Free 2 A Season of Knives: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm Page A

busy too.’
    ‘Not the broken men,’ said Carey. ‘They can steal what others mow and stack.’
    Elizabeth shrugged. There was no help for it and she saw no point in putting it off. ‘I’m sure my husband’s name will be some protection,’ she said.
    ‘Not in this March. In the East March, certainly, the Middle March perhaps, but not…’
    ‘Sir Robert, there is simply nothing to discuss. I must start for home today. Are the horses ready, Henry?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As ready as they’ll be without a couple of days’ more rest.’
    She clicked her fingers at one of the grooms, and he led her horse up to the mounting block. He would have offered her his arm to mount, but Carey was there first. The flourish he gave the simple act of helping her into the saddle could have been meant for the Queen of England, and she knew perfectly well he did it that way on purpose.
    She hooked her leg over the sidesaddle, found the stirrup and rearranged her skirts, took the reins and her whip from the groom.
    ‘Do you never ride pillion?’ Carey asked, smiling up at her.
    ‘I prefer to make my own mistakes,’ she told him severely and he smiled wider. ‘Goodbye Sir Robert,’ she managed to say, without the least wobble in her voice, and felt quite proud of herself for doing it.
    Young Henry was in the saddle as were the other four men, all of them wearing their jacks and carrying lances. Henry’s jack betrayed him by its new pale leather. Nominally, Young Henry was in command as her husband’s heir and those who wished to think it true, could do so. Elizabeth nodded at him, checked that her hat was well pinned to her cap and hair, and let him take the lead out of the stable yard.
    She had already embraced Philadelphia and exchanged courtesies with Lord Scrope, though the two of them were in the main castle yard to see her off. She rode with her back so straight that her horse skittered sideways uneasily, catching the desperation she was cramming down tight inside herself. She breathed deeply, took the mare in hand and forced her to behave herself.
    She simply would not—she refused to—look over her shoulder, though she knew that Carey was there, staring at her departing back as she passed the gate and started down through Castlegate on the long road for Newcastle.
    ***
    About fifteen minutes later, the large handsome charger was trotting down English street as well. When he was through Botchergate and past the Citadel, Carey put his heels in. The sheer pleasure of feeling the power in Thunder, as he made the transition faultlessly to a gallop, almost broke his dark mood. The sun was shining bright and the meadows round about were alive with men and women and carts, the women raking the golden hay into piles, the men flinging them up onto the tops of the wagons where boys and girls raked it all into shape. Every so often, a cart would rumble along the ruts to a barn or haystack and the same activity would start again in reverse. The pace seemed very hectic and Carey wondered why as he galloped past, given the warmth of the day and the clear harebell blue of the sky with a few clouds floating in from the west.
    He caught up with them quickly and reined in, let Thunder get over his customary side-stepping and pawing as he came back to a sedate walk.
    The look Elizabeth Widdrington gave him was not what he would have wished. Carey swept his hat off and bowed low in the saddle to her and tried to smile. He found that the steadiness of her grey glare was making him feel like a schoolboy in the middle of an escapade and for a moment he felt awkward. Then he had to grin.
    ‘Do tell me the joke, Sir Robert,’ Elizabeth said frostily.
    He waved an arm expansively. ‘I was thinking that only the Queen and yourself can take me back to my schooldays so easily.’
    Elizabeth faced forwards and said, ‘Humph.’
    ‘Thunder needed exercise,’ Carey explained innocently. ‘I thought I’d bring him along the Roman road for a