A Famine of Horses (15 page)

“Ay sir,” mumbled Bangtail.

“Now, I ask you again and for the last time. Did you tell anyone of the Sergeant’s new horse?”

Bangtail’s boot toe scraped in the rushes and kicked a flowerhead into the fireplace.

“I might…I might have mentioned it by accident to Ekie last night—that’s my half-brother—I think I was talking of…of well, fine horseflesh and where you could get it and I might have said the Sergeant’s wife had a stallion that was as fine as the King of Scotland’s own. And that’s all.”

Dodd remained ominously silent, while Janet simply snorted. Carey let the silence run for a bit. Bangtail flushed, looked at the floor, squashed a stray rush with his other boot toe, coughed and added, “I might have said I thought it was Jock’s new stallion, Caspar, but I asked him not to tell.”

Janet let out a single derisory “Ha!” and subsided again.

“How many men would we need to take your horses back from Jock of the Peartree?” Carey asked Dodd. The Sergeant considered for a minute, his considerable military sense at last beginning to work.

“It’s well too late to stop him reaching Liddesdale, especially with only horses to drive,” he said mournfully. “And to pry him out of Liddesdale with the notice he’s had—I wouldna like to try it with less than a thousand men, sir.”

Privately Carey thought that was optimistic. “Bangtail, how many men can your uncle have in the saddle by this afternoon?”

Bangtail looked shifty. “I don’t know…”

“I think you do know, Bangtail,” Carey said with quiet venom, “and I’m waiting to hear it from you if you want to keep your neck the length it is now.”

“What would you hang me for, sir?” demanded Bangtail. “I never did…”

“March treason, what else?” said Carey, smiling unpleasantly. “For bringing in raiders.”

“Oh.” Bangtail thought for a little longer. “By this afternoon he’d have 800 men or so, plus however many Elliots felt like turning out, and another 300 in the morning, if he calls in the Debateable Land broken men or the Johnstones. If Old Wat Scott of Harden comes in for him, well, it’s another 500 at least and…”

“Going into Liddesdale on a foray with Jock warned and his kinship behind him…” Carey shook his head.

“I can bring in a hundred Dodds myself,” said Henry, “and Janet’s brothers and father can call on another two hundred, all English Armstrongs. And Kinmont Willie would listen to her, he’s an uncle and he likes her and he can have a thousand men in the saddle by morning if he wants…”

Carey shut his eyes momentarily at the thought of the West March descending into bloody chaos three days after he arrived.

“Are ye saying it’s too hard to go and fetch Courtier back from Jock of the Peartree?” asked Janet. Carey felt his temper rise again, she was near as dammit giving him the lie. He took a breath and held it, let it out again.

“No, Mrs Dodd. I am saying that to go into Liddesdale bald-headed and crying for vengeance is simply stupid, since Jock will have laid an ambush and called out every man he could last night in the hope that you and the Sergeant would do precisely what you wanted to do. He’ll cut all your kin to pieces, take prisoners for ransom and go off laughing to run Dodd’s horse at the next race he can.”

They exchanged glances and looked at the floor.

“So there’s nothing ye can do,” said Janet.

“On the contrary, since your husband is my man, there is a great deal I can and will do. In fact, I give you my word on it. You’ll have your horses back.”

Sergeant Dodd nodded grudgingly. Janet still looked dubious but hadn’t the courage to call him a liar. That was good enough for Carey, he didn’t expect to be believed without having to prove himself.

“Meantime, I want you both to make me out a bill of complaint for the Day of Truce.”

Janet nodded. “You’ll see it’s called then, will you, sir?”

“Naturally. Richard Bell can help you if you need…”

“I know how to make a bill of complaint, sir,” said Dodd huffily.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, of course you do,” said Carey at his most charming. “If you see to it now, I can promise you the bill will be called at the next Day of Truce.”

They took the hint. “Thank you, sir,” said Janet. Dodd grunted assent, and Carey ushered them to the door. “Send someone to Janet’s father and your brothers, Sergeant, we don’t want them wasting their time.”

“Ay sir.”

Both Dodds clattered in silence down the stairs. Bangtail began sliding out the door to follow them, but Carey blocked his passage.

“But I thought…”

“Bangtail,” said Carey, full of regret, “If you were capable of thought, you wouldn’t
be
here. What possessed you? Never mind. You stay here under lock and key until we get the Sergeant’s horses back.”

“In jail, sir?” Bangtail protested.

“In jail.”

“I’ll give ye my parole.”

Carey shook his head. “I’d like to take it, but I daren’t.”

“Och sir, don’t put me in the jail, its…”

“If I have any more bloody rubbish from you, Bangtail, I’ll chain you as well. Now come on. And cheer up, I expect it’ll only be for a couple of days.”

Wednesday, 21st June, 11 a.m.

The castle dungeon was extremely damp after all the rain and stank as badly as most jails. Carey shoved Bangtail into the last empty cell, slammed the door and peered through the Judas hole. Bangtail was sitting on the bare bench, chewing nervously on one of his nails.

One of Lowther’s men, whom Carey vaguely remembered was a Fenwick, came in carrying a bag full of loaves of bread and a small cheese. Behind him Young Hutchin was staggering under a firkin of ale. Both of them looked surprised to see him there, so he leaned against a wall and watched as they cut up the cheese and threw the food into each cell.

“Hey,” shouted Young Jock Graham, “where’s the butter, man? Lowther promised…”

“Shut up,” growled Fenwick, “the Deputy’s here.”

“Well, I want to talk to him.”

“It isna…”

“I want to talk to Young Jock too,” said Carey agreeably. “Let me in.”

Fenwick did so, and Carey went in and stood at a safe distance. Jock of the Peartree’s third eldest living son was a lanky long-faced man with greasy black hair, about twenty-three and just past the uneasy borderline between youth and maturity. No doubt he already had a collection of foul bills and complaints against him as long as his arm. Young Jock did not seem pleased to see the Deputy.

“Who’re ye?” he demanded. “Where’s Lowther?”

“I’m the new Deputy Warden,” said Carey, “I’m also the man that captured you and didn’t hang you on the spot. You should thank me.”

Young Jock grunted ungratefully and sank his teeth into the cheese. Three weevils popped their heads out and wriggled and he spat them into the straw and stamped on them, then swallowed the rest.

“What d’ye want?”

“I want,” said Carey thoughtfully, “a full account of where your father has taken the horses he reived last night and also what he’s planning to do with them.”

Young Jock stared at him as if he was mad. At that moment, Young Hutchin knocked and came through the door with a leather mug full of ale, which Young Jock took and gulped down.

“Now then, Young Hutchin,” Jock was picking absent-mindedly at his ear.

“I’m sorry to see you here, Jock,” said the boy. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Ay, you can find me the keys and a nice sharp dagger.” Young Jock examined his fingernail for trophies.

Hutchin smiled and left while Carey hummed a little tune.

“What are ye waiting for, Courtier.” Jock was delving at his ear again.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me what I asked.”

Young Jock spat messily near Carey’s boots.

“You can wait there until you die, ye bastard, I’m telling you nothing.”

“It could save your neck.”

“Go to the devil, Courtier, my neck’s safe enough.”

Young Jock set himself to eating and Carey nodded, banged on the door to be let out and watched carefully while Fenwick locked it after him.

On his way out, he paused to shout through the Judas hole at Bangtail.

“I want to know what’s going on, Bangtail, and you’ll tell me.”

“I willna,” said Bangtail feebly.

“You surely will,” said Carey ominously. “One way or another, with the use of your legs or without them.”

Wednesday, 21st June, 11 a.m.

When she came down the steps of the Queen Mary Tower, Janet was met by Lady Scrope and a gentlewoman she didn’t know. She was intending to see after poor old Shilling who had run like a hero all the way to Carlisle and might need comforting, but when she curtseyed to the ladies, she found her hand taken and the Warden’s wife was speaking to her gently.

“Mrs Dodd,” said Philadelphia, “I’m sorry to hear of the raid, is there anything I can do to help?”

Janet flushed a little. “Well,” she said, “the new Deputy has promised he’ll get my horses back but whether he will or not…”

Lady Scrope grimaced a little. “Knowing my brother, he’ll half kill himself to do it if he promised to. Who was it sold you the beast that belonged to Sweetmilk?”

“Reverend Turnbull, may God rot his bowels.”

“That’s the book-a-bosom man isn’t it?”

Janet nodded. Lady Scrope exchanged glances with the other woman. A certain amount of mischief appeared on Lady Scrope’s pointed little face.

“Shall we go and speak to him, then?”

Janet found herself borne along by the ladies; Lady Widdrington was asking practical questions about the girl Margaret’s miscarriage and the state of their barley crop which distracted Janet’s confused mind until she came to the wynd that led down to the church.

“It’s very kind of you to take so much trouble, Lady Scrope,” she began, “but I think I can…”

“Hush, Mrs Dodd,” said Lady Scrope, “We only want to give Sir Robert what help we can to get back your horses.”

“And this needs doing quickly because when Reverend Turnbull hears what happened, he’ll be out of Carlisle as fast as his legs will run,” added Lady Widdrington. “Ah, look,” she said kindly, “he’s heard already, I think. Is that him, Mrs Dodd?”

The Reverend Turnbull was at that moment shutting the door to the little priest’s house next to the church, wearing a pack on his back and carrying a stout walking stick. Janet nodded.

The Reverend Thomas Turnbull had had very little to do with real ladies in a not always reverend past, but he knew them when he saw them. With the Warden’s wife on one side, and a tall long-nosed lady on the other, he found himself accompanied into his church and sat down on one of the porch benches. It wasn’t that he didn’t think of running nor that he couldn’t perhaps have outrun them—ladies seldom or never ran, so far as he knew, and their petticoats would have tripped them up—it was that he didn’t somehow feel he could do it with the Warden’s wife holding his arm confidingly under hers and the tall one glinting down at him with a pair of piercing and intelligent grey eyes.

When he sat down the third woman, whom he recognised with a sinking feeling as Janet Dodd, helpfully took his walking stick and laid it on the ground near her foot. Lady Scrope sat down next to him, still trapping his arm, while the tall one continued to pin his soul to the back of his head with her eyes. Janet Dodd crossed her arms and tipped her hip threateningly.

“I’m s-sorry, Mrs Dodd,” he stammered at once, deciding immediate surrender would save time, “I had no idea the horse would cause you such trouble. I’d have cut my throat before I sold it to you if I’d known, truly I would…”

“Well, tell us who you bought the horse from and we’ll forgive you,” said Lady Scrope gently.

“And tell the truth,” added the tall woman.

Reverend Turnbull bridled a little as he sat. “Madam,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I am a man of the cloth and…”

“As capable of lying as any other man,” snorted the tall woman.

“Now Lady Widdrington,” said Philadelphia Scrope reprovingly, “I’m sure the Reverend will tell us the truth. You will, won’t you?” she said winningly to him. “I’ll get into trouble with my brother if I give him the wrong information.”

“And so will you,” added Lady Widdrington ominously to the Reverend.

Turnbull shook his head. “I bought the beast from a cadger named Swanders and I’d no reason to think him reived at all. He said he was from Fairburn’s stud in Northumberland and had been sold because of an unchancy temper and…”

“Why didn’t they geld him then?” enquired Lady Widdrington.

Turnbull coughed. “I didna think to ask, your ladyship, I admit it, I was a trusting fool but the Good Book teaches us that it’s better to trust than to be ower suspicious.”

“Does it?” said Lady Widdrington with interest. “Where does it say that?”

Turnbull’s mind was blank. He could barely make out the words of the marriage service and much of the Bible was a wasteland to him.

Lady Scrope got him off the spot.