A Famine of Horses (13 page)

“Did ye not hear what I told you? There’s a new Deputy there and I’ve business with one of Dodd’s men.”

“God help him,” muttered one of the other men.

Wednesday, 21st June, 9 a.m.

Lady Philadelphia Scrope was glaring worriedly at her embroidery hoop as she sat on a padded stool in the Queen Mary Tower and finished a rampant blackwork bee. She heard her brother’s boots coming heavily up the stairs, tripping once. There was a pause at the door before he opened it and came in.

Almost laughing with relief at the sight of him, she put down her work and ran to hug him. He was rank with sweat, horse and human, and the oddly bitter scents of sodden leather and iron, he was spattered from head to foot with mud and blood, but none of it fresh enough to be his, thank God. The only thing not some shade of brown on him, other than the grubby rag of his collar, was his face which was white with weariness.

“You caught them,” she said joyfully, “You caught the reivers.”

Robin’s swordbelt clattered onto a chest and the pieces of rapier fell out.

“Bloody thing broke,” grunted her brother, stripping off his gloves and fighting the laces of his helmet which had shrunk in the rain so that the knots became inextricable. He started to swear but Philadelphia delved in her workbag, brought out her little broidery shears and snipped the laces, so he could take it off and shake out his hair. She helped him with the ones on his jack which had also shrunk, took if off his shoulders for him, acting the squire as she had on occasion for her husband, and set it on its stand. As always it surprised her with its weight: you expected a steel helmet to be heavy, but you couldn’t see the metal plates in a jack under the padded leather. She set to work on his doublet points.

He swatted at her feebly.

“For God’s sake, Philly, I can do it myself. And where’s Barnabus?”

“He had to go a message.” The room was beginning to steam up.

“Christ, who sent my own bloody servant off…”

“And anyway, he told me himself he’s not much of a hand with armour and suchlike, you never took him to the Netherlands with you remember. I’m much better at it than he is.”

“I can’t afford to lend you any more…”

Resisting the impulse to punch him, Philadelphia sat him on the stool, which made him wince satisfactorily, and hauled off his left boot.

“Be quiet,” she said. “Behind the screen is my lord’s own hip bath with hot water in it. The cold is in the ewer next to it, don’t knock it over. There’s a towel and a fresh shirt airing on a hook by the chest, and your other suit, the good cramoisie, and your other boots and—come on, Robert,
pull
will you?—a fresh pair of hose. Don’t worry about the leaves in the water, they’re lovage, they’ll soothe your saddle burns…” She put the boots down near the door.

“How do you know I’ve got saddle burns?”

“And on the table by the bath is a posset…”

“I hate possets.”

“Which you will drink and a mess of eggs on sippets of toast with herbs in, which I made myself…”

“Which I must eat?”

“Which you will eat or I’ll wave your shirt out the window like the mother on a wedding morning. My lord wants to hear the whole tale when you’ve finished. Leave your soiled linen on the floor as you usually do and I’ll send Barnabus as soon as he’s back.”

“Why the cramoisie suit?”

She hid a pert little grin. “For a good and sufficient reason which I will tell you as soon as you’ve finished with the Warden. Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

She dodged his attempt to stop her and cross-examine her about whatever female plot she was working, humphed at him like a mother of five and then her skirts swished through the door and she was gone.

Wondering what she meant about his shirt, he pulled the clammy thing off and found its lower half spotted with fresh blood in a dozen places. Shuddering he hobbled to the screen, holding up his hose with one hand and feeling the damage tenderly with the other.

Wednesday, 21st June, 10 a.m.

It was unjust, thought Dodd, after Carey had supervised the penning of their fees in the little fold within the Carlisle castle walls, the feeding, watering and rubbing down of their tired hobbies, and the feeding, watering and congratulating of the men and gone wearily to the Queen Mary Tower. What was unjust was that he had servants to help him clean up after fighting, whereas John Ogle’s boy who was supposed to look after Dodd’s needs had disappeared to Carlisle town. Dodd was reduced to a quick scour under the barracks pump which got the worst off; he left his jack to Bessie’s Andrew and received with sour silence Bangtail’s explanations of the whorehouse he’d been in when the summons came to go out on the hot trod.

He thought he’d done well for himself until he saw the blasted Courtier, hair combed, sweet-smelling as a maid on her wedding morning, and spruce in a fresh ruff and a fine London suit the colour of a summer pudding, with one of Scrope’s spare swords on his belt. It was enough to make a man puke.

Captains Carleton and Dick Musgrave, and the bad penny Sir Richard Lowther, were all present at the meeting in the Warden’s council chamber. Carey told the tale of the raid and the capture of five Grahams red-handed with a fine blend of modesty and fact-improving. It was not a long tale; shorter by far than the reports Lowther generally gave, in which he explained why the trods he led always, for some excellent reason, just missed catching the reivers.

“What will you do with your fees?” asked Lowther.

“We might kill the older cow to salt down, but the other two we’ll sell to buy powder and guns,” said Carey.

“And the Grahams?” asked Scrope.

“We can keep them until the next Day of Truce,” said Carey. “Then I can swear of my own knowing that they were raiders and hang them where their deaths will do most good.”

Scrope nodded at the sense of this. “That’s why you didn’t hang them on the spot.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Carey. “I also wanted to talk to them.”

“Oh?” asked Lowther, “Why?”

“Horses,” answered Carey. “I’m concerned about horses. Not just the ones we lack for your father’s funeral, my lord, but the fact that we seem to have a general famine of horses.”

“I heard there was a horse plague in Scotland,” said Lowther.

“Did you?” said Carey, “I’ve not heard of it. Where is it worst?”

Lowther shrugged. “I don’t know. It would account for the lack of horses…”

“It would,” said Carey slowly, ‘but what concerns me is that the Grahams might be reiving horses for a different reason.”

“Why?” Scrope’s fingers were at their anxious self-knitting again.

“For a large-scale long-range raid at the next opportunity,” said Carey. “If they want to ride deep into England, they’ll need remounts, especially for the return when they’ll be driving spoil and at risk of meeting us.”

Lowther’s eyes had gone so small they almost disappeared under his grey eyebrows.

“What happened this raid…” Carey shook his head. “They used the cattle as bait, knowing we’d follow, with Elliots to spring the trap just outside Liddesdale. Luckily Captain Carleton was there…”

“No luck about it,” growled Carleton, deep in his chest, “I got your message.” Lowther glared at him.

“…so we caught them. But meanwhile the main band of Grahams were winnowing the border of horses and taking them off north to Liddesdale. From the preliminary complaints, I’d say they had enough for a journey of a hundred miles or more and back again, depending on how many reivers there are.”

“When would this happen?” asked Scrope.

“Well, they won’t want the horses for long because feeding that many animals could beggar them for their winter horsefeed. And further, the perfect date would be one when all the gentlemen of the March will be otherwise engaged.” He said the last couple of words with a great deal of emphasis and looked at Scrope.

“Oh Lord,” said the Warden with deep dismay. “You mean on the day of my father’s funeral?”

“Yes, my lord. I would also point out that the preparations are not ready, even if we had the horses for the bier.”

“I thought you were supposed to be arranging it,” sneered Lowther. Carey did not rise to this.

“I have been a little busy, Sir Richard.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” said Scrope. “Are you saying that you want me to postpone the funeral?”

“Yes, my lord. For a few days only. Hold it on Sunday rather than tomorrow. If you made a proclamation at the Market Cross this noon and sent fast messengers to the gentlemen expected for the service warning them to be ready for a long-range raid…”

“On the evidence of the theft of a few nags?” protested Lowther. “It’s hardly conclusive that they’d be trying any such thing. And this is the wrong time of year.”

“It looks bad to me,” grunted Carleton.

“What about the body?” continued Lowther, “Won’t it start to stink?”

Scrope was offended. “My revered father’s corpse has been embalmed of course, a few days should do no harm.”

“And I’d rather postpone the funeral unnecessarily than have to explain to the Queen why we allowed the broken men of the Debateable Land to foray deep into England,” said Carey sincerely.

Lowther, who had never met her, rolled his eyes but Scrope, who had, was nodding anxiously.

“I think you’re right, Sir Robert, we’ll postpone the funeral until Sunday. I’ll see to the proclamations and messages. Will you make any other arrangements necessary, and deal with the complaints from this raid.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The meeting broke up and Carleton caught up with Carey as he hurried to the door.

“Here’s your ring back, Sir Robert. Now, I’m sending a message to my cousin that keeps a stud in Northumberland—he has some draft horses with good dark coats he’d be willing to lend us for a fee. They’ll be here by Saturday.”

“Thank you, Captain. That solves the foremost of my worries…”

“Oh ay? What about this long-range raid?”

Carey shrugged. “There’s little I can do about that save be ready for them if they come. Though I’d give a lot to know where they’re gathering.”

“If it’s Bothwell planning it, they’ll be riding from Lochmaben.”

Carey shook his head. “I doubt it’s the Earl. He’s in such bad odour with the Scottish king since that mad attack on Holyrood Palace last year, he’ll want to keep the Queen of England as sweet as he can. No, I think it’s Jock of the Peartree planning this and Sweetmilk was concerned in it somehow when he was killed.”

Carleton nodded. “I heard that the Grahams were blaming Dodd for the murder, poor man.”

“You don’t think he did it either?”

“God, no,” Carleton laughed. “Any man of any sense that had a Graham corpse on his hands like that would take him down to the Rockcliffe marshes and throw him in the deepest bog he could find, not take him up to the old battlefield and try and hide him in a gorse bush.” Carleton shook his head, his broad face full of mirth. “Me, I’d leave him on Elliot or Armstrong land and let them take the heat. Dodd’s no jewel, but he’s not mad.”

As they went down the stair, Carey put his hand to his head as he remembered something.

“By the way, Captain, you’ve a right to a part of our fee for helping the trod, haven’t you?”

Carleton clapped a massive paw on Carey’s shoulder.

“Lad,” he said, “watching you and Dodd and the garrison mixing it with those Grahams was almost worth the fee to me. Pay me a quarter of whatever you make on the heifer and the younger cow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for months, and you won me a pound off my brother.”

“Oh?” smiled Carey, “what did you bet on?”

“Whether you’d dare attack, what else?”

Carey laughed. “At least it wasn’t on whether I’d fall off my horse.”

Carleton’s face was full of pleasure. “Nay, Sir Robert, I won that bet the day before yesterday.”

Wednesday, 21st June, 10 a.m.

Philadelphia Scrope was waiting impatiently for the men to stop blathering and come out of the council room at the back of the keep. She stopped Robert, who was looking very fine, if a bit baggy under the eyes, and took him mysteriously by the arm.

“All right, Philly,” said her brother resignedly, “what’s the surprise.”

“Come with me.”

“Philly, I’ve about a hundred things to do and at least fifty letters to write and Richard Bell promised me he could only be my clerk this morning, so…”

“It’ll take no more than ten minutes.”

Carey sighed and suffered himself to be led. They went out through the Captain’s gate and down the covered way a little to Bessie’s handsome inn and through the arch to the courtyard.

Behind them three of Dodd’s men came tumbling out of the inn’s common room, teasing a fourth for missing out on his share of the trod fee. The men headed for the drawbridge gate shouting crude jokes about the origins of Bangtail’s nickname and how they would improve it, looking very pleased with themselves. Carey watched them go approvingly and when Philly pulled impatiently on his arm, he turned the way she was pointing him.