A Famine of Horses (4 page)

“Of course it is,” said Dodd. “Why else would he make a mortal enemy of Richard Lowther.”

Young Hutchin shook his head and looked smug. Dodd sighed and gave him a penny. Perhaps he wouldn’t make it to seventy.

“It’s one of his wife’s kin. He’s just ridden up from London and the Queen’s Court and the strange horses in the stable are…”

“Good Christ!” said Dodd disgustedly, “It’s a Carey. It’s not Sir John is it? Say to me Scrope hasn’t made John Carey Deputy Warden in the West March as well?”

“Oh no, sir, that one’s still just Marshal of Berwick Castle. It’s his youngest brother Robert.”

“Who?”

“Robert Carey. Sir Robert, I heard. Lady Scrope’s his nearest sister in age and she thinks the world of him and he’s no money and would like to be away from Court, so I heard, so she made my Lord offer him the place…They’ve put him in the Queen Mary Tower for the night, in the main bedchamber.”

“Ah.”

They were let in through the Captain’s Gate at the shout of their usual password, crossed the yard and came to the stair to the door of the Keep where Scrope’s apartments were. At the foot Dodd gave Young Hutchin another penny.

“Fetch your cousin Bangtail, my brother Red Sandy and Long George Ridley, oh and Archie Give-it-Them if he’s sober and tell them to shift the baggage that’s in the Queen Mary Tower into one of the feed huts for the night. Tell them to do it now, not when they’ve finished their quarts.”

“Ay sir. What is it?”

“A package,” said Dodd gravely. “Go on, run.”

Dodd waited until the boy had disappeared through the Captain’s Gate, reflecting that whoever Hutchin the Bastard’s mother had been, she must have been uncommonly fine-looking for her looks and hair to survive two generations of Graham breeding so well. The lad had better never go near the Scottish King’s Court with that tow head and blue eyes, not until he’d put on enough bone to defend himself.

He opened the heavy door and went into the big main room. Two of Scrope’s attendants were there and a round ugly little man was huddled up on a stool by the fire in the vast fireplace finishing mulled ale from a leather tankard. Next to him was a soft-looking lad, sitting on a pile of rushes, dispiritedly oiling some harness and in the corner, four louts with Berwick stamped on their voices were arguing the toss over whether a shod horse went better than an unshod one in a race. The ferret-faced man on the stool slapped his knees, stood up and said something in what sounded like English, if spoken by a man with a head-cold and the hiccups. Dodd couldn’t understand a word seeing it was some kind of southern talk, but the boy did and the two hurried out into the rain, the boy tripping on some of the harness straps.

Dodd passed through with a polite nod to John Ogle, the Warden’s steward, and climbed the spiral staircase in the furthest corner.

At Scrope’s impatient “Enter” he pushed open the oak door with the mysterious axe-mark in it and went in. The air was full of woollen steam from the heavy cloak hanging by the fire and Scrope’s hangings were given a courtly glamour by the fat wax candles all about the room. At least it was warm there.

Scrope, as usual, was sitting hunched like a heron in his carved chair by the desk while Richard Bell the clerk packed up papers behind him. Two other men looked up as he came in. Captain Carleton was standing, and a stranger was sitting at his ease on the cushioned bench.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” said Scrope, “any news from the patrol?”

“The Sark fords are high for the time of year and I doubt anyone’s been across them this summer, except perhaps the horse smuggler we’ve heard tell of,” said Dodd. “We met Jock of the Peartree with fifteen men by the Esk ford at Longtown.”

“What was he doing there?” asked Scrope.

“Looking for lost cows?” suggested Thomas Carleton sarcastically. He had parked his bulky body in front of the fire, blocking most of the heat, and wore a face full of repressed amusement.

“He said he’d five men that had gone to Carlisle to buy horses.”

Carleton snorted. “Good luck to them. We’ve a famine of horses hereabouts.”

“I trust you sent him packing,” said Lord Scrope. Dodd said nothing. The man sitting on the bench with his mudcaked boots stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle smiled slightly. His face was long and beaky with something indefinably familiar about it, he had dark red-brown wavy hair, and very bright blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed little Court beard and moustache.

“Was there anything else, my lord?” asked Dodd patiently.

“No…Yes. Sir Robert, may I present to you Henry Dodd, Sergeant of the Guard. Henry, this is my brother-in-law Sir Robert Carey, who will be my Deputy Warden.”

Dodd made a stiff-necked bow, Carey came to his feet, returned the courtesy, held out his hand and smiled. There was one who’d be expensive to put in livery, thought Dodd. He was taller by an inch or two than Dodd, who found himself in the unfamiliar position of looking up at someone. He took the proffered hand, which was long, white and nicely manicured, with three rings on it, and shook it.

“Sir Robert,” said Dodd non-committally.

“Apologies for hauling you up here on such a foul evening,” said Carey affably. “Captain Carleton says he’s too busy to take me for a tour of the area tomorrow, and I was hoping you would oblige?”

It was on the tip of Dodd’s tongue to say that he had a lot less time than Carleton, and stay out of trouble, but then he reflected. After all, this was the Warden’s brother-in-law, a courtier come riding up from London, and not just any courtier but one of Lord Hunsdon’s boys. He might even be grateful for a friendly face. Perhaps if he got on well with this Court sprig, who seemingly was the new Deputy Warden, Dodd might snaffle a couple of the offices in the Deputy’s gift to sell on. And Lowther was a miserable bastard in any case.

“No trouble, sir.”

“Dodd, is it? From Upper Tynedale.”

“My grandfather’s land, sir. Mine comes to me from my wife, I’ve a tower and some acres not far from Gilsland.”

“Bell or Armstrong land?”

Dodd coughed. “Ay sir,” he said stonily. “English Armstrongs. And a few Dodds.” He hated nosiness, particularly from courtiers. Though Carey looked little like a courtier in his dark green woollen doublet and paned hose; just the lace on his collar and the jewels gave the game away.

There was a clatter of light boots on the stair and Scrope’s lady came through the door in a hurry, her doublet bodice open at the neck and her satin apron awry. Scrope looked up and smiled fondly; she was a pleasing small creature with black ringlets making ciphers on her white skin. At the sight of Carey her face lit up like a beacon.

“Robin!” she shouted and ran into his arms like a girl. Carleton’s lip curled at the sight, which had cost Richard Lowther at least fifty pounds and much credit. Carey grinned, kissed her, lifted her up and kissed her again. She giggled and batted him away.

“Was it a hard journey?” she asked. “How is the Queen, did you meet John?”

“Yes, well enough, no.” said Carey methodically.

“Philadelphia…” began Scrope.

“I may greet my brother, I think,” said Lady Scrope haughtily. Carey whispered in her ear and she frowned, then picked up a work bag from near the fire, sat down on her stool and began rapidly stitching at a piece of white linen, her steel needle with its tail of black flashing hypnotically before Dodd’s eyes. “And I wanted to speak to him privately as well.”

“When we…”

“How much did you want?” asked Carey. Lady Scrope tutted at him.

“Not money,” she said primly. “I do not always lose at primero, you know.”

“Oh no?” said Carey sceptically. “I swear on my honour I have seen you draw to a flush with no points on three separate occasions.”

Dodd, who had heard some of the legends about Lady Scrope’s gambling, hid a smile.

“My lord has been teaching me better play,” said Lady Scrope with dignity, a blatant lie as far as Dodd was concerned, since Lord Scrope was even worse than she was.

Carey raised his eyebrows severely.

“My lord,” said Dodd across the argument, “I must have a private word…”

“Later, Sergeant, later,” said Scrope irritably. “I have some business with Sir Robert, my dear…”

Philadelphia made three minute stitches and finished off the end, unfurled a new length from her bobbin, snipped, threaded and began stitching again. A blackworked peapod was taking shape like magic on the linen. “Pray continue,” she said. “My business can wait a little.”

Dodd decided he had been dismissed and turned to go, wondering what the disturbance downstairs might be. Carleton came with him. They were stopped by Carey’s voice.

“Sergeant,” he called, “shall I meet you at dawn in the yard tomorrow?”

Dodd thought about it and sighed. “Ay sir.”

He reached for the door and nearly had it slammed in his face. There on the threshold stood Sir Richard Lowther, resplendent in tawny velvet and red gown, his greying hair further frosted with rain and murder in his face.

“What is this I hear,” he said, dangerously quiet into the instant silence, “about the Deputyship?”

Scrope was on his feet, coming forward.

“Ah, Sir Richard,” he said, “may I present to you Sir Robert Carey, my brother-in-law and…er…”

Dodd had backed into a corner, the better to watch the show. Philadelphia had stopped sewing and was also watching intently, Carleton was leaning against a wall, with a cynical grin on his face. Hands on hips, Lowther advanced towards Carey, who was standing, smiling unconcernedly.

“Sir Richard Lowther,” he said with a shallow Court bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Well I,” snarled Lowther, “am not pleased to make yours,
sir
.”

Carey’s eyebrows went up again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Scrope coughed frantically, and wriggled his fingers together like knobbled worms. “I am…er…appointing Sir Robert as my Deputy,” he said. “The post is in my gift.”

“A bloody foreigner? A
southerner
to be Deputy Warden.”

“I was brought up in Berwick, my father Lord Hunsdon is East March Warden,” said Carey mildly.

“Oh Christ!” roared Lowther. “One of
those
Careys. That’s all we need. What’s the old woman up to then, making the poor bloody Borders a sinecure for all her base-born cousins?”

Carey went white and drew his sword. Its long wickedly pointed blade caught the firelight and slid it up and down distractingly. Carleton blinked and stood upright, glanced at Dodd who was ready to move as well. One of those long modern rapiers, he thought professionally, fine for a duel but unreliable for a fight where men were wearing jacks. Would Lowther draw?

“I don’t like the way you talk of my family and I don’t like the way you talk of the Queen,” said Carey very coldly. “Would you care to discuss the matter outside?”

Lowther looked a little surprised, under his rage. His own hand was on his swordhilt, he had not yet committed himself. In the silence that followed, Dodd reflected that it was always interesting to watch the way a man held a sword, providing he wasn’t facing you at the time. Beyond the question of whether he knew how to use it, there was the way he stood, was he tense, had he killed before, how angry was he? Carey looked competent with his rapier and not at all a virgin in the way of bloodshed. Of one thing Dodd was morally certain, who had met both of them: his brother, Sir John, would not have drawn, his father would have drawn and struck.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Scrope, breaking out of his trance and moving between them, “I will not have my men duelling. Sir Richard, if you have a quarrel with the way I appoint my officers, please take it up with Her Majesty. Sir Robert, you will put up your weapon.”

Carey hesitated a moment, then sheathed his sword. Lowther growled inarticulately, turned on his heel and stamped out of the room. They could hear his boots on the stairs and his bull-bellow as he passed through to the lower room.

All of them let out a breath, except for Carleton who looked disappointed.

“I should have warned you…” began Scrope apologetically, but Carey had sat himself carefully down on the bench again, clasped his hands and was looking at them abstractedly.

“Who controls the dispatches to London?” he asked, seemingly irrelevantly.

“That’s Lowther’s job,” Carleton answered him, “fairly bought and paid for.”

Carey looked at Scrope regretfully. “My lord, we have a problem.”

“Why?” asked Scrope pettishly, “I made him know who was Warden here.”

Lady Scrope was sewing again. “Robin means, my lord,” she said tactfully, “that Sir Richard will be writing to my Lord Burghley and we can’t stop his letter.”

Carey smiled fondly at his sister.

“Why should that matter?” Scrope demanded. “I’m the Warden.”

“Fully confirmed, with your warrant?” asked Carey.

“Well…”

“Not yet,” said Philadelphia, raising her eyebrows exactly like her brother. “There hasn’t been time since the old lord died. It was less than a week ago, remember. He isn’t even buried yet, he’s still in the chapel, poor old soul.”