1 A Famine of Horses

by P. F. Chisholm

  As he loped along, he kept watching for horses though he knew there was less than no hope of finding a loose horse to steal this close to the marauders denned up at Netherby. Most of the men were at the shielings anyway, so not even cows were visible, and the womenfolk hard at work in the fields and gardens near their houses. Some of them unbent their backs to look at him, a couple recognised him, but as they could hear no tolling of the Carlisle bell, they were puzzled to know what to do and simply stood watching. He ignored the ones who called out.

  Perhaps his father-in-law would take pity on him and lend him a horse to carry him the further seven miles to Gilsland where he could rouse out his own surname.

  God help Carey if he’s had the bad taste to get himself hanged before I can bring help to Netherby, was all Dodd could think, as he pounded along the rutted gravel of the Roman road. I’ll hunt him down and beat his brains out in Hell itself.

  Friday, 23rd June, morning

  Elizabeth Widdrington roused her stepson Henry from his lodgings at Bessie’s and told him the tale as he ate his bread and cheese. He laughed aloud at the thought of Dodd being banged up in his own jail, until he saw his young stepmother tapping her foot and swallowed his amusement. She’s a handsome woman, he thought, a little shocked at himself. What shreds of filial piety Henry had ever felt had been long destroyed by his father’s ill-temper and complex doings with the Fenwicks, the Kerrs and every gang of ruffians that chose to terrorise the East March when Sir John Carey’s back was turned. As a boy of ten Henry had been prudishly shocked when his father chose to marry again, and found himself a young Cornish girl through the good offices of Lord Hunsdon. But Elizabeth Trevannion had won him over in the end by treating him as a brother, rather than a son.

  She was talking again.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, not sure he had heard it right.

  “You and I are going to Thomas the Merchant and we’re going to get the full story he’s hiding about what he knows of Sweetmilk. And then, depending on what we find, you might go straight to Netherby to tell Jock of the Peartree of it.”

  Henry chocked on a lump of cheese. “But I haven’t got a pass to go into Scotland.”

  “You will by the time you need one, Philadelphia Scrope is seeing to it. Now come along.”

  Thomas the Merchant had a very fine wooden town house on English Street, solidly built of Irish timber and the walls coloured faint pink with a bull’s blood wash. Elizabeth Widdrington swept in, with the top of her high-crowned hat brushing the door lintel and servants scattering behind her like chaff. Henry knew his job for this kind of thing, at least, having collected rents with his stepmother in the past. When an ugly man his own height dared to bar their path, he drew his sword, put it on the man’s chest and walked straight on so he had the choice of giving way or being spitted. The man gave way.

  At the end of the hallway stood a middle-aged slightly built merchant in rich black brocade, trimmed with citron velvet and green braid, clasping his hands nervously.

  “Lady Widdrington, Lady Widdrington, what is the meaning of this…”

  Henry set his face in an ugly scowl and advanced on the man with his sword. Occasionally he was grateful for the spots and pockmarks that ruined his face for the girls, because they made him look so much more unsavoury than he knew he really was.

  “Thomas Hetherington,” said Elizabeth in tones that would have skewered a wild boar, “you will tell me what you know about the killing of Sweetmilk Graham and what happened to his horse and you will do it this instant! Sit down.”

  “How dare you come breaking into my house and threatening my servants, I have never been so slighted…”

  “Then it’s about time you were,” said Elizabeth. “By God, I have had enough of your patronage and your shilly-shallying and this time you shall tell me what I ask and you shall tell the truth or I will destroy you and everything you own.”

  Thomas the Merchant’s face went putty-coloured. “This is unseemly,” he said, and Henry had to give him credit for courage. “Madam, I must ask you to leave or I shall call…”

  “Oh?” asked Elizabeth, “and whom, pray, shall you call? The Warden? He’s in bed. The Grahams? They’re busy. However, I am here and I will have no arguments, do you understand?”

  “I’ll sue, I’ll…”

  Elizabeth smiled very unpleasantly. “Nothing would please me more than to meet you in Westminster Hall. In the meantime, tell me what I ask, God damn you, or I’LL LOSE MY TEMPER.”

  Henry thought it was wonderful how his God-fearing stepmother could swear when she was angry, but he kept his face straight and his sword ready. She had another advantage, in that she was tall and when she shouted her voice deepened, rather than becoming shrill. Personally, he would have told her everything he knew, down to the place he’d buried his gold, if he was Thomas.

  Thomas the Merchant had the sense to sit down. Elizabeth pulled up a heavy chair and sat down opposite him.

  “I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman,” she said, quoting the Queen whom she greatly admired, “but I have the heart and stomach of a lord, by God, and I’ll have your heart and stomach out in the light of day if I must, Thomas the Merchant, and swear you tried to rape me. So. Tell me about Sweetmilk.”

  Friday, 23rd June, morning

  With a couple of hundred stolen horse gathered at Netherby alone—never mind the others being kept further up Liddesdale—there was a stunning amount of work to do. Carey was at the bottom of the heap as far as importance and the backing of a surname was concerned, and so inevitably he found himself lumbered with most of it. He trotted about the churned up paddock, carrying buckets of water and bales of hay while his stomach groaned and rumbled. It was empty because his conversation with Mary Graham had meant he was late for breakfast and all that was left of the porridge was the grey scrapings at the bottom of the pot.

  The man in charge of caring for the horses was called Jock Hepburn, a by-blow cousin of Bothwell’s, who claimed to have Mary Queen of Scot’s second husband the fourth Earl of Bothwell for his father. He explained this to Carey and the sixteen other men who had been set to do the work, told them to call him ‘sir’ or ‘your honour’ since he was noble and they weren’t, and then sat on the paddock fence, played with the rings on his long noble fingers and shouted orders all morning.

  Some surname men were in the paddock too, seeing after favourite animals, but since most of the horses were stolen, the work fell to Carey and his fellows. At least it gave him the chance to mark out Dodd’s horses, which he did by the brands. They were standing together, heads down, as horses often did when they were miserable.

  Once the feed and water had been brought in, Hepburn took it into his head that the horses needed grooming, since most of them still had mud caked in their coats from when they were reived. In fact, Carey thought, as he worked away with a straw wisp and a brush at the warm rough coat in front of him, Hepburn was perfectly right, but he could have called in some of the idlers playing football in the next field to help: at this rate they’d be at it all day. He was getting a headache and his arms were tiring from unaccustomed work. If Dodd could see me now, he’d surely die laughing, thought Carey grimly as he scrubbed at the hobby’s legs, and there’s still been no word from Bothwell where we’re supposed to be going.

  The next horse he went to seemed very skittish, prancing with his front hooves, away from Carey. Carey chucked and gentled the animal, saw a tremor when he put his hoof to the ground. After much backing and shying, he’d calmed the horse enough so he could lift up his leg. What he saw there was thoroughly nasty: white growths and an inflamed reddened frog, and the other forehoof was quite as bad.

  Without even thinking, Carey led the horse gently to the side of the paddock, took a halter off the fence and slipped it over the twitching nervous head.

  “There now, there now.” he murmured, “We’ll have it sorted, there now, poor fellow…”

  Somebody thump
ed him between the shoulder blades, hard enough to knock him down. Carey rolled over in the mud, came to his feet with his hand clutching the void at his left hip where his sword should have been.

  Jock Hepburn was standing there, flushed and angry.

  “Where do ye think ye’re going with that horse?”

  “He’s got footrot and he needs to see a farrier,” said Carey, in no mood for an argument.

  Jock Hepburn stepped up close and slapped him backhanded. “Sir,” he said. “Ye call me sir, ye insolent bastard.”

  Carey hadn’t taken a blow like that since he was a boy. He started forwards with his fists bunched, saw Hepburn back up hurriedly and reach for his sword. He stopped. Rage was making a roaring in his ears and his breath come short, he was about to call the man out there and then, when he caught sight of the Earl of Bothwell hurrying over from his football game and remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

  “What’s going on?” demanded the Earl.

  “This man was trying to steal a horse.”

  Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. “I said I’d hang anyone that tried to reive one of our horses and I meant it.” He paused impressively. “What d’ye have to say for yourself?”

  Carey took a deep breath and relaxed his fists. His face was stinging, one of Hepburn’s rings had cut his cheek, and his headache was settling in properly.

  “Only I’d steal a horse that could run if I was going to,” he said, his throat so tight with the effort not to shout he could barely whisper. Bothwell’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “My lord,” he managed to say, adding, “This one couldna go two miles, his footrot’s that bad.”

  The Earl lifted one of the horse’s feet, prodded the sore frog hard enough to make the beast dance and snort.

  “Ay,” he said at last, “it’s true enough. Take the nag up to the tower and ask Jock of the Peartree if he’ll take a look. With a good scouring he might be well enough for a pack tomorrow night.”

  “Ay sir.” said Carey, taking hold of the bridle. The Earl stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Ye’ve too high a stomach on ye for a peddler, Daniel,” said Bothwell shrewdly. “What was ye before, at Berwick?”

  For a moment Carey couldn’t think what to say.

  “I’ve no objection to outlaws, ye know,” said Bothwell, and smiled, “I am one myself, after all.”

  Carey’s mind was working furiously. He managed a sheepish grin. “Ah, it wasnae the fighting, sir,” he said, “it was the women.”

  Bothwell laughed explosively. “There y’are, Jock,” he said to Hepburn who was looking offended, “dinnae be sa hard on the man, ye’ve a few fathers after ye and all.”

  “Husbands, sir,” said Carey, “it was husbands.” That tickled Bothwell greatly.

  He clucked at the horse and led him on to the paddock gate.

  “Hey, Daniel,” called Bothwell, “stay away from Alison Graham or Wattie’ll be after ye with the gelding shears.” Carey smiled wanly and lifted his hand to his forehead, leaving the Earl still howling at his own wit.

  Carey’s back prickled with Hepburn’s eyes glaring at him. He tried to slouch a bit more while he went over soft ground to save the horse’s feet.

  Once at the tower, he tethered the horse at the wall and asked for Jock of the Peartree of one of the boys running past playing wolf-and-sheep.

  Jock was inside the main downstairs room with Wattie Graham his brother and Old Wat of Harden who was spread into three men’s space on the bench. They were squinting at a sketch map drawn in charcoal. Carey tried to get a look at it, but didn’t dare come close enough.

  “Master Jock,” he said to all of them with his cap in his hand, “The Earl said, would ye look at this horse outside, he’s got the footrot.”

  Jock, very fine in a red velvet doublet, stood up and stretched.

  “Ay,” he said, “where’s the nag?”

  Wattie Graham was rolling up the map and Harden stood, scraped back the bench. “It a’ makes my head swim,” he complained, “I dinna like going so far out of mine own country.”

  The two of them went ahead through the door, ambling on towards the gate. Carey went ahead of Jock to lead him to the horse, when he saw a commotion outside by the football field. There was a little group of men gesticulating, the Earl at the centre, some of them pointing towards the tower. Screwing up his eyes, Carey saw a lanky frame topped with black hair, and a hand going up characteristically to twiddle in his ear.

  Realisation dawned. It was Young Jock, Ekie—all the reivers he had taken red-handed two days before. They were shouting, waving their arms. His own name floated over to him, poking familiarly out of the shouting. Wattie Graham and Wat of Harden were looking at the fuss, turning to look back at him as the shouting reached their ears.

  All the world turned cold and clear for Carey. The thought of the horse still tethered to a ring in the wall flickered through his mind, to be dismissed at once. As he had said himself, there was no point stealing a horse that couldn’t run.

  “Laddie, ye’re in my…” Jock began behind him.

  Carey half turned, drove his elbow into Jock’s stomach. Jock, who had eaten a much better breakfast than Carey, went “oof” and sat down. Carey backed into the tower, slammed the door, bolted and barred it, then kicked Jock of the Peartree over again as he struggled wheezing to his feet.

  Carey had his dagger in his hand, but decided against using it and put it back. Instead he kicked Jock deliberately in the groin and when he hunched over with his eyes bugging, Carey turned him on his stomach, put a knee in his back, undid Jock’s own belt and strapped his arms together behind him before Jock’s eyes had uncrossed.

  Grabbing a bottle of ale off a table as he went, Carey propelled Jock in front of him by the neck of his jerkin. Behind him there was a thundering on the door.

  “Carey!” roared Bothwell’s voice, “Carey, God damn you, open up!”

  Carey dropped Jock on the floor and put a bench on top of him, then shoved one of the tables up against the door. Somebody let off a gun outside, and splinters flew from a shot hole, followed by shrieking.

  “Halfwits,” muttered Carey, looking about for weapons. There were no firearms but there was a longbow with a couple of quivers of arrows hanging on the wall by the door, so he grabbed them gratefully, picked up the struggling Jock and clamped his arm round the man’s neck.

  Bothwell was shouting orders, Scott of Harden was shouting orders, Wattie Graham was shouting at them not to burn his bloody tower. There was a double thud of shoulders against the iron bound door which had been designed to withstand battering rams.

  Jock was going blue, so Carey let him breathe for a moment.

  “Now Jock,” he said, “I’m sorry to do this to you, but you’re my hostage.”

  Jock struggled feebly at the indignity, so Carey cut off his air again and half-dragged him up the spiral stair to the next floor. An iron barred gate was pegged open there, so Carey unpegged it one handed and it clanged shut, having been recently oiled. He didn’t have the key to the lock but he managed to jam it with a chest standing in the corner.

  Jock was thrashing about under his arm again, so Carey squeezed until the man’s eyes crossed. He could hear a lot more shouting outside. It seemed Wattie Graham was still objecting to his door being bashed in.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” he said reasonably, panting a little as he hauled Jock up the next flight of stairs and past the next iron gate.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye: he ducked his head and held his hostage up as a shield and the swinging bolt of wood landed on Jock’s skull not Carey’s. Carey dropped him and the longbow, dived sideways, glimpsed Alison Graham in a whirl of skirts with a club in one hand and a dagger in the other, her eyes wild.

  He charged into her with his shoulder, knocked her against the wall so the breath came out of her, still got a glancing blow about the head with the club and pricked in his arm by the dagger, tried
a knee in her groin to no effect and then punched her stomach and bruised his knuckles on her whalebone stays. Christ, where weren’t women naturally armoured? No help for it. He punched her on the mouth, and she finally went down, bleeding badly. Please God, he hadn’t killed her. No, she was breathing. One of her teeth looked crooked, which was fine since he’d taken the skin off his knuckles on them. He found the bunch of keys on her belt, ripped them off, picked her up under the armpits—Jesus, the weight of her—and hauled her into the linen room where she had been at some wifely pursuit. He locked the door on her, turned back to Jock and found him still googly-eyed from Mrs Graham’s blow.

  Gasping for breath he shut the gate, tried six of the massive bunch of keys and at last found the one that locked it. He turned and looked for the final flight of stairs up to the roof. There was no staircase, spiral or otherwise, just a ladder at the end of a passage. He could think of only one possible way he could get Jock and himself up there. He choked Jock off again to make sure, trapped his head with a bench from one of the rooms, climbed the ladder and heaved the trapdoor up. Blinking at the sunlight on the roof, he put down the longbow which was miraculously unbroken, the bottle and the two quivers, only half of whose arrows had fallen out. Then he went down the ladder again, heard a deep ominous boom from all the way downstairs. Clearly Bothwell had prevailed on Wattie Graham to let his tower be broken into. Carey picked up Jock by the front of his red velvet doublet. At least he was still stunned.

  A treacherous voice inside said perhaps he didn’t need Jock of the Peartree on top of his other troubles, and another voice said it was too late now and he might as well be hanged for a sheep.

  “Right,” he said more to himself for encouragement, than to Jock who couldn’t hear yet, “you’re coming with me.”

  He slid Jock up to a sitting position, got hold of his shoulders and hefted Jock onto his back with his legs hanging down in front. There was about thirteen stone of solid muscle and bone to the man and it took two heaves for Carey to stagger to his feet. The ladder looked as if it stretched halfway to the moon.