A Famine of Horses (22 page)

Daniel winced a little. “Well, I only left Berwick a couple of weeks ago.”

“And why did you leave?”

“Er…well…your brother’s very hot against horse-smuggling at the moment and he’s never liked me. I’d had a couple of nasty frights so I thought I’d go where it was a mite calmer.”

“And you came
here
, to the
West March
.”

Daniel coughed. “You know what I mean.”

“How did you know Thomas the Merchant?”

“I didn’t. I had a letter of introduction from Mr Fairburn in Northumberland, and this was the first job I did for him.”

“Do you know anything of Netherby castle and what they’re doing there?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, I’ve never been there.”

“Have you ever met Jock of the Peartree, Old Wat of Harden or the Earl of Bothwell?”

“No, never, thank God, and I hope I never do.”

Carey was stroking his neat court beard thoughtfully. “Do you know anything of the reason why the Earl of Bothwell might want a couple of hundred horses at the moment?”

Daniel shook his head.

Carey beckoned Barnabus over into a corner with him, while Daniel continued to play with Barnabus’s dice. He’d pocketed a couple of them, Barnabus noticed.

“I’m very worried,” Carey said, “I want to know three things: what the Earl of Bothwell is up to…”

“I thought the Earl wanted to keep the Queen sweet at the moment, sir.”

“Barnabus, the man’s mad. He’d probably think he could charm her round.”

“And could he, sir?”

“Who knows? If I understood that well how Her Majesty’s mind works, I’d be rich. He’s got good legs, he might. He surely thinks so, anyway.”

Barnabus nodded. “And the other things, sir?”

“The other problem is Dodd’s horses. I gave my word on it that he’d get them back, and I’ll lay all Westminster to a Scotsman’s purse the nags are eating their heads off at Netherby right now. And I don’t like the sound of Jock of the Peartree believing Dodd was the man that killed Sweetmilk, so I want to find out who really did it.”

“What are you planning, sir?” asked Barnabus warily, knowing the symptoms of old.

Carey grinned at him, confirming all his fears. “It seems the answers to all of my riddles lie at Netherby and so…”

“Oh no sir, we’re not going to Netherby tower?”

“You’re not, I am.”

“Sir…”

“Shh. Listen. I’ll borrow Daniel’s clothes and his pack and you can shave off my beard and brown my face and hands and then…”

“Sir, sir, ‘ow do you know you can trust ‘im, ‘e’s a thief and he’s a northerner and…”

“He’s a relative of mine. Also, we’ll have his clothes and we’ll give him to Madam Hetherington to keep safe for us.”

“What do you mean, sir, relative? What sort?”

“Ask my father.”

“Oho, it’s like that is it?”

“It’s like that, and if you gossip about it, I’ll skin you.”

Thinking about a certain young woman at Court who would no doubt be married very shortly, Barnabus muttered that it was a wise Carey that knew all his children. Carey pretended he hadn’t heard.

“But look sir,” he said conscientiously trying again, “why couldn’t you send Swanders in there instead of you, if you need a spy so bad, I mean, if they topple to you, you’re done for, ain’t you? Daniel…”

“It’d be worse for him. They’d likely hang him if they thought he was a spy, but they might not kill me. Anyway, I want to know who killed Sweetmilk Graham so I can bring him to justice and get Jock of the Peartree off Dodd’s back. There’s the makings of a very nasty feud there, when they’ve finished with their raid.”

“What about the Earl of Bothwell, you said yourself ‘e’s mad and I’ve heard tell ‘e’s a witch besides, won’t ‘e know who you are?”

Carey shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s four years since I was at King James’s Court and he met me with a number of other gentlemen. There was the football match, but I don’t see why he’d remember that either. I’ve got unfinished business with him anyway.”

“What sort of unfinished business?”

“He practically broke my shin bone taking the ball off me.”

“Sir, you can’t…”

“Oh shut up, Barnabus, I know you mean well, but my mind’s made up.”

“Well can I come with you…”

“Absolutely not. What would Daniel Swanders the peddler be doing with a servant from London—you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So would you, sir, you don’t sound like…”

“Ah was brought up in Berwick, Barnabus,” said Carey switching to a nearly incomprehensible Northumberland accent, “An’ I rode a couple of raids meself when I were a lad.”

“Oh bloody hell, sir.”

“Don’t swear,” said Carey primly, “Lady Scrope doesn’t like it. Now you run out and find an apothecary; buy some walnut juice and borrow shaving tackle from Madam Hetherington on your way back. I’ll talk to Daniel.”

Barnabus left the bawdy house at a dead run and sprinted through an alleyway into English Street, heading for the castle. Once there he quartered the place looking for Lady Widdrington and found her at last in the kitchen supervising the making of sweetmeats for the funeral feast. He panted out his tale to her, she took it all in and frowned.

“He’s mad,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” said Barnabus disloyally. “Ma’am, will you come and talk him out of it…”

“I can’t go to Madam Hetherington’s, Barnabus, I’d cause no end of talk. Do you know the Golden Bell inn, just outside the gate? Make sure he stops off there and I’ll do my best.”

Barnabus sprinted back down Castle Street and English Street, bought the walnut juice at one of the apothecaries, made a quick detour to an armourers in Scotch Street and came panting and blowing into Madam Hetherington’s an hour after he left.

When he’d recovered a little, he found Carey and Daniel Swanders drinking and eating an excellent dinner of baked chicken and a bag pudding, reminiscing in harsh Northumbrian voices about some escapade they had both been involved in as boys.

“What kept you, Barnabus?” asked Carey, switching back to his normal way of speaking, “I was starting to get worried.”

It was so odd to hear him: one minute he was a northerner to the life and the next minute he was as understandable as any of the Queen’s courtiers. Barnabus sat down to what was left of the meal and got his composure back.

“I couldn’t tell you weren’t a Northumbrian myself, sir,” he said, “but what about a native, couldn’t he tell?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, it’s wonderful how he can do it, I wouldna ken if I didna ken, you follow.”

Carey looked complacent.

“I was telling Daniel earlier, there’s a little man in my father’s company of players, what’s his name, can never remember what it is, said I could have been a player if I’d been born in a lower station of life. He had me read to him endlessly in my Northumbrian voice, so he could get the sound of it for some play he was working on, which I told him was too conscientious for the London mob, best get some pretty boys in petticoats and a good thundering battle for the end and he’d do well enough. My father thinks the world of him, God knows why, dullest man I ever met.”

“Can you do any accent, sir?” Barnabus asked, fascinated.

Carey swallowed what he was eating and smiled. “If I’ve heard it for a few days, yes. It’s a gift like singing, makes it easier to learn French or Italian too. It’s all in the rhythm. My father’s little player prosed to me for an hour about it, and I’d have kicked him out, only father had told me to be polite to him. He was odd that way: he used to track down foreigners, Welshmen, Cornishmen, Yorkshiremen and pay them by the hour to read to him and talk to him, just so he could catch the rhythm of their voices. Wasted effort, I called it, but he seemed to think it was important.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“Today? I’ll change clothes with Daniel here, you shave my beard and brown my face a bit…”

“I bought some hair dye too, sir,” said Barnabus. While sprinting around Carlisle he had realised that the harder he argued against one of his master’s schemes, the more determined Carey became. He had decided to leave any dissuading to Lady Widdrington. “After all, they might have heard that Swanders is a black-haired man.”

“True enough, well done. We’ll do all that and when it’s dry and I look the part, we’ll leave Carlisle and go north. Daniel stays here with Madam Hetherington and I’ve promised to pay her enough so she’ll let him have one of her girls for the night, the sinful git.” Daniel smiled slyly. “You wait for me outside Carlisle in one of the inns and when I come back tomorrow morning, we’ll decide what to do.”

It broke Barnabus’s heart to shave Carey’s lovely trim little beard and then brown his skin with the walnut juice. Dying Carey’s hair took longer than they expected, what with having to ask Madam Hetherington for a basin and two ewers and waiting for the water to be heated. To his horror, Barnabus found some nits and would have had at them with a fine-toothed comb, but Carey told him to leave them since no one would believe a cadger that hadn’t a few headlice.

“You’ll look a sight for the old lord’s funeral.”

“Oh, the brown comes off your skin with lemon juice,” said Carey, “and I can hide my hair under my hat. Nobody will notice, they’ll all be too busy worrying what they look like themselves.”

While Carey waited bare-chested for his hair and skin to dry, Daniel explained his price system and he memorised the commonest items, laughing heartily when Daniel explained what some of them had really cost him, in case he needed to bargain down.

Barnabus had drawn the curtains while Carey and Daniel Swanders stripped off and swapped clothes. Daniel and he were almost exactly of a size, with Daniel perhaps an inch or two shorter. Swanders tried on Carey’s doublet and posed in front of the mirror they’d had brought in while Carey laughed at him and told him the Queen would love him until she found out he couldn’t dance, sang like a crow and had stolen all her jewels.

By this time Carey was scratching a little in Daniel’s coarse hemp shirt, and putting on his worn homespun woollen hose and greasy leather jerkin. He pulled Daniel’s blue statute cap down over his ears, looked at himself in the mirror and laughed again.

“I got you these sir,” said Barnabus diffidently, taking out the knives he had bought. “See here, this one goes behind your neck, this one’s on your belt and this one’s in your sleeve. The two hidden ones are for throwing…”

“I’m not the dead shot you are, Barnabus…”

“It don’t matter, sir, aim for the body and if they stick in anywhere they’ll distract ‘im long enough for you to make a run for it. Which you will do, won’t you, sir, if they rumble you.”

“Not if I can help it, since they’ll have horses and I won’t.”

“Aren’t you even going to ride?”

“Well Daniel hasn’t any horses, and I can’t ride one of my own, it would be spotted as coming from the south and somebody would ask questions. I can’t ride anything from the Castle stables because of the brands. And I don’t want to buy another horse, even if there were any to be had, which there aren’t.”

Barnabus sighed unhappily. “Can I wait for you a mile or two outside, then sir, with a horse in case you need to…”

“Barnabus, Barnabus, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but you’d get caught. Bothwell will have riders all around the place watching in case anybody tries to steal all his stolen horses back from him and you’d be caught and then they’d beat you up and I’d have to tell them the story to stop them and it would all be very embarrassing. You stay in Carlisle until I get back, do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” said Barnabus mutinously, thinking bleakly of having to face Carey’s father with an explanation of how his youngest son happened to wind up kicking in the wind by his neck from Netherby’s gatehouse.

“Right,” said Carey, “here’s my purse with my rings in it, you arrange things with Madam Hetherington and pay her whatever she asks for looking after Daniel, and then you go back to the castle and tell everybody I’m sick in bed…”

“Can’t I even come a little way with you?”

“Oh all right, if you must, you can meet me in the alleyway.”

Carey took Daniel’s pack, winced a little at its weight, then opened the window and climbed out into the little courtyard.

Barnabus went unhappily to negotiate with Madam Hetherington.

Thursday 22nd June, late afternoon

Even Barnabus had to admit, walking through Carlisle, that Carey made an uncommonly convincing peddler. He even flirted with one of the girls selling meat pies and had her shrieking at an incomprehensible Northumbrian joke.

It took some argument to get Carey, afire with impatience to put his head in the noose, to pause for a beer at the Golden Bell. As soon as they entered the common room, a tall figure in fine grey wool, piped with murrey, snapped her fingers at Barnabus and beckoned them over.

“What the…” hissed Carey. “God’s blood, you told her, you sneaking little bastard, I’ll tan your backside for you…”