1 A Famine of Horses

by P. F. Chisholm

  As luck would have it, Simon came in at that moment with part of a raised pie, mutton collops, good bread from Scrope’s kitchen and some cheese Lady Scrope herself had made, according to Goodwife Biltock, and some raspberry fool.

  Scrope arrived just as Carey was finishing, which was unfortunate because he polished off the fool that Barnabus had had his eye on, leaving him and Simon with the choice of what was left of the pie and bread or a trip into the Keep’s hall for whatever Scrope’s servants were eating. Scrope sent Simon out for wine, so Barnabus told him to eat in the hall and himself quietly finished what was left of his master’s meal. Then he went into the corner where he kept his own chest, found an old shirt and began tying up each coin separately into a band to put round his waist until he could get to the goldsmith’s the next day. Proximity to so much money was making him as nervous as a cat at a witchburning.

  The talk of the funeral took twice as long as it needed to because Scrope would not keep to the point. Carey dealt with him patiently, sitting at his desk, writing lists and making notes like a clerk, until the question of horses came up.

  “What do you mean, my lord, there are no horses? You mean, no black horses?”

  Scrope was up off the chair that Biltock claimed Queen Mary had sat on and was pacing up and down the room, the flapping false sleeves on his gown guttering the rushlights.

  “I mean, no horses, black, white or piebald. We’ve what there are in stables but the garrison will need them to form an honour guard, but apart from the six you brought, the horse merchants say they’ve never known mounts to be so hard to find and the price in Scotland is astonishing, sixty or seventy shillings for a poor scrawny nag, I heard, and whether it’s Bothwell being in Lochmaben at the moment or what, I don’t know, but horses there are none…”

  “How many do we need?”

  “Six heavy draught horses at least to pull the hearse and fifty more mounts for the procession and we can’t use packponies so…”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “Scotland, I expect. I was hoping for black horses, of course, but any beasts not actually grey or piebald will do well enough, we could dye the coats…”

  “What’ the need for horses in Scotland, at the moment?”

  Scrope blinked at him. “I don’t know. Probably the Maxwells are planning another strike at the Johnstones or the King is planning a Warden Raid at Jedburgh or Bothwell’s planning something…”

  “Bothwell?”

  “He took Lochmaben last week, didn’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever meet him at King James’s Court?”

  “I did,” said Carey feelingly. “Once. No, twice, the bastard fouled me at a football game in front of the King. What’s he up to?”

  Again Scrope shrugged. “It’s some Court faction matter in Scotland. I’m hoping Sir John Carmichael will let me know when he knows what’s going on.”

  “And the Earl of Bothwell’s taken Lochmaben, you say? How the devil did he do that?”

  “Dressed as a woman, apparently, got inside the Keep and opened it up when his men arrived. The whole Border was laughing about it and Maxwell’s enraged but too afraid of Bothwell to do anything about it. They say he’s the King of the Witches, you know.”

  “Nothing would surprise me about Bothwell. So he’s got all the horses in the north.”

  “Well no, the surnames have their herds of course, but they won’t loan them out to us no matter what we offer and…”

  “The surnames are refusing honest money? How much did you offer?”

  “Twenty shillings a horse for the two days.”

  Carey put his pen down. “Aren’t you worried about this, my lord?”

  Lord Scrope flapped his bony hands. “Philadelphia keeps telling me to be careful, but what can I do? It’s all happening in Scotland and until my father’s buried and the Queen sends my warrant, my hands are tied.”

  “With respect, my lord…”

  “Anyway, we simply must get this funeral organised, I will not have my father dishonoured with a miserable poor funeral. Lowther says he might be able to get horses.”

  Barnabus winced, knowing how much his master disliked clumsy manipulation, but Carey only took a deep breath.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And what about your man Dodd killing that Graham fellow?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “It’s all over the castle.”

  Barnabus prepared to duck, but Carey spoke quite quietly, counting off on his fingers in an oddly clerkish way.

  “Firstly, my man Dodd, as you put it, was not my man when he found the body; secondly, I doubt very much he did the killing since he’s not a fool and in any case the body was stone cold when it was found, and thirdly, the inquest is fixed for tomorrow and no doubt the Grahams will be coming to fetch the corpse afterwards. Those of them that aren’t outlawed, of course.”

  “Hm, yes, well. I’m very worried about this quarrel between you and Lowther, Robin. He’s a dangerous man to cross.”

  Carey picked up his goblet off the small table beside him a little too carefully. Barnabus who knew how he loathed being called Robin by anyone except women and relatives, grabbed a cloth. All he did was drink.

  “My lord,” he said formally, “you have two options. You can confirm Lowther as Deputy and let him take back the ruling of your Wardenry as he did while your father was ill. If that’s what you plan, let me know and I’ll be on my way back to Newcastle as soon as your father’s in his grave.” Scrope blinked unhappily and twiddled his thumbs.

  “Or,” continued Carey in the same dangerously quiet voice, “you can ignore his howling, confirm me as your Deputy and support me if I have to fight him.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Tell me now, my lord. If my position is insecure I can do nothing at all to help you.”

  There, thought Barnabus with satisfaction, if you want your father buried nicely, there you are.

  “Do you think you can deal with Lowther?”

  “Oh yes, my lord. I can deal with Lowther.”

  “Right,” said Scrope, still twiddling. “yes. Right. I’ll confirm you as my Deputy of course and I’ll support you…”

  “To the hilt, my lord. Otherwise, I go back to London.”

  “Yes, to the hilt, of course, right.” As if he had only just noticed the compression of Carey’s lips, Scrope began wandering to the door. Carey stopped him.

  “My lord.”

  “Er, yes?”

  “I want my warrant before dawn tomorrow.”

  “Warrant. Dawn. Right. I’ll tell Richard Bell to have it ready. Yes. Um…good night, Robin.”

  “Good night, my lord.”

  Scrope shut the door carefully and went on down the stairs. They heard his voice in the lower room and the creak of the heavy main door. Barnabus got ready.

  “JESUS CHRIST GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” roared Carey, causing the shutters to rattle as he surged to his feet and kicked the little table across the room. The goblet hit the opposite wall but luckily was empty. Scrope’s half full goblet rolled after it, bleeding wine, and Carey had the stool in his hand when Barnabus shouted, “Sir, sir, we’ve only found the one stool, sir…”

  He paused, blinked, put the stool down and slammed his fist on the desk instead.

  “Good God!” he shouted slightly less loudly. “That lily-livered halfwitted pillock is Henry Scrope’s son, I can’t bloody believe it, JESUS GOD…”

  Barnabus was mopping busily and examining the goblets, only one of which was dented, fortunately. He could take it to the goldsmith when he went tomorrow. What was left of the table would do for firewood. Simon, he noticed, was cowering in the corner by the bed while Carey paced and roared until he had worked his anger off. Those who doubted the rumours about Carey’s grandfather being King Henry VIII on the wrong side of the blanket, and not the man who complaisantly married Mary Boleyn, should see
him or his father in a temper, Barnabus thought, that would set them right.

  He beckoned Simon over and sent the trembling lad out for some more wine. By the time he came back, Carey was calm again and looking wearily at the pile of papers Scrope had brought.

  “God’s truth,” was all he said, “He’s set it for Thursday and it’s Monday now. How the devil does he think I can organise anything in two days…?”

  Tuesday, 20th June, before dawn

  Dodd was roused out of sweet dreams concerning Janet two hours before dawn and an hour before he would normally get up. He had pulled his jack on and was feeling for his sword before he woke up properly and heard Red Sandy telling him it wasnae a raid, it was yon scurvy git of a Courtier in the yard wanting to inspect them again.

  He stumbled out of the barracks to find the scurvy git standing there, flanked by his two body-servants holding torches, waiting patiently for his men to appear.

  At least they were lined up quickly since turning out fully armed in the middle of the night was something they did regularly, even if nothing much generally came of it. Lowther had always liked to make a bit of a show of a hot trod.

  Once they were there, Carey nodded.

  “Not bad,” he allowed, “I know the Earl of Essex’s soldiers would still be scratching their backsides and wondering where their boots were. Now then.”

  There followed a full hour of meticulous individual examination followed by shooting practice with the new longbows at the butts on the town racecourse. At the end of it Carey brought them back to the castle, stood in front of them and said simply,

  “I find you satisfactory, gentlemen.”

  The heavy-eyed men brightened considerably. Carey called out Archie and Long George and went into the now busy Keep with them. They returned a few minutes later with a folding card table and stool, Carey carrying a sheaf of papers and what looked like an account book. When the table was set up, he put them down, and nodded at his servant, Barnabus, who led Archie and Long George self-importantly into the Queen Mary Tower and out again a few minutes later, carrying a small but heavy box.

  Bangtail and Sandy were talking to each other, covertly watching Dodd, who had his mouth open as his brain caught up with what he saw.

  Carey opened up the account book and squinted at the figures. He blinked, his lips moved as he calculated and his face took on an irritated cynical expression. Just then a short figure erupted from the Keep and ran across the yard, comically dressed in shirt, hose, pattens and a flying taffeta gown. He was already gabbling in a high-pitched squeak that it would be quite impossible for anyone without the right training in accounts and mathematics to understand the very precise and detailed figures it was his job to…

  Carey shut the book and smiled down at him.

  “What did you pay for your paymaster’s job, Mr Atkinson?” he asked.

  “Sir Richard had fifty pounds from me, sir,” said Atkinson, surprised into honesty.

  “For the two offices, the Armoury and the Paymaster?”

  “N– no, sir. Just the Paymaster clerkship.”

  “And how long have you held this particular lucrative office?”

  “Er…only four years and…”

  “Then you have made back your investment at least tenfold and will suffer no loss if you lose it.”

  “I…”

  “You have lost it, Atkinson. Get out.”

  There was a murmur of interest from the men, craning forward to hear this exchange.

  “Silence in the ranks,” snapped Carey as he seated himself at the table and re-opened the account books. “Sergeant Dodd, you may call your men to muster for their pay.”

  Goddamn him, Dodd thought, as the men cheered, and Red Sandy looked with morbid curiosity at him. On muster days it was Red Sandy’s job to bring in three of their cousins to take the place of the patrolmen who had died and whose pay Dodd kept.

  Blandly Carey began to call through the men’s names and pay out as each stepped up in front of him. They didn’t get all of their backpay, naturally, but they got six months’ worth each which was better than they had ever done under old Scrope. Dodd was called last.

  “Your pay, Sergeant,” said Carey, handing it over. Dodd took the money in silence and turned to go. “Sergeant.”

  He turned, waited for the axe to fall.

  Carey pointed at the dead men’s names. “Faggots, I take it.”

  Dodd’s mind reverberated with excuses, sickness, wounds, dilatoriness. In the end he said, “Yes sir.”

  “Have you a reason for defrauding the Queen?”

  Outrage almost made Dodd splutter. It was traditional for the sergeant to take the pay of men who died, how else could he live?

  “Yes sir,” he said stonily.

  “What’s that?”

  “Poverty.”

  Carey smiled. “I’m the youngest of seven sons, and the last time I was out of debt was in ’89, the year I walked from London to Berwick in twelve days for a bet of two thousand pounds.”

  Dodd said nothing. Did the bastard Courtier expect him to be impressed?

  “I’m not one to go against tradition, Sergeant. You may keep two faggots at any time and no more. Do you understand?” He crossed out one of the names.

  Oh God, Janet would have his guts. “Yes sir.” He turned to go, but Carey stopped him.

  “Sergeant, do you think you could give me that list of men I can call upon to fight by this evening?”

  “Any particular surnames?”

  “No, Sergeant, surname doesn’t matter to me,” said Carey heretically. “Dislike of Lowther and a willingness to fight is all I want.”

  “Well sir…”

  “I’ve asked Richard Bell to be your clerk if you need him.”

  Dodd was relieved. It wasn’t exactly that he couldn’t write, it was only that not being a gentleman, paperwork of any description always took him several hours and more sweat than a pitched battle.

  Carey grinned, shut the book and stood up.

  “We’ve finished here. Don’t drink it all at once, gentlemen, that’s all I’ve got. Company dismissed.”

  Tuesday, 20th June, morning

  The men left the castle in a rabble, jingling their purses and planning extensive wanderings among the town’s alehouses that night. Naturally they decided to have a magnificent breakfast at Bessie Storey’s and they marched into the common room in a bunch, called for quarts and steak for their meals. Oddly enough she seemed to be expecting them and as soon as the last order was in, Bessie’s cousin Nancy Storey barred the door. Bessie herself shuttered the windows and rang her bell.

  Janet Dodd, broad and resplendent in her red wool market gown, led the wives of Bangtail, Archie, Red Sandy and Long George into the common room. Grim determination on their faces, they split up and moved in on their husbands. At last Dodd cracked. He laughed and laughed until the tears were dripping in his beer, while Janet marched up to him, sat down beside him and held her hand out. Still snorting feebly, Dodd took five shillings beermoney out of his pay and gave the rest into her hard upturned palm.

  “I hear he’s a fine man, your new Deputy Warden,” she said smugly. All around them arose whining and protests, while Bessie stood by with a broad grin on her face, ready to calm marital discord with a cudgel. Her son Andrew had already given her his pay.

  “You’ve met him?” said Dodd in astonishment.

  “No, no, Lady Scrope sent her girl Joan with Young Hutchin yesterday to tell me what was afoot. I told the others.”

  Privately deciding to tan Young Hutchin’s arse for him next time they met, Henry drank his beer without comment.

  Janet put hers down with a sigh of satisfaction. “Lord, Bessie knows how to brew, I wish I had her skill. Is he married, the new Deputy?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “Come on, Henry,” she said, “what’s the difference? By tomorrow you’d be in the same state, only you would have drunk and gambled the
money and I would be after you with a broom handle.”

  “That fine Courtier found out about my faggots.”

  Janet made a face. “I minded me that was what he was after, I even brought in three of my brothers, only I saw we couldna get them into the castle in time, so I sent them home. The Borders are very tickle at the moment, the Middle March was hit yesterday, but only four horses stolen and they lost a man because they hadna paid the Warden first. Did he leave you any faggots?”

  “Two. He said that’s all I’m to take the pay off.”

  “It’s not so bad, then. Dinna be so glum.”

  “Ha. Yon Courtier had us cleaning ourselves like bloody Dutch housewives yesterday, you wouldna ken the barracks now, and even Archie’s gun is gleaming bright,” Dodd said grudgingly.

  Janet seemed to find this funny.

  “I heard he took on that Turk Lowther too, and bought you new bows. Ay well, think upon it, Dodd. He has to make his mark which he’s now done. He’s paid you cash and where he got it, I don’t know for I’m certain there’s been no Queen’s paychest come into the city for the last six months. Would Lowther have paid cash?”

  Dodd laughed at the idea and started to unbend a little. “How’s the farm?”

  “Mildred died.”

  His good humour promptly dried up again. “What was wrong with her?”

  Janet looked worried. “I had the knacker’s man take her and he didn’t know either. At least Shilling’s well enough. What’s this I hear about us getting raided?”

  “Was that from Young Hutchin?”

  “He said I might want to have some of my brothers to stay with me and a couple of men to go out to the summer pastures for a week or so, just in case. There’s a lot of broken men about, he said.”

  Mostly Hutchin’s relations, but it was kindly of the boy, Dodd thought, deciding to let him live. Henry found himself close to wishing Lowther had got the deputyship after all. A comfortable if unprofitable life was now all back to front and looked likely to get worse and for lack of rest and unaccustomed labour he was falling asleep where he sat.

  “At least we can afford to buy a new horse,” Janet said, after counting the money.

  “Now there’s a novel idea,” said Henry Dodd, blinking into his leather beaker. “Buy a horse with money instead of me having to ride about the countryside at dead of night with your brothers…?”