1 A Famine of Horses

by P. F. Chisholm

  “Take a list of the Fenwicks, Musgraves and Carletons that helped us,” said Carey, “see they get their share for backing a hot trod.”

  Long George was amused. “Och sir, Captain Carleton’ll see to that, never fear.”

  Captain Carleton was overseeing the gathering up of the Graham weapons and horses. His voice boomed over the moor, saying that the wounded man could bide there until his friends came back for him.

  “The prisoners, sir? Shall I find some trees?” asked Red Sandy.

  “Trees?”

  “To hang them on.” Dodd gestured with his thumb. “We caught them red-hand on a lawful hot trod, we have the right.”

  Carey put his hankerchief away while he thought about it. Archie Give-it-Them put a rope round Young Jock’s neck and mounted his horse ready to lead them. Young Jock looked surprised and worried for the first time. He seemed to have a boil in his ear which he was trying to scratch with one shoulder.

  “Not today, Sergeant,” said Carey, clapping a hand on Dodd’s shoulder comfortingly, “they’ll hang at Carlisle after a fair hearing.”

  Red Sandy stared at him in shock. “But sir…” he began.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Carey reproved them, “be practical. I want to find out where the reived horses have gone.” He slapped his horse’s neck, and mounted the tired beast gently. “They can’t tell me anything if they’ve long necks and black tongues, now can they? Have them run back to Carlisle.”

  He sent the prisoners off with ten men and with the remaining nine he set about recapturing the cattle. These were long experienced in being raided and had settled down out of their stampede to munch at what fodder they could find.

  Dodd and his men urged their weary horses round about the cattle to gather them again, with the dogs darting and nipping among the legs to help them. It took a while, but they had the cattle running in a stream southwards when Dodd cantered up to the Deputy Warden and asked if he wanted them brought through the Waste again.

  “No,” said Carey, “we’ll bring them through Lanercost valley and through the pass, and not too fast or the milch cows will take sick.”

  Dodd privately objected to being told something he had known before he was eight, but only turned his horse and yipped angrily at an enterprising calf.

  At Lanercost Carey took his Warden’s one tenth fee in the form of a cow and a soft-eyed heifer after a ferocious argument over which cattle exactly belonged to the Ogle there, seeing he had not yet got round to branding some of them. A similar argument and arrangement followed with Walter Ridley, whose nephew Tom’s Watt watched with interest. Driving their fees ahead of them, they caught up to the prisoners, almost into Carlisle. The reivers were gasping and dripping with the brisk run over rough ground forced on them by the grinning Archie Give-it-Them.

  “Yah, get on with you, ye’re soft as southerners,” he was sneering happily at their protests when Carey came trotting alongside.

  “Bastard,” croaked Young Jock over his sweat-soaked shoulder when he caught sight of Carey. “Fucking bastard Courtier…”

  Carey raised an eyebrow a fraction, tutted, looked critically at the prisoners and told Archie to take them for a little run round the walls of Carlisle before he put them in the dungeons, since they still seemed so fresh and lippy.

  Wednesday, 21st June, 2 a.m.

  At the same time as Dodd was hearing his neck-verse in his dream, Janet Dodd was shaken awake by one of her women, a young cousin by the name of Rowan Armstrong.

  “Mistress, mistress,” she hissed, “Topped Hobbie’s ridden in, there’s reivers coming.”

  Janet was instantly awake. She pulled her stays over her head and her petticoat, while Rowan fumbled her kirtle off the chest. “How far?”

  “A few miles away. He could hear them but not see them.”

  “What are they doing out on a night like this? Are the men awake?”

  “I told him to fetch up Geordie.”

  “Good girl.” A horn sounded from the barnekin, loud and urgent. Janet disappeared in the midst of her kirtle, reappeared, her fingers flying among the lacings. She went to the narrow window, opened the shutter and leaned out into the muggy darkness—cloud and no moon, a fine soaking rain. “Did Topped Hobbie say who it was coming?”

  “He thought it was Grahams, but he doesn’t know. He thought he heard Jock of the Peartree’s voice, mistress.”

  Janet pulled her lip through the gap in her teeth. “You go and wake the other maids, get yourself dressed and booted, then go help them bring in the cattle and the sheep nearby.”

  “What about the horses, mistress?”

  “Shilling and Courtier are both in the lower room of the tower already.”

  The horn stopped blowing, there were torches being lit in the barnekin. She peered out into the blackness as she pulled on her boots. “Geordie,” she shrieked.

  “Yes, Janet,” her brother’s voice sounded strained.

  “Is the beacon lit?”

  “As soon as we can get the kindling to catch, Janet. There are other beacons alight already, the March is up.”

  “Are the men in harness?”

  “They will be. We’ll ride out and fight them in…”

  “You will not. You will bring in every beast we have and bar the gate, then get on the wall with your bows.”

  “We canna catch them all in the time.”

  “Bring in what you can.”

  “But if he fires us…”

  “Every roof is wet through. Do as I say.”

  Janet ran down the stairs with her skirts hitched over her belt, out the door of the tower and into the barnekin which was already filling with desperately lowing cows, two half-panicked horses and frightened women trying to control over-excited children. Janet ran out of the gate and climbed on a stone to direct the running traffic of cattle, horses, men, boys, chickens, pigs, children, and, she would have sworn, rats as well. They could hear hooves; she waited as long as she dared, then shook her head.

  “Come in, Geordie and Simon and Little Robert, leave the rest!” she yelled. “Come on in.”

  Her cousin and her brother came galloping out of the mirk on their own horses, and Willie’s Simon had an arrow in his arm. Janet waited on them as the hooves and the shouting grew louder, slid through the narrow gate last of all, helped Geordie shut it and bar it and barricade it with settles from the hall, as a couple of arrows thudded into the wood. There was whooping and the flicker of torches on the other side.

  “Go to the kitchen,” she told Willie’s Simon who was white-faced and gripping the place where the arrow had pinned the muscle of his upper arm to his jack. “Kat Pringle will see to it. Give your crossbow to the best shot among the men. Where’s Little Robert?”

  “I thought he was already in,” said Geordie as he took the crossbow and began winding it up. Willie’s Simon slid awkwardly from his horse and walked away.

  “He’s not in the tower,” Janet said, frowning. “He must be outside still, God help him, I hope he has the sense to lay low.”

  There was loud shouting outside and the noise of a scuffle. Janet looked about for a ladder to the fighting platform, and then motioned Geordie to go up it first.

  “Janet…” he began to protest.

  “Shut up.” He obeyed, climbed the ladder and stayed crouched like the other men on the platform, while she climbed up behind and squatted beside him. She peered cautiously over the pointed wooden stakes.

  On the hill something was burning: no doubt it was Clem Pringle’s farm, since it was traditional to set light to it. The stones that made the walls were set hard as rock together from repeated firings.

  There were some men riding about, some torches set in the earth to give them light, two torches in two roofs, trying stubbornly to spread through the sodden turves. A little further off she could hear protesting lowing and whistles.

  “Jock!” she shouted, “Jock of the Peartree!”

  An arrow on fire sped over the wall, n
early setting her hair ablaze and she squatted lower, crawled further along.

  “I want to talk to you, Jock.” Before the next arrow could come, she moved again. Somebody put the other one out.

  “Where’s my horse?” came a shout from the other side.

  “If you can see him, shoot him,” Janet whispered to Geordie.

  “Steady Janet, do we want a feud with the Grahams?”

  “You fool, we’re already at feud with them.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Don’t blaspheme in my house.”

  “But you…”

  “Shut up. Jock!” she roared.

  “Janet Dodd, I have Little Robert here and I want my horse back. In fact, I want all your horses.”

  “What?” She peeped over the palisade and there he was in the torchlight, the young fool, fifteen years old and no sense, kneeling in the mud with four Graham lances at his throat and back, and blood purling down his face from a slice on the head.

  “I bought him fair and square,” she shouted. “If I’d known he was yours I wouldna touch him on the end of a lance. But I bought and paid for him.”

  “What did you pay?”

  “Five English pounds.”

  “I dinna believe you, Janet, no one would sell my Caspar for so little, he’s the cream of Scotland. Your man Sergeant Dodd took him off my son when he shot him dead from behind.”

  “He’d nothing to do with it, you know that.”

  “I don’t, Janet. Sweetmilk’s dead, your man had the body and lied to me about it. Who else would kill Sweetmilk, he was the gentlest wean I ever had.”

  God give me strength and patience, Janet thought, remembering Sweetmilk in a brawl at the last Warden’s Day. “Jock, would you keep hold of a horse from a man you’d murdered like that?”

  There was silence on the other side.

  After a while Janet stood up. “Give me Little Robert back, Jock.”

  Jock’s voice was mocking. “I’ll let you buy him off me with all the mounts you have in there and for a sign what a patient man I am, I’ll not even take the kine.”

  Janet closed her eyes so as not to see Little Robert trying not to wriggle when the lancepoints poked him as their wielders’ horses moved.

  “I canna give you Shilling,” she said. “He’s sick with what killed Mildred.”

  “Fair enough. Ye’ve five mounts to give me then: my Caspar, and the nags your two brothers were riding and the two from the Pringles. Do it now or I’ll use this one for pricking practice.”

  Down in the barnekin Willie’s Simon was staring up at her, his arm bandaged and in a sling. She nodded at him. Anger in every inch of his back, he went to the tiny postern door in the base of the tower and led out their beautiful Courtier, which Jock called Caspar. The other horses were still out in the courtyard.

  Janet beckoned Simon up onto the fighting platform and waited until all the crossbows were wound up. Rowan had one as well: she was a good shot and Janet told her to pick out Jock and keep her bow aimed at him.

  “Send Little Robert forward,” she shouted, “and you all fall back ten paces.”

  Down on the ground, everyone was watching as she peeked through a shot-hole while the horses stamped and snorted and pulled at their halters.

  At a prodding from Jock’s lance, Little Robert got unsteadily to his feet and staggered forwards. Janet had Clemmie Pringle, Kat’s vast husband and Wide Mary on either side of the gate, ready to shut it if there should be treachery. She opened it, then smacked each horse hard on the rump and shrieked. The horses broke forwards through the gate, snorting and panicking.

  “Run, Little Robert!” she yelled.

  He ran, dodging to and fro and between Caspar and Sim’s Redmane, a lance stuck in the mud behind him, he tripled his speed and fell into Janet’s arms as the gate shut behind him. There was nothing wrong with him bar his headwound, a little rough handling and stark fear, so she passed him to Clemmie Pringle to take to Kat, and climbed the ladder again.

  There was confusion as the Grahams caught their booty and then the sound of hooves riding off. “Stay where you are,” she snarled, when Geordie began to unwind his crossbow. “How do we know this isn’t some trick?”

  “Why would they trick us, Janet?” Geordie asked reasonably, “They’ve got what they came for.”

  “Henry’ll be fit to be tied,” said a voice in the background.

  Janet pretended she hadn’t heard. “We’ll wait until morning and then we’ll out that little fire and see the damage and I’ll take Shilling to Carlisle.

  “The March is up,” said Geordie, “Lowther’s on the trod already if they didna pay him for this. Why go to…”

  “Did ye not hear what I told you? There’s a new Deputy there and I’ve business with one of Dodd’s men.”

  “God help him,” muttered one of the other men.

  Wednesday, 21st June, 9 a.m.

  Lady Philadelphia Scrope was glaring worriedly at her embroidery hoop as she sat on a padded stool in the Queen Mary Tower and finished a rampant blackwork bee. She heard her brother’s boots coming heavily up the stairs, tripping once. There was a pause at the door before he opened it and came in.

  Almost laughing with relief at the sight of him, she put down her work and ran to hug him. He was rank with sweat, horse and human, and the oddly bitter scents of sodden leather and iron, he was spattered from head to foot with mud and blood, but none of it fresh enough to be his, thank God. The only thing not some shade of brown on him, other than the grubby rag of his collar, was his face which was white with weariness.

  “You caught them,” she said joyfully, “You caught the reivers.”

  Robin’s swordbelt clattered onto a chest and the pieces of rapier fell out.

  “Bloody thing broke,” grunted her brother, stripping off his gloves and fighting the laces of his helmet which had shrunk in the rain so that the knots became inextricable. He started to swear but Philadelphia delved in her workbag, brought out her little broidery shears and snipped the laces, so he could take it off and shake out his hair. She helped him with the ones on his jack which had also shrunk, took if off his shoulders for him, acting the squire as she had on occasion for her husband, and set it on its stand. As always it surprised her with its weight: you expected a steel helmet to be heavy, but you couldn’t see the metal plates in a jack under the padded leather. She set to work on his doublet points.

  He swatted at her feebly.

  “For God’s sake, Philly, I can do it myself. And where’s Barnabus?”

  “He had to go a message.” The room was beginning to steam up.

  “Christ, who sent my own bloody servant off…”

  “And anyway, he told me himself he’s not much of a hand with armour and suchlike, you never took him to the Netherlands with you remember. I’m much better at it than he is.”

  “I can’t afford to lend you any more…”

  Resisting the impulse to punch him, Philadelphia sat him on the stool, which made him wince satisfactorily, and hauled off his left boot.

  “Be quiet,” she said. “Behind the screen is my lord’s own hip bath with hot water in it. The cold is in the ewer next to it, don’t knock it over. There’s a towel and a fresh shirt airing on a hook by the chest, and your other suit, the good cramoisie, and your other boots and—come on, Robert, pull will you?—a fresh pair of hose. Don’t worry about the leaves in the water, they’re lovage, they’ll soothe your saddle burns…” She put the boots down near the door.

  “How do you know I’ve got saddle burns?”

  “And on the table by the bath is a posset…”

  “I hate possets.”

  “Which you will drink and a mess of eggs on sippets of toast with herbs in, which I made myself…”

  “Which I must eat?”

  “Which you will eat or I’ll wave your shirt out the window like the mother on a wedding morning. My lord wants to hear the whole tale when you’ve finished. Leave your soiled linen
on the floor as you usually do and I’ll send Barnabus as soon as he’s back.”

  “Why the cramoisie suit?”

  She hid a pert little grin. “For a good and sufficient reason which I will tell you as soon as you’ve finished with the Warden. Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

  She dodged his attempt to stop her and cross-examine her about whatever female plot she was working, humphed at him like a mother of five and then her skirts swished through the door and she was gone.

  Wondering what she meant about his shirt, he pulled the clammy thing off and found its lower half spotted with fresh blood in a dozen places. Shuddering he hobbled to the screen, holding up his hose with one hand and feeling the damage tenderly with the other.

  Wednesday, 21st June, 10 a.m.

  It was unjust, thought Dodd, after Carey had supervised the penning of their fees in the little fold within the Carlisle castle walls, the feeding, watering and rubbing down of their tired hobbies, and the feeding, watering and congratulating of the men and gone wearily to the Queen Mary Tower. What was unjust was that he had servants to help him clean up after fighting, whereas John Ogle’s boy who was supposed to look after Dodd’s needs had disappeared to Carlisle town. Dodd was reduced to a quick scour under the barracks pump which got the worst off; he left his jack to Bessie’s Andrew and received with sour silence Bangtail’s explanations of the whorehouse he’d been in when the summons came to go out on the hot trod.

  He thought he’d done well for himself until he saw the blasted Courtier, hair combed, sweet-smelling as a maid on her wedding morning, and spruce in a fresh ruff and a fine London suit the colour of a summer pudding, with one of Scrope’s spare swords on his belt. It was enough to make a man puke.

  Captains Carleton and Dick Musgrave, and the bad penny Sir Richard Lowther, were all present at the meeting in the Warden’s council chamber. Carey told the tale of the raid and the capture of five Grahams red-handed with a fine blend of modesty and fact-improving. It was not a long tale; shorter by far than the reports Lowther generally gave, in which he explained why the trods he led always, for some excellent reason, just missed catching the reivers.

  “What will you do with your fees?” asked Lowther.