1 A Famine of Horses

by P. F. Chisholm

  “No,” said Jock, a little uncertainly, “he’s nothing to worry about anyway. We’re going to reive the King out from under the noses of his bad counsellors.”

  “Of course,” said Carey, “and I know you don’t care about a charge of High Treason…”

  Jock’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” said Carey, “You live on the Scottish side of the line. If you go out in arms against the King, it’s High Treason.”

  “We’re rescuing him from bad counsellors,” insisted Jock.

  “He’s agreed to be rescued, has he? Rescued by Bothwell, I mean, whom he hates because he thinks the Earl’s King of the Scottish Witches. He knows all about this scheme, does he?”

  “Are ye trying to turn me against the raid?”

  Carey leaned forward. “Listen Jock,” he said, making sure he stayed out of head-butting distance, “I don’t give a turd what you do. If you want to make an enemy of the King—who has a very long memory, by the way, and has been kidnapped before—that’s entirely your affair. If the raid goes wrong somehow, and the King comes out to Jedburgh with blood in his eye and an army behind him to hunt down the Grahams and wipe them off the face of the earth, that’s nothing but good news to me, alive or dead. If you want to pass up the chance of reiving 600 of the best horses in Scotland in favour of Bothwell’s lunatic scheme, I’m not the one to stop you. I just hate to see a man put his head in a noose without knowing the full story.”

  Jock grunted. There was silence from him, so Carey made another circuit of the parapet. Below he could see smoke and flames licking from near the door. He took the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow and waited. Sure enough, six men holding bucklers over their heads appeared from one of the sheds nearby with a battering ram between them, and charged at the door. He shot off four arrows, but they bounced off the shields and after two attempts there was a splintering crash and a chorus of cheers as the door finally gave way.

  He went back to Jock, who was staring into space, looking very thoughtful.

  “They’re into the tower,” said Carey. Jock said nothing. Thuds and bangs and a screech of metal below, feet pounding up the stairs, another outburst of clanging and crashing.

  In his mind’s eye Carey could see the scene one floor below. They’d have released Alison Graham and yes, there was wailing and Wattie yelling threats up through the trapdoor.

  He’d been calm before, talking to Jock to keep his mind off what was happening. Now his mouth was dry again and his stomach clenched into a knot. He was no longer hungry.

  “Carey,” said Jock.

  “Hm?” His eye had caught movement over on the hills to the east, a glitter of spears, movement of men. Had the Grahams brought in more of their men to help retake Netherby?

  “Do ye think the Earl knew what happened with Sweetmilk?”

  Carey shrugged. “I’ve no idea. He might, he might not. Whichever it is, he won’t have told you, you know that.”

  Jock nodded.

  “Would ye agree to be ransomed?”

  “I thought you said there’d be no chance…”

  “I’ll pledge for ye. Well?”

  Carey laughed, a little desperately. “I’ve never been ransomed before, but yes.”

  “He’ll likely chain ye up in the dungeon until your family’s paid up. It’s no’ a very nice place.”

  Carey licked his lips. The whole thing was a disaster. Then he shrugged. “Better than hanging though.”

  “Untie me then,” said Jock. Carey hesitated. “Come on, man, ye havena got all day.”

  Men with bucklers over their head were trotting in and out of the tower carrying turves and faggots of wood.

  Carey undid the ropes holding Jock to the beacon post, but left his hands strapped behind him. He drew his dagger and put it to Jock’s neck, then let Jock go over to the trapdoor.

  “Bothwell,” yelled Jock. There was a pause in the activity below.

  “Ye’re still alive,” said the Earl’s voice.

  “Ay, of course I’m still alive, if I was dead, I wouldna be speaking to ye, now would I?” snarled Jock.

  “What a diplomat,” muttered Carey.

  “Shut up, ye. Bothwell.”

  “What do you want, Jock?”

  “The Deputy Warden will surrender himself to me if ye’ll ransom him after the raid and he’ll not talk about it after.” Jock glowered at Carey, daring him to disagree. Carey felt his shoulders sag, but nodded.

  “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds, English.”

  “No.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “I’ll have him in half an hour anyway, why should I negotiate? You’re getting soft, Jock.”

  Jock made a face, shrugged his shoulders. Carey hadn’t really expected Bothwell to say yes, but his stomach squeezed itself up tighter under his breastbone. He tried to avoid wondering what Bothwell would do to him before he was hanged. Maybe not. Maybe the Earl would ransom him anyway.

  “He’s worth more alive than dead, Bothwell,” said Jock.

  “I’ll be rich enough after the raid,” said Bothwell, “and so will ye, if ye can live through the next hour.”

  There were a couple of echoing cracks from below as Bothwell tried to shoot the trapdoor away.

  “It’s nae good,” shouted Jock, “he’s put stones over the hole. Have ye got gunpowder?”

  “Jock!” said Carey protestingly.

  “My arms are killing me, Carey, let’s get this bloody farce over with.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  There was a sound of crackling and tendrils of smoke started coming up through the cracks around the trapdoor and the holes in the roof. There were more of them than he’d thought, Carey noted, and the smoke was thick and black. Bothwell was using damp turves on top of the dry wood.

  “Eh, Wattie must be in a rare mood,” said Jock, “and Alison. She’d never let him burn us out if ye hadnae hit her.”

  “I know,” said Carey.

  Friday, 23rd June, afternoon

  Dodd had split his force into three to come at Netherby from the south west, the south east and the east. Will the Tod took the road north from Longtown that passed beside the river Esk, his son Geordie came in from Dodd’s tower at Gilsland with the Dodds but joined up with his own surname and went through Slackbraes wood and Cleughfoot wood. The Dodds went over Slealandsburn and Oakshaw Hill and also passed through the eastern part of the Cleughfoot Wood that cupped itself around Netherby. They rode well-spread out and caught four of the men that Bothwell had stationed to watch.

  At Longtownmoor stone, Geordie, Will the Tod and Henry Dodd had agreed that as they didn’t know exactly how many men Bothwell had or where they were, their best plan was to hit hard and fast, drive off his horses, capture Bothwell himself if they could and if they couldn’t, to trap him in Netherby tower with as few of his men as possible and then negotiate.

  The daylight made things difficult for them, experienced night raiders though they all were, since they would be visible further off and they had no torches to signal the onset with. After some argument, they agreed on horncalls when they were ready, which would warn Bothwell, but might confuse him as well, or so they hoped. It might make him think the Carlisle garrison had come out to rescue the Deputy Warden.

  And so, being the last to get into position because of having to go over the hill, Dodd put his horn to his lips as soon as he sighted the tower through the trees, and then all three of the groups of men broke from the woods and galloped over fields and barley crops straight up to Netherby tower.

  It seemed that Bothwell was distracted, though unfortunately most of his men were already in the barnekin. Geordie and his men got into the horsepaddocks where the vast numbers of horses were—Jesus, there must have been a couple of hundred at least—broke down the fences and drove the horses off into the wood, leaving two men dead behind them.

  Will the Tod and Henry rode hard for th
e barnekin, aiming for the gate. Complete confusion broke out round the tower. Some of the Grahams turned away from what they were doing and shot at them with arquebuses, a couple of the women managed to free the gates. Six men ran outside to help shut the big main gate: there was a sharp fight with ten more who came out with lances to hold them off and then the gate was shut and barred and most of the Grahams outside either surrendered or legged it northwards for Liddesdale and the Debateable Land.

  Dodd let them go, he was looking all about him. “Can ye see the Deputy?” he yelled, “Check the trees, where is he? Where’s Bothwell?”

  “DODD!” came a happy roar that was unmistakably Carey’s voice—at least he could still shout. Where the devil was it coming from?

  “DODD, I’M UP HERE ON THE ROOF.”

  By God, so he was. Dodd squinted, shaded his eyes from the sun and saw a smutty wild figure waving his arms from the top of Netherby tower where the smoke was billowing in great black clouds. Some Graham down in the barnekin shot at him with a caliver at a hopeless range and he ducked down. In a moment he was up again.

  “DODD, I’VE GOT JOCK OF THE PEARTREE AS MY HOSTAGE. TRY AND…” Somebody else tried with an arquebus, and the stone splintered two feet from Carey’s hand. “…Ah, go to hell you idiots, you’ll never hit me at that range…TRY AND NEGOTIATE, DODD, BOTHWELL’S INSIDE THE TOWER…”

  Dodd sat back in the saddle and grinned.

  “Och,” he said to Will the Tod who was beside him, “they’ve got him treed.”

  “That him?” asked Will the Tod curiously. “Are ye sure?”

  “Ay,” said Dodd, “he doesnae normally look like that, he’s generally a very smart man, almost a dandy. But ay, that’s him, and he’s given ‘em a run for their money, if I’m any judge.”

  “Wattie Graham must be ay annoyed at having to burn his own tower.”

  “And he’s got Jock of the Peartree.”

  Will the Tod’s face was split in the broadest of grins. “Ay, it’s a grand thought, Jock made a hostage by the Deputy Warden of Carlisle. That’s worth the bother by itself. He’s his father’s son, true enough.”

  “I thought ye didn’t take to Lord Hunsdon.”

  “Oh, I wouldna say that, he never burned me and he did burn a few of my enemies when I pointed them out to him. I’ve got nothing against the Careys, me.”

  “Good,” said Dodd, “but now we have to get the Deputy down from the tower.”

  “It’s a tickle situation, Henry. What’s your plan?”

  “Talk to Bothwell.”

  “And if Bothwell willna talk?”

  Dodd shrugged. “Avenge Carey and give him a decent burial.”

  “It’d be a pity.”

  “Ay.”

  “So now. I’m the English Armstrong headman, Henry, so I think it’s fitting if I do the talking.”

  Dodd opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it. He nodded. Will the Tod looked pleased with himself.

  “Hey, BOTHWELL!” he roared. “Show your face, I want to talk to ye.”

  Friday, 23rd June, afternoon

  More quickly than seemed possible the smoke had got thicker and thicker until the top of the tower was crowned with a black hood of smoke, a little flurried by the breeze. The day was too still to blow it away, the first truly summer weather for weeks, Carey thought bitterly, when what he needed was a good solid downpour.

  Jock coughed hackingly. “When will ye surrender?” he asked. Carey had hustled him back to the beacon post and tied him to it again. Hammering came from below—they must have brought in lances or long poles. Carey backed away from the trapdoor, behind the angle of the roof and his barricade of firewood. He counted out his arrows—he had five left—and laid them in a row in front of him, set his bow before him and waited. Counting the knives still in their scabbards on his wrist and at the back of his neck, he had seven shots at whoever poked his head through the trapdoor, before it was hand to hand.

  “Why should I surrender if Bothwell won’t ransom me?”

  “Och, I’ll protect ye, lad. Ye’ve talked me round wi’ that smooth courtier’s tongue of yours, I’ll not let Bothwell harm ye, nor Wattie. Ye’ve my word on it.”

  “Well,” said Carey, tempted against his will. A drift of smoke caught him and he coughed.

  “Ye’ll get us both killed. Ah can save ye, if ye let me lift up the trapdoor and talk to Bothwell. Ye can keep an arrow pointed at my back if ye like. There’s no need to die.”

  That was when Carey and Jock both heard the sound of horns, of hoofbeats, shouting, fighting, the creak and double thud of the barnekin gate. Carey ran to the eastern parapet, peered over, batting furiously at the smoke, and there was Sergeant Dodd, filthy, armed and triumphant, with something like eighty men about him. Carey shouted, waved his arms, shouted again. He’d never have thought he could be so delighted to see that miserable sullen bastard of a Sergeant.

  Jock of the Peartree brought him back to reality.

  “So the garrison’s out,” he said dourly. “It makes nae odds to ye, ye bloody fool. Bothwell’s still going to have ye either by breaking in the trapdoor or he’ll wait until the smoke kills ye. Me, I’d wait.”

  Carey was coughing again: the smoke reeked and was making his eyes stream. He fanned the air uselessly.

  “Us, Jock, you too. Still,” he said between hacks, “we can negotiate a bit better because if he kills me, he’ll have to fight Dodd and I don’t think he wants to with his big raid due tomorrow. So why don’t you try talking to him again, Jock?”

  “Nay, I tried my best, it’s a waste of breath now. Let Dodd and that fat Armstrong father-in-law of his do all the hard work.”

  The smoke was gouting out of the holes in the roof now, and from round the trapdoor as the fire got a good grip down below on whatever filth they’d put into it. For all the shouting outside, Bothwell seemingly would not be drawn from what he was at.

  Jock was choking hard now, wheezing and gasping for breath. Carey watched him, beset with indecision, knowing perfectly well that Jock would rather choke to death than beg to be let up again.

  “Oh the hell with it,” he said, “Jock, will you swear not to play me false if I let you free?”

  “Ay,” wheezed Jock, “I swear.”

  Carey hesitated a moment longer, then went to him, cut the ropes that bound him and undid the belt still holding Jock’s arms behind him. Jock whined a little with the pain of returning circulation, brought his arms round very slowly and flexed them. He turned to Carey.

  “That was kindly of ye, Courtier,” said Jock grudgingly. “Ah wouldnae have done that for ye in this situation.”

  “No,” coughed Carey, “I’m too soft, that’s my problem. Get on the other side of the roof until it’s over.”

  “Ay,” Jock muttered, moving away, “y’are soft an’ all.”

  There was a heavy thump on the trapdoor. Carey watched through tears and coughing. They must have lit a fire right under it, they weren’t about to waste gunpowder when fire would work as well even if it was slower. Once the wood was burned through, the weight of the flagstones would…

  Something hit him like a mallet in the stomach. It was a block of stone off the roof, shrewdly thrown by Jock, and it took every wisp of air out of him. He tottered, tried to keep his feet, tried to draw his dagger, but Jock moved in, caught him briskly, steadied him, and kneed him hard in the balls.

  He landed bruisingly on the hot parapet, agony flaring white in his eyes and no breath even to mew with pain; he tried but failed to puke. Locked in a private battle with what felt like a black spear in his groin, lancing up to his chest, he dimly heard Jock pushing his feeble barricade of firewood aside. There was a scraping sound as Jock pulled the flagstones off the trapdoor, and cursing because the metal and wood were hot, shot the bolts.

  Carey was beginning to be able to uncurl when Jock kicked him in the head, grabbed the back of his doublet and some hair and dragged him over the stones, behind the an
gle of the roof.

  “Bothwell,” shouted Jock, busily tying Carey’s wrists behind him with the ropes that had just been cut off his own arms, “I’ve got him. D’ye hear me? The trapdoor’s open, ye can come up.”

  “It could be a trick,” came Bothwell’s voice, “Carey, what are you up to?”

  “He’s surrendering unconditionally,” said Jock. “In fact, I dinna think he can talk at the moment, he seems verra preoccupied.”

  “What happened?”

  “Och, he’s a courtier, wi’ notions of honour and such, he only went and untied me arms.”

  There was a lot of unkind laughter down below. Carey would have felt betrayed, but as Jock was giving him a scientific kicking while he spoke, he found he couldn’t think of anything except how to roll up tighter. There were sounds of hissing as water was poured over the fire, cautious scraping sounds of a ladder being brought.

  Jock took a fistful of Carey’s hair and hauled his head back. “This is for the good of your soul, Courtier. Ah’m teaching ye not to beat up your elders…”

  Carey blinked away the water springing out of his eyes and, out of pure stupid temper, spat in Jock’s face.

  “Och, Courtier, Courtier…” said Jock regretfully, “ye’re a hard man to teach.” He banged Carey’s face a couple of times on the stone and the ugly world and Jock’s ugly face went black.

  Carey came to, still cross-eyed and dizzy, and tried to puke again. Jock had sauntered over to the parapet. He was peering out at the barnekin and horse paddock between fading drifts of smoke, still coughing. Carey must have made some sort of moaning noise, because Jock turned to him.

  “Och, ye canna complain, ye’ve had nae worse than ye did to me.”

  Privately Carey thought he’d had a great deal worse than Jock, but he couldn’t see any point in arguing and it was too much effort anyway.

  “Thought so,” said Jock with satisfaction still gazing outwards at something he could see over the parapet, “Thank God Sergeant Dodd knows what he’s at.”

  One of Carey’s eyes was swelling shut and he could do no more than dully wonder through his multifarious pains why Jock had picked up the bow and the remaining arrows and had nocked one on the string. He was still where Jock had hauled him, out of sight of the trapdoor, uncomfortably half-curled, half-sprawled on the roofstones, his head jammed against the parapet wall and his knees pulled up. His hands had already gone numb. A tentative movement of his shoulders to try and free his head got him kicked again, so he stayed where he was. Then the trapdoor moved, shifted, was hefted out of the way.