Phoebe took a firm hold of my belt. ‘And are we then… are you and I…?'

I knew what she was asking me, and told her, ‘Aye, we're married.' Which was not, perhaps, the gallant way to say it, but she knew exactly what I meant, as did the others.

Still, Sir David drily commented, ‘A rare and easy way to win a bride.'

‘Indeed,' said Westaway. ‘I had to woo my wife for years before she finally married me.'

I'd never heard him speak of Phoebe's mother and he didn't say more now, but he stayed in good spirits all the day. To give him rest, I kept my word, and kept our journey short. We came to Darlington by dinnertime, and stopped there, and we took our time in starting the next morning.

This day's ride was not overlong, either. I took them south by the old road that for time out of mind had carried merchants, travellers, and Messengers like me from London through York into Scotland, or the other way around.

It was a busy road and showed the wear of it. We passed three people heading north, and were ourselves passed by a merchant's wagon heading south that left deep wheel ruts in the softened ground when it had gone from view. The rain we'd had two days ago at Brancepeth must have fallen here as well, because the ground was muddy still in places, and I had to veer the horses off the road from time to time so they could find a solid footing.

From the sky and wind, I felt convinced we'd have more rain that afternoon, for it was low and full of cloud and threatening. Sir David turned the hood of his dark cloak up in anticipation of it, but beside me, Westaway stayed cheerful.

‘You're both worrying for nothing,' he assured us. ‘I consulted with my almanac, and it assures me that the weather will continue clear and fine now until after Whitsuntide.'

I put less faith in what the movements of the stars and planets might foretell, but just then I was more concerned with the lone rider coming for us at a reckless gallop.

I'd not let my guard down that completely, and my hand was at the holster of my pistol on the saddle afore I saw that the rider wore the clothing of an age long past, and that his jacket and his horse were streaked in blood.

Afore I saw his eyes.

‘Turn back!' the wraith implored me as he went by, heading for the north. ‘Turn back! The battle has been lost.'

His voice was Scottish, meaning we most likely were a few miles to the north now of Northallerton, where anciently the Battle of the Standard had resulted in a great loss of my countrymen. I glanced behind. The wraith was gone, his horse's hooves leaving no imprints on the ground to mark their passing.

But my momentary lapse of concentration meant that Brutus lost his footing for an instant and he stumbled on the muddy road, and Phoebe's hands on instinct quickly let go of my belt and caught hold of my body, clinging firmly to my sides. I offered no complaint, although I reassured both her and Brutus as we walked on.

‘There. I see a patch of blue.' Westaway, scanning the sky with its swift-running clouds, smiled and looked at me. ‘Did I not say you were worried for nothing?'

But I wasn't looking at him. Past his shoulder, across the wide slope of the field to the side of the road, I saw several more riders on horseback approaching at speed. These were wraiths, too – their clothes were the same as the one who'd just passed us, their hair just as wild, and their weapons as heavy. I knew they would fade, just as he had.

But Phoebe pressed close at my back, her hands gripping my waist, and she asked in an urgent voice, ‘Can we outrun them?'

And I realized this was my vision – the one I had Seen in the stables at home. Except Phoebe was Seeing the wraiths, just as I was.

I'd heard of this happening. My mother told me that those in the Western Isles who had the Sight could share their visions by their touch. That my own grandfather – her father – sometimes shared with her the things that he was Seeing. But I'd never tried to do it. This was new to my experience.

The wraiths, still half a field from us, lost substance and were taken by the wind.

‘Outrun who?' I asked her, calmly, although inside I felt anything but calm.

It was unkind of me, I knew, to make her doubt what she'd just seen with her own eyes, but better that than having to explain the truth in front of everyone, and thus expose myself to all the penalties of witchcraft.

She fell quiet with confusion. Then, ‘Forgive me, my mind shows me phantoms.'

‘There are no such things,' said her father. ‘You must have been sleeping.'

She didn't answer him, and seeking to atone for my denial of the truth, I said, ‘Well, if there were such things as phantoms, they'd be thick upon the ground here, for this is a battlefield of note.'

Phoebe sounded encouraged. ‘Is it?'

‘Oh, aye. No doubt Sir David kens the history better than myself.'

He did, and kept us all regaled with a brave telling of the Battle of the Standard for the last few miles as we came to Northallerton. It was a vibrant market town, and well laid out for travellers. I stopped where I had lodged the last time I'd been here – the house owned by the Metcalfe family, opposite the church, since being cousins to the king, they could be counted on to lend support and loyalty.

The one great advantage to being my size was that people, once meeting me, didn't forget me.

‘Young Logan! Well met,' Metcalfe greeted me warmly. ‘And this beautiful lady is…?'

‘My wife,' I said, not thinking how that might complicate things on my travels this way in the future. ‘Her father, and two of our friends. We are on the king's business. We'll need to have lodging the night, and the use of your stables.'

‘Of course.'

Mistress Metcalfe's cook was excellent, and she herself was as attentive a hostess as her husband was an indulgent host. In such a home, warmed by the talk and the food and the company, with the clean, lime-washed ceiling and walls and the perfectly swept, polished floors and the windows that sent back the gleams of the candlelight, it would be easy for me to relax.

But a part of me stayed on alert, and I heard the sharp fall of the footsteps outside in the street afore the first knock came at the door.

Metcalfe rose to investigate. Coming back into the dining room, he told me, ‘Logan, it is Granville, landlord of the Fleece, one of our local inns. He begs your leave to have a word with you.'

‘Then ask him in.'

‘He'd rather not,' said Metcalfe.

Not a sign that promised well. I stood and went to meet my mystery caller.

Granville of the Fleece was a congenial man who looked as though he'd rather have been anywhere just now than on this doorstep giving me his message.

‘Beg your pardon, sir, but I've a gentleman who's staying with me, who has lately come with several members of his family.' Here he paused, and coughed. ‘They are most keen to see their cousin.'

Graeme, damn him. My hand itched to lay itself upon my sword, and I tried not to look into the semi-darkness that was settling now upon the street, for I felt sure that he'd be watching from a window.

Granville said, ‘This gentleman requests that you allow his cousin to come join them.'

‘And if I refuse?'

The landlord of the Fleece appeared uneasy. ‘Then he'll come and pay his compliments himself, sir, though he fears that you may find his tone too rough.'

A peal of laughter sounded from the dining room within the house, and I heard Hector's boyish tones rise over all, delighted.

Granville asked, ‘What answer shall I give him, sir?'

From just behind my shoulder in the dimness of the entryway, Sir David said, ‘Tell him I'll come.'

I half turned, and he parried my cold stare with his impassive one.

‘Ye'll tell him no such thing,' I said to Granville.

Calm, Sir David held my gaze. ‘I know my cousin. You do not. Think of the lad,' he told me. ‘And the others. Think of her.'

I hesitated, and he took advantage of that moment, looking past me once again to Granville.

‘Tell him I will come,' Sir David told the landlord of the Fleece, with full conviction.

Granville nodded. ‘Very good, sir.' And with obvious relief, he turned and hurried off along the road towards his inn.

Sir David's glance was meant to signify that I still blocked the door. He said, ‘I've given you my word that I will not escape.'

‘Ye didn't give your word ye'd not be kidnapped. D'ye think he'll let ye stroll out of the Fleece once he has got ye safely in his hands?'

‘It isn't up to Patrick what I do. Do you not trust me?'

‘No.'

He fixed his hat more firmly on his head and said, ‘I'll try not to be wounded by your scathing lack of confidence.' He tilted his head a fraction. ‘Do you truly have a scar above your heart thanks to a gentleman who did betray your trust?'

It was a question I had not expected. ‘Where did ye hear that?'

He shrugged. ‘We did a lot of talking, Mistress Westaway and I, while we were riding. She seemed very keen to make sure that I understood it was no idle thing that you removed my fetters.' With his hat brim properly adjusted, his gaze levelled once more on my own. ‘But I already knew that.'

I felt that I was frowning, but I only said, ‘I show my scars to no man.'

‘Nor do I.' His voice was mild, but there was something of an undertone within it that decided things.

I stepped aside.

‘One hour,' I told him, ‘or I'm coming after ye.'

‘One hour,' he said, and stepped into the street. ‘You have my word.'