A Famine of Horses (36 page)

“What is the meaning of this, Mr Cooke?” she demanded, sweeping into the room past him.

“Er…”

“Why would this young scoundrel want to steal lemons from the kitchen, eh?”

Barnabus knew his mouth was opening and shutting. Goodwife Biltock shoved Young Hutchin into the corner, where he sat rubbing his ear and looking embarrassed. The Goodwife squared up to Barnabus, her broad face on a level with his chest and shook her finger under his nose.

“Sixpence a lemon,” she snapped, “I’ll sixpence a lemon you, you thieving clapperdudgeon…”

Barnabus backed away. “Goodwife, Goodwife…”

“Send boys out to steal from the kitchens would you…”

“Goodwife, I only said if they could find lemons, I would pay sixpence for them. It’s to take the walnut stain off Sir Robert’s face and hands, that’s all.”

As he’d hoped it would, that slowed her down.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, fair enough. I can’t spare you any lemons, but I can give you verjuice which has the same quality of sourness.” She turned to Hutchin Graham. “You, boy!” she barked, “I’ve got an errand for you, come with me.”

As she herded Hutchin out of the door ahead of her she glowered at Barnabus.

“Mind your manners, Mr Cooke,” she said, “I know you and where you’re from.” Barnabus could think of nothing to do except bow. If anything her frown became fiercer. “I’ll send this thief back to you with the verjuice. My advice is to beat him well.”

“Thank you Goodwife Biltock,” said Barnabus faintly.

When Hutchin got back with the little flask of verjuice, Carey had returned from inspecting his men along with Captain Carleton. Barnabus was serving them with what remained of the good wine they had brought north with them: Carleton had parked his bulk on Carey’s chair next to the fireplace and Carey was sitting on the bed telling the full tale of his adventures at Netherby. Carleton held his sides and bellowed with laughter when he heard how Carey had been foolish enough to free Jock of the Peartree on his word not to attack and Carey looked wry.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll know better next time, but it might have saved my life at that. Now then Young Hutchin, what have you got there?”

“Verjuice, sir. From Goodwife Biltock.”

“That was kind of her with all she has to do. Give her my thanks and best regards.”

Hutchin looked hesitant.

“I’m supposed to give him a beating, sir,” said Barnabus helpfully.

“Good lord, why? What’s he done?”

“Tried to steal some of the Goodwife’s lemons.”

There were volumes of the comprehension in Carey’s battered face, but all he said was, “Well, that was very devoted of you, Hutchin, but much more dangerous than simply lifting a few head of cattle. We’ll remit the beating for now because I want you to take part in the funeral procession tomorrow.”

Young Hutchin who had been looking sullen, stood up straighter.

“We need a groom to ride the lead horse pulling the funeral bier. You’ll have a mourning livery and it’ll be your job to be sure the horses are calm and go the right way. Can you do it?”

Hutchin was looking for the catch. “Is that all, sir?”

Carey nodded. “Your fee will be the livery: it’s a suit of fine black wool which I think will fit you well, and a new linen shirt. We can’t arrange for new boots but your own don’t look too bad if you give them a polish, and you’ll have a black velvet bonnet with a feather.”

Hutchin thought carefully.”

“Ay sir, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. Be here two hours before dawn and Barnabus will see you properly kitted out.”

Astonishingly, Hutchin smiled, took off his cap and made quite a presentable bow. He turned to go.

“Oh, and Hutchin.”

“Ay Sir?”

“Your Uncle Richard Graham of Brackenhill is coming, so he’ll be behind you in the procession.”

Hutchin smiled even wider before clattering off down the stairs. Carleton looked quizzically at Carey.

“That young devil is chief of the boys in Carlisle,” said Carey in answer to his unspoken question. “If they’re planning some bright trick for the funeral, he’ll either be in the thick of it or know who is and now he’ll see to it that they don’t do it.”

Carleton nodded. “Ay, there’s sense in that.”

“Which is also why I got Scrope to invite the Armstrong and Graham headmen.”

Carleton smiled. “Well, it’s worth a try, any road.”

Dodd arrived looking harassed, and Barnabus served him with the last of their wine. He sniffed suspiciously at it, then drank.

There was further tying up of endless loose ends to be done: petty details that somehow always slipped your notice until the last minute. It had invariably been like that when Carey was taking part in an Accession Day Tilt: you thought you’d got everything sorted out and then a hundred things suddenly rose up the night before and sneered at you.

It was getting on towards sunset and Barnabus could see that Carey was tired. However, it seemed he had one further important piece of business to transact.

“Couriers?” asked Dodd.

“The regular service to London from Carlisle. The weak link is the man who rides from Carlisle to Newcastle, before he hands it on to my brother’s courier to take the rest of the way.”

“Why do you want him stopped?” demanded Carleton suspiciously.

“I want to know what Lowther’s saying about me, since he apparently controls the March’s correspondence.”

“Oh ay,” agreed Carleton, “I see.”

“And I don’t want him stopped. I just want his dispatch bag…borrowed, so I can read the letters.”

“Well,” said Dodd, “all the papers go into a bag in Richard Bell’s room where it’s sealed and then one of Lowther’s boys carries it to Newcastle, riding post. He usually waits there for the return bag and then he brings it back. If the seals were broken he’d know…”

“There are ways of opening dispatch bags without breaking the seals.”

“Are there?” asked Carleton, “What are they?”

“Well, you could unpick the stitching at the bottom and take the papers out that way.”

“Nay sir,” said Dodd, who had carried them on occasion and done his best to satisfy his curiosity, “They’re double, and the outer one’s oiled canvas.”

“Damn,” said Carey, “I suppose Walsingham will have advised him how to do it. Well, that leaves Richard Bell.”

“The little clerk,” grunted Carleton. “Ye could threaten him, I suppose.”

Bell was quite a scrawny specimen, but he was also tall and gangling rather than small. However, Barnabus had noticed that fighting men invariably referred to clerks as “little”.

Carey shook his head. “That would send him straight to Lowther or Scrope. Can he be bought?”

“I dinna ken,” said Dodd, “nobody’s tried.”

“Are you joking?” demanded Carey, clearly shocked. “Are you seriously telling me that nobody’s even tried bribing him for the dispatches?”

Dodd shook his head. “I suppose we wouldn’t know if they had, but if he’s been bribed he’s very canny about it, his gown’s ten years old at least.”

“He’ll have had livery for the funeral, though?”

Carleton shook his head as well. “He’s not been invited into the procession.”

“Why not? He served the old Lord Scrope for years?”

Dodd and Carleton exchanged embarrassed glances. It seemed that Richard Bell had been left out.

“Well,” said Carleton, shifting in the chair, “ye hardly ever notice him, he’s that quiet, I suppose they forgot.”

Carey was genuinely appalled. “Well, that’s simply not good enough. Where would he be now, do you think?”

“Scrope’s office,” suggested Carleton.

“I’ll go and talk to him, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Dodd and Carleton took their leave. Carey picked up his hat and headed for the door, then turned to Barnabus.

“I’ve an errand for you, Barnabus.”

“Yes sir?”

“I want you to go down to Madam Hetherington’s and find Daniel Swanders. Tell him I lost his pack and wouldn’t advise him to go to Netherby to get it back for a while until things have cooled down there. If he doesn’t mind the risk, he might try in a month or so. In the meantime, here’s three pounds English for him to buy new stocks and the five shillings I made while I was doing his job with the ladies at Netherby.”

“What about his clothes, sir?”

“Oh Lord, I think Goodwife Biltock burned those. He’d better keep the suit he’s got on: he’ll get a much better class of customer with it.”

“Sir…” Barnabus, who had had his eye on that suit for Simon when he finished growing, since it was entirely the wrong size and shape for himself, was very aggrieved. “It’s worth more than the pack by itself.”

“Considerably more,” agreed Carey.

“You’ll only have three left.”

“Don’t fuss,” snapped Carey, “I can get something made up in wool when Scrope pays me. Now go and do as I say, and get back here before the gate shuts.”

“Yes sir,” said Barnabus, sadly.

“I’ll see to the walnut stain myself. I suppose the hair colour will just have to grow out.”

“Yes sir,” said Barnabus, “unless you want to go blond.” Carey gave him the piercing blue stare that told him he was pushing it. He added hurriedly, “If you let me cut your hair short, it’ll be quicker.”

“In the morning.”

They went down the stairs together and Carey hurried over to the keep.

Saturday, 24th June, evening

Carey found Richard Bell still standing at his high desk, his pen dipping in the ink bottle and whispering across the paper in front of him in the hypnotic dance of a clerk, with a triple candlestick beside him to light his way through the thickets of letters.

Carey stood and waited quietly until Bell carefully cleaned his pen on a rag, put it down and stretched and rubbed his fingers with a sigh. He caught sight of Carey and blinked at him.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didna see ye.”

Bell was as thin as a portrait of Death and yet didn’t look unhealthy or consumptive: it seemed natural to him. His shoulders were a little rounded, his eyes blinked against the flicker of the candles. He and Scrope made a matched pair, in fact, although Scrope was better built and looked stronger and might even run to fat in a few years.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Mr Bell, I heard something that astonished me a moment ago, and I hope you can clarify it for me.”

“Yes sir?”

“I heard that you were not to be a part of the funeral procession.”

Bell said nothing and looked at the floor. Carey stepped a little closer.

“Is it true?”

Bell nodded. “Did you refuse a place…?”

“No sir,” said Bell, then looked up shyly. “I have been very busy with the arrangements, and I suppose it…er…slipped the Lord Warden’s mind.”

“If you were offered a place, would you accept?”

“Yes sir, of course, I would…I would be honoured.”

Carey smiled. “How are you with horses, Mr Bell?”

Bell looked confused. “Not bad, I like them. I’ve carried dispatches in the past, when they were particularly urgent and the man had already gone.”

“No problems walking a couple of miles?”

Bell smiled. “No sir. I’m not as weak as I look.”

“Excellent. Let me talk to Scrope and see what I can do. I’m sorry you seem to have been passed over, Mr Bell.”

Bell studied the paper before him.

“Sir Richard…” he muttered. Carey raised an eyebrow. “Sir Richard Lowther said he would see to it.” Bell explained.

“I’m sure he meant to,” said Carey generously, “but I expect it slipped his mind with all the press of business. Don’t worry, Mr Bell, I’ll see my brother-in-law now and talk to him about it.”

Sunday, 25th June, 2 a.m.

There was hardly any overnight pause at all in the frantic activity of the castle. Carey, finding his ribs griping him and his face at its sorest, got up, shaved himself gingerly by candlelight and threw on his green suit to go out and see how the preparations were progressing, leaving Barnabus snoring by the door. He found the yard lit by torches and crammed full of horses. The baleful duo of Carleton and Dodd were supervising the garrison as they groomed their hobbies’ coats and plaited their manes and tails. In the corner was Bell, who could not have been to bed at all, carefully polishing the flanks of old Scrope’s handsome chestnut gelding and feeding him carrots. Boys ran around underfoot, imperiously commanded by Hutchin Graham, lugging gleaming harness and saddles.

Carey wandered through the noise and spied the erect figure of Elizabeth Widdrington going into the castle kitchens which leaned up against the walls of the keep. He followed her, ducking automatically past strings of garlic and onions and the hams that were to be served later, and found her by the long table in the kitchen watching as two of the scullery boys heaved kid carcasses onto the empty spits by the vast fire. The baker was already pulling bread from the oven next to the fire, slamming in batches of penny loaves at a terrible rate. Half the produce of Carlisle market was heaped up in baskets by the larder door waiting to be turned into sallets and pot-herbs while Goodwife Biltock stood by the cauldrons hanging on the brackets over the flames, stirring mightily, her face verging on purple and her hair escaping from her cap in grey strings.