A Famine of Horses (26 page)

She froze, then as she heard them open the iron door to the jail and go in directly beneath her, she pulled on her boots, opened the door a little, to peer out.

Sir Richard Lowther was emerging from under the wooden steps that led to the door she was hiding behind. At his back were five tousled bearded men—no, six. The last she knew was Bangtail Graham and the others must be the raiders Sir Robert Carey had captured the day before yesterday.

Lowther beckoned them to stand around him.

“He’s gone to Netherby,” he explained, “dressed as a peddler, by name Daniel Swanders. Now you’d know him again, wouldn’t you Young Jock.”

“Oh ay,” said Young Jock, “I’d know him.”

“I can’t spare you more than one horse, so Young Jock will have to ride and the rest will have to follow, but…”

Elizabeth Widdrington opened the door, walked out onto the steps and stopped, looking down at them.

Richard Lowther looked up at her, not at all worried.

“Good morning, Sir Richard,” she said.

“Good morning, Lady Widdrington,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

It was hard for him to refuse to answer a direct question, though it was obvious enough he thought it none of her business.

“These men have got bail, Lady Widdrington,” he said, “I’m letting them go home to their families.”

“Bail?” she asked archly.

“My lord Scrope agreed it last night.”

Damn the man for his vagueness. Even when he was sick, Scrope’s father would have wanted to know the reason for Lowther’s interest.

“They’ve given their words of honour they’ll come when their bills are called at the next Day of Truce, and they cost the castle six pence a day each to guard and feed.”

“Is the gate open yet?”

“Not yet. Soon enough.”

No she was not going to let him give one of their precious horses to Jock of the Peartree’s sons. Let the raiders walk to Netherby on their own two feet that God gave them.

She came down the steps as the whole group of them went to stand by the gate and wait for it to open. At least Lowther hadn’t the authority to open it before time. As they passed her she stopped Bangtail.

“Where’s the Sergeant?” she demanded.

“He has a little chamber by the barracks door,” said Bangtail, “Why did ye want him, missus? Can I help.”

“I doubt it, but you could wait and see if I have a message for you if you want to earn yourself a little drinkmoney.”

“Ay missus.”

Elizabeth hurried across the yard to the bright new barracks building and opened up the door to find Janet Dodd standing in the passage in her kirtle with her stays half laced, head down as she brushed her red hair.

“Janet, where’s your husband?”

“In there,” said Janet, surprised at seeing a gentlewoman up so early. “Why, what’s the matter, my lady?”

“Would you go in and see if he’s decent. I must speak to both of you at once.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Janet peeked round the door, turned to Elizabeth.

“He’s dressed and drinking his beer, and if I were you, I’d wait until he comes out, he’s ay like a bear in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, this is very urgent.”

From behind the door that led to the main part of the barracks came the hawking and moaning of the garrison waking up. Brooking no argument, Elizabeth gestured Janet ahead of her into the tiny chamber and followed herself.

Dodd was sitting on the little sagging bed with his chin on his hand, drinking miserably.

“Goddamn it, woman, can ye never find better than sour…Oh, sorry, ma’am.” To be fair to him, Dodd pulled at the open front of his doublet and made to stand up, but Elizabeth shook her head, shut the door firmly behind her.

“Lowther’s freeing the men you and Sir Robert caught the day before yesterday. They’ll be out at the gate as soon as it opens.”

Dodd looked cynical. “That’s no surprise, he’s well in with the Grahams and wants to stay that way. Why? What do you care?”

Elizabeth charitably ignored his insolence. “I care because Robert Carey went to Netherby last night in disguise as a peddler.”

That woke him up. He sat bolt upright. “Good Chri…why?”

“Didn’t Barnabus tell you last night? To see about getting your horses back and finding the man that really did kill Sweetmilk. And also to know where Bothwell is planning to raid.”

“The man’s mad,” said Dodd definitely.

“I never thought he’d do that when he gave his word,” said Janet, clearly appalled. “They’ll half-kill him if they find out.”

“Which they will do as soon as Young Jock and his men get to Netherby.”

“Stark staring lunatic,” continued Dodd. “That Earl of Bothwell could hang him as soon as look at him, I’ve known him do it for less.”

“Who else knows of this?” asked Janet.

“Myself and Robert’s servant Barnabus Cooke, who’s still abed as far as I know. And Lowther, somehow.”

“Cooke’s a Londoner,” said Dodd, “Canna ride better than a hog in breeches. What’s to be done?”

“Stop Lowther.”

Dodd sucked his teeth. “I dinna see why he should pay me any mind, but I’ll try for ye, my lady. Good God almighty…Sorry ma’am. Disguised as a peddler, would ye credit it?”

Elizabeth left them there with Janet doing up Dodd’s laces and finding his cap, while she hurried back to the keep, threaded through the wakening servants and ran up the stairs to the Scropes’ chamber.

It took her five minutes to shake the maidservant awake and the maid took another five to waken Philadelphia who climbed tottering out of the high bed and blinked at Elizabeth.

“Wh–what’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it a raid?”

“No, it’s your brother.”

“What’s he done?”

Elizabeth told her, including what Lowther was up to. Philly’s eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth.

“But the Earl will hang him.”

“Robin didn’t think so.”

“He doesn’t know the Earl of Bothwell, he’s a wicked Godless man and cruel with it. Thomas, Thomas, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” came Scrope’s tetchy voice from behind the curtains. “What’s that mad brother of yours done?”

Elizabeth fidgeted about the room while Philadelphia explained. The two voices rose and fell, one irritable, one pleading. At last Scrope poked his head out of the curtains, causing his nightcap to fall off.

“I said they could have bail and I’m not going back on it,” he snarled. “Lowther can let them out but they’re not to have horses.”

“But Robin…” wailed Philly.

“Your precious Robin can look after himself. He should have thought of it before. Man’s mad, going into Netherby dressed as a servant…”

“A peddler…”

“I don’t care if he went dressed as the bloody Queen of France, I’m not getting him out of some schoolboy scrape.”

There was a thump as Scrope flounced back onto the pillows.

“Anyway,” came the reedy voice, “I’m unwell. I think I have an ague.”

Philadelphia scrambled out of bed again, leaving the curtains drawn, and fluttered about the chamber, trying to get dressed while she crumpled up her little face and bewailed her husband. Elizabeth waited for a moment, then decided there was no help to be got there, made an impatient “Tchah!” noise, and went down the stairs again.

Out in the courtyard she found Dodd having a shouting match with Lowther by the gate, watched by a group of highly amused Grahams.

“Ye canna let them out and have him taken, he’s the Deputy Warden,” he was shouting.

“I can and I will,” growled Lowther, “And what’s more,
I’m
rightfully the Deputy Warden, not that upstart Londoner, or I will be by the end of today, I think.”

“That’s telling him,” laughed Young Jock, “Do ye want the man roasted a bit for impudence before we hang him.”

“No,” said Lowther, “hang him up first, then roast him, don’t take any chances with the young pup.”

“Jesus Christ, at least ransom him, we need to know where the raid’s going…”

“Shut your mouth, Sergeant Dodd,” said Lowther, “I know where the raid’s headed and so does Captain Musgrave.”

“Bothwell could be lying to ye…”

Lowther smiled slowly. “He’s not lying, not with what it is he’s hoping to steal.”

“And what’s that?” put in Elizabeth. “If you really do know, which I doubt.”

Lowther laughed at her rudely. “I’m not telling ye, all women are blabbermouths and ladies nae different. If ye were my wife I’d tan your hide for asking what’s men’s business and none of yours.”

Lady Widdrington paled and her lips tightened. She looked as if she was swallowing a great many large words with great effort.

Young Jock, Ekie and all the Grahams were helpless with laughter. Dodd stepped towards them with his fist raised, but Lowther got in his way, still grinning.

“These are out on bail now, Sergeant,” he said, “and as Deputy Warden I forbid you to leave the castle today. Do you understand me?”

“What?” Dodd’s eyes were fairly bugging with rage. “Are you making me a prisoner in my own keep…?”

“It’s not your keep, it’s mine, and I’m the authority here. In fact…” Lowther’s pale eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you not to do something foolish, Sergeant Dodd. Here, Ekie, Young Jock—fetch the Sergeant into the jail for me, will ye?”

“By God, Lowther, I’ll have your guts…” roared Dodd as the Grahams grabbed him by the arms and manhandled him through the door to the ground floor of the keep. At least Bangtail had the grace to hang back, biting his fist, but he made no move to help his Sergeant. There was a series of thumps and muffled yells. Janet lunged forward, but Elizabeth caught her.

“Up,” she said, “into the keep.”

“But they’re beating him…”

“He’ll survive,” said Elizabeth callously. “They’re only taking a little revenge for what he did to them. Do you want to wind up in there too? You will if you make Lowther think of it. Come with me.”

By main force she had Janet up the steps and through the door before Lowther came out again, rattling his keys suggestively and looking pleased with himself. He paused when Lord Scrope leaned out of a high window in the keep and yelled that he was not to take a single nag from the stables, but then shrugged. They watched him through a shot hole in the wall as he swaggered over to the barracks, no doubt in search of his breakfast, followed by the mob of Grahams.

“What can we do?”

Elizabeth was still watching. The Grahams were moving in a body to the gate: as it opened, they were out into Carlisle town and from there, once the town gates opened, on the road to Netherby.

Friday, 23rd June, before dawn

Carey awoke out of too little sleep, knowing someone was stealing his pillow. He knew before he was properly awake that he couldn’t allow that: gripped it tighter, rolled and pushed himself onto his feet with his back to the wall and his dagger ready.

“Ah well,” said Jemmie’s voice, “it was worth a try. Don’t stick me, peddler, I was only wondering.”

Carey showed his teeth and waited until Jemmie had backed off. One-Lug lifted himself up on an elbow and cursed both of them, then lay down and went back to sleep. Old Wat’s Clemmie hadn’t even stirred.

With the inside of his mouth as full of muck as a badly run stables and his head pounding, Carey thought of trying for another hour’s sleep, but decided against it. Instead he picked his way across the crammed bodies, scratching his face where the newly shaved beard was coming back and his body where the fleas had savaged him. Once outside there was blessed fresh clean air, only a little tainted with the staggering quantities of manure produced by the men and horses packed into Netherby, and the stars rioting across the sky, with just a little paleness at the eastern edge.

Carey wished he could wash his face, but couldn’t find water, so wandered towards the cow byres set against the barnekin wall where there were lights and movement.

Sleepy women were trudging about there with pails and stools. Alison Graham was standing by the big milk churns and she nodded curtly at him as he slouched towards her.

“Ye’re up early,” she said to him. “Any of the other men up and doing, eh cadger?”

“One of them tried to steal my pack, but no,” said Carey ruefully. “Any water about fit to drink.”

She gestured at some buckets standing by for the cows and he went and dunked his head, drank enough to clear out his mouth.

“Is Mary with you?” he asked, “Mary Graham?”

“In with Bluebell at the moment, why?”

“I wanted to ask her about Sweetmilk.”

“Why?”

“In case I heard anything, in my travels. I do, you know,”

Alison Graham looked him up and down suspiciously. “If ye’re trying…”

“God curse me if I lie, missus, I only want to talk to her.”

After a moment she nodded. As she took the buckets from the girl bringing them over on a yoke, lifted and poured them without visible effort, she said, “She only has to squeal and the crows’ll be feeding on you by midday.”