1 A Famine of Horses

by P. F. Chisholm

  “Oh ay,” agreed Carleton, “I see.”

  “And I don’t want him stopped. I just want his dispatch bag…borrowed, so I can read the letters.”

  “Well,” said Dodd, “all the papers go into a bag in Richard Bell’s room where it’s sealed and then one of Lowther’s boys carries it to Newcastle, riding post. He usually waits there for the return bag and then he brings it back. If the seals were broken he’d know…”

  “There are ways of opening dispatch bags without breaking the seals.”

  “Are there?” asked Carleton, “What are they?”

  “Well, you could unpick the stitching at the bottom and take the papers out that way.”

  “Nay sir,” said Dodd, who had carried them on occasion and done his best to satisfy his curiosity, “They’re double, and the outer one’s oiled canvas.”

  “Damn,” said Carey, “I suppose Walsingham will have advised him how to do it. Well, that leaves Richard Bell.”

  “The little clerk,” grunted Carleton. “Ye could threaten him, I suppose.”

  Bell was quite a scrawny specimen, but he was also tall and gangling rather than small. However, Barnabus had noticed that fighting men invariably referred to clerks as “little”.

  Carey shook his head. “That would send him straight to Lowther or Scrope. Can he be bought?”

  “I dinna ken,” said Dodd, “nobody’s tried.”

  “Are you joking?” demanded Carey, clearly shocked. “Are you seriously telling me that nobody’s even tried bribing him for the dispatches?”

  Dodd shook his head. “I suppose we wouldn’t know if they had, but if he’s been bribed he’s very canny about it, his gown’s ten years old at least.”

  “He’ll have had livery for the funeral, though?”

  Carleton shook his head as well. “He’s not been invited into the procession.”

  “Why not? He served the old Lord Scrope for years?”

  Dodd and Carleton exchanged embarrassed glances. It seemed that Richard Bell had been left out.

  “Well,” said Carleton, shifting in the chair, “ye hardly ever notice him, he’s that quiet, I suppose they forgot.”

  Carey was genuinely appalled. “Well, that’s simply not good enough. Where would he be now, do you think?”

  “Scrope’s office,” suggested Carleton.

  “I’ll go and talk to him, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Dodd and Carleton took their leave. Carey picked up his hat and headed for the door, then turned to Barnabus.

  “I’ve an errand for you, Barnabus.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I want you to go down to Madam Hetherington’s and find Daniel Swanders. Tell him I lost his pack and wouldn’t advise him to go to Netherby to get it back for a while until things have cooled down there. If he doesn’t mind the risk, he might try in a month or so. In the meantime, here’s three pounds English for him to buy new stocks and the five shillings I made while I was doing his job with the ladies at Netherby.”

  “What about his clothes, sir?”

  “Oh Lord, I think Goodwife Biltock burned those. He’d better keep the suit he’s got on: he’ll get a much better class of customer with it.”

  “Sir…” Barnabus, who had had his eye on that suit for Simon when he finished growing, since it was entirely the wrong size and shape for himself, was very aggrieved. “It’s worth more than the pack by itself.”

  “Considerably more,” agreed Carey.

  “You’ll only have three left.”

  “Don’t fuss,” snapped Carey, “I can get something made up in wool when Scrope pays me. Now go and do as I say, and get back here before the gate shuts.”

  “Yes sir,” said Barnabus, sadly.

  “I’ll see to the walnut stain myself. I suppose the hair colour will just have to grow out.”

  “Yes sir,” said Barnabus, “unless you want to go blond.” Carey gave him the piercing blue stare that told him he was pushing it. He added hurriedly, “If you let me cut your hair short, it’ll be quicker.”

  “In the morning.”

  They went down the stairs together and Carey hurried over to the keep.

  Saturday, 24th June, evening

  Carey found Richard Bell still standing at his high desk, his pen dipping in the ink bottle and whispering across the paper in front of him in the hypnotic dance of a clerk, with a triple candlestick beside him to light his way through the thickets of letters.

  Carey stood and waited quietly until Bell carefully cleaned his pen on a rag, put it down and stretched and rubbed his fingers with a sigh. He caught sight of Carey and blinked at him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I didna see ye.”

  Bell was as thin as a portrait of Death and yet didn’t look unhealthy or consumptive: it seemed natural to him. His shoulders were a little rounded, his eyes blinked against the flicker of the candles. He and Scrope made a matched pair, in fact, although Scrope was better built and looked stronger and might even run to fat in a few years.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “Mr Bell, I heard something that astonished me a moment ago, and I hope you can clarify it for me.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I heard that you were not to be a part of the funeral procession.”

  Bell said nothing and looked at the floor. Carey stepped a little closer.

  “Is it true?”

  Bell nodded. “Did you refuse a place…?”

  “No sir,” said Bell, then looked up shyly. “I have been very busy with the arrangements, and I suppose it…er…slipped the Lord Warden’s mind.”

  “If you were offered a place, would you accept?”

  “Yes sir, of course, I would…I would be honoured.”

  Carey smiled. “How are you with horses, Mr Bell?”

  Bell looked confused. “Not bad, I like them. I’ve carried dispatches in the past, when they were particularly urgent and the man had already gone.”

  “No problems walking a couple of miles?”

  Bell smiled. “No sir. I’m not as weak as I look.”

  “Excellent. Let me talk to Scrope and see what I can do. I’m sorry you seem to have been passed over, Mr Bell.”

  Bell studied the paper before him.

  “Sir Richard…” he muttered. Carey raised an eyebrow. “Sir Richard Lowther said he would see to it.” Bell explained.

  “I’m sure he meant to,” said Carey generously, “but I expect it slipped his mind with all the press of business. Don’t worry, Mr Bell, I’ll see my brother-in-law now and talk to him about it.”

  Sunday, 25th June, 2 a.m.

  There was hardly any overnight pause at all in the frantic activity of the castle. Carey, finding his ribs griping him and his face at its sorest, got up, shaved himself gingerly by candlelight and threw on his green suit to go out and see how the preparations were progressing, leaving Barnabus snoring by the door. He found the yard lit by torches and crammed full of horses. The baleful duo of Carleton and Dodd were supervising the garrison as they groomed their hobbies’ coats and plaited their manes and tails. In the corner was Bell, who could not have been to bed at all, carefully polishing the flanks of old Scrope’s handsome chestnut gelding and feeding him carrots. Boys ran around underfoot, imperiously commanded by Hutchin Graham, lugging gleaming harness and saddles.

  Carey wandered through the noise and spied the erect figure of Elizabeth Widdrington going into the castle kitchens which leaned up against the walls of the keep. He followed her, ducking automatically past strings of garlic and onions and the hams that were to be served later, and found her by the long table in the kitchen watching as two of the scullery boys heaved kid carcasses onto the empty spits by the vast fire. The baker was already pulling bread from the oven next to the fire, slamming in batches of penny loaves at a terrible rate. Half the produce of Carlisle market was heaped up in baskets by the larder door waiting to be turned into sallets and pot-herbs while Goodwife Biltock stood by the cauldro
ns hanging on the brackets over the flames, stirring mightily, her face verging on purple and her hair escaping from her cap in grey strings.

  The small round greasy creature Carey knew as the Carlisle cook was sitting on a stool watching stale bread being turned to crumbs by two kitchen girls. He was the idlest man Carey had ever met outside the Court, rarely out of his bed before eight, but it seemed Lady Widdrington had impressed him with the importance of the occasion…Terrorised was perhaps a better word to describe the way he looked at her.

  Carey turned to go, but Elizabeth caught sight of him and came bustling over, wiping her hands on her clean white apron, and smiling.

  “How are you, Sir Robert?” she asked. “Is Lady Scrope up yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Carey admitted, “I can wake them if you like.”

  She nodded. “Scrope’s body-servant has the new livery for the boy and a decent gown for Bell. Any luck with the wine?”

  Carey shook his head. “If Barnabus can’t find any, nobody can. I expect Bothwell had all the good vintages in Carlisle.”

  “Can’t be helped. I don’t suppose anybody will notice and there’s plenty of beer and ale. I’ll soon need two strong men to help me carry the raised pies into the hall.”

  She gestured at the table along one wall where three enormous pies, complete with battlements, stood waiting.

  “They’re a little greasy, so don’t send anyone who’s wearing his mourning livery.”

  “What happened to the sweetmeats?”

  “They’re in Philadelphia’s stillroom, drying out. They can wait though: the less time they spend in the open for flies and boys to get to them, the better. How are your ribs?”

  “Well enough…” began Carey, but Goodwife Biltock came up to him with a mug of ale, looking stern.

  “You’re as pale as a sheet,” she scolded, “and bags to hide a pig in under your eye. Drink that, it’s spiced and has medicine in it.”

  “What sort of medicine?” Carey demanded suspiciously.

  “Something to prevent a fever. Let me see your face.”

  She reached up, took his face between her rough hands and turned it to the light from the fire.

  “Jesus,” she said, “you look a sight. I wish I could have got to your face with a few leeches when that was done…”

  “Goodwife…” began Carey.

  “And an axe for the man that did it to you.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Drink your ale.”

  He drank.

  “What do you think, Lady Widdrington? Will Lady Scrope…?”

  “I’m sure,” said Elizabeth, still smiling at him. “Anyway, it can’t be helped and most of Carlisle know what happened.”

  “We don’t want anyone laughing.”

  “They won’t.”

  “When did you last wash behind your ears, Robin?”

  For God’s sake, he didn’t have to take this any more. “Last night,” said Carey repressively, “with your verjuice. It’s the best I can do without lemons. I’ll go and wake the Scropes if they’re not up already, my lady.”

  As he left Goodwife Biltock tutted and said “Temper! Temper!” but he pretended to be deaf and carried on out the door, up the stairs and through the hall where trestle tables were set up and Scrope’s steward was shouting at a girl who had dropped a large tablecloth in the rushes. She put her apron over her head and howled as Carey slid by, climbed the stairs to the Scrope private apartments. He hid a grin as he knocked: it seemed the preparations for elaborate ceremonial were identical wherever you went. He almost felt homesick for Westminster.

  Scrope was already awake and Philadelphia was in her smock and fur-trimmed dressing gown with her hair full of curling papers, her back eloquently turned to her husband.

  “Philadelphia, my dear,” said Scrope nervously. Philadelphia sniffed. Carey was irresistibly reminded of a kitten sulking at being refused a second helping of cream, or no, hardly that, perhaps at having her tail trodden on. “Your brother’s here.” Scrope rolled his eyes eloquently at Carey who tried to look sympathetic. Philadelphia came over and kissed him on his good cheek.

  “Robin, you’re here, that’s splendid,” she said. “How is Elizabeth doing?”

  “I wish we had her supplying the English troops in the Netherlands,” said Carey gallantly, and then balked because Philadelphia was leading him to her dressing table. “What…?”

  “Now don’t fuss, didn’t Elizabeth say why I wanted you?”

  “No, she…What the devil are you doing? No, I don’t want to sit there, I have seven men to…”

  “Oh hush, Robin, this won’t take a moment.” Philadelphia pushed her stool up behind his knees so he sat automatically in front of the mirror. She chewed meditatively on her lip and then darted forward and picked up a little glass pot.

  “What the blazes…”

  She started dabbing the cream onto his bruised cheek. Carey caught her wrist.

  “Philadelphia, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to cover up all the black bruising so you don’t look like a Court jester, now let go.”

  “I’m not wearing bloody face-paint at a funeral…”

  “Yes, you are. Come on, Robin, did you never wear anything at Court?”

  “I most certainly did not, who do you think I am, the Earl of bloody Oxford? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my…Ouch!”

  “Don’t move then. Honestly, I’ve seen horses easier to deal with than you. Nobody will know if you let me…”

  “Goddamn it,” growled Carey, looking round for moral support. Scrope had disappeared into his little dressing room.

  “There now. A bit of red lead, I think, just a bit…Your skin’s hard to match, Robin, it’s lucky you’re not a woman. At least you got most of the walnut juice off, what did you use?”

  “Verjuice, but…”

  “No wonder you smell like a meat pickle. Smear a bit of this on, it’s a musk perfume, might hide the worst of it. Now then, perhaps a little…Yes, that’s better. Hm. Much better. Look in the mirror.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t do it round your eye because it’ll get sore. We’d better set it…”

  She picked up a feather pad and dabbed it in powder, brushed it over his face. He sneezed.

  “Now,” said Philadelphia with satisfaction. “Don’t touch your face, don’t rub your eyes, and when Barnabus cuts your hair, put a towel round your head so you don’t get clippings on it, but I think you’ll do. And be careful if you change your shirt as well. There, lovely. You look as if you’ve been in a fight, but you don’t look as if you lost it any more.”

  “Philly, I…”

  “That’s all right, you don’t have to thank me. Now I expect you’ve got a great deal to do,” she added with emphasis, “I certainly have.”

  Barnabus had the sense not to make any comments when Carey climbed back up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower to his room. Carey conscientiously protected his face with a towel while Barnabus snipped at his curls.

  Once the sky began lightening he examined his face very carefully in the mirror while Barnabus was tying his doublet points and there was no denying the fact that he looked a great deal less like someone who had recently been given a kicking by an expert. His skin felt stiff and odd and he wondered how people like Oxford and even Essex stood it day after day. The Queen wore triple the thickness but women were used to it, he supposed, as he put on his rings.

  He complimented Barnabus on his boots which were gleaming and slipped on a pair of wooden pattens to keep them decent until he could mount his horse. He had forgotten to give orders about his sword, but Barnabus had seen to it anyway, and it was glittering and polished. He left the lace-edged ruff off until after he had eaten the breakfast of bread and beer Simon brought him, knowing the magnetic attraction white linen had for crumbs and brown stains, and once that was on and his hat on his head, he was ready. Looking in the mirror again brought a private unadmitted li
ft to his heart. Not even the Queen could find fault with his elegance, though no doubt she would shriek and throw slippers at the smell of verjuice disguised with perfume. Otherwise he could have attended her in the Privy Chamber with no worries at all.

  When he ventured out into the courtyard again the chaos had given place to a semblance of order. There was a row of men pissing against one of the stable walls, and Dodd and Carleton were already mounted. Simon ran to the row of horses, brought out Carey’s best horse, Thunder, and led him over. Carey thought about it, joined the row of men to relieve himself, refastened himself carefully because one of his recurring nightmares while serving at Court had been attending the Queen with his codpiece untied, then went over to his horse, slipped off the pattens and mounted up carefully. Dodd lifted his cap to him, replaced it with his helmet and followed him as he rode down the short row of his own six men.

  Carey went all round them in silence, eyes narrowed, while the horses shifted nervously and their riders did their best to stare stolidly ahead.

  Bell was also waiting, watching out of the side of his eyes as he held Henry Lord Scrope’s old horse. It had been the work of two minutes to make the younger Scrope thoroughly ashamed of forgetting Richard Bell and secure him the position of honour, leading the riderless charger behind the bier. Carey approved of the fact that Bell had groomed the animal himself. He came round in front of the men again.

  “Archie Give-it-Them,” he said gently.

  “Ay sir,” said Archie nervously. Somebody had put him under the pump: his hair was still wet.

  “You look fine. You could attend the Queen herself.” He addressed them generally. “In fact you all could.” This was stretching the truth slightly as the Queen insisted on handsome men about her at all times, and these looked like the thugs they were, but never mind. “I’m very pleased with your turn-out. You look like what you are, the best men of the garrison.” He paused to let that sink in. “Now a few words about processions. Firstly, don’t be in any hurry, especially as you’re near the front. For some reason, the natural tendency of a procession is to spread itself out and the rear is always in a hurry to catch up. So keep your horses down to as slow a walk as you can. Secondly, be alert because something always goes wrong.” There went Philadelphia and Elizabeth in their black finery, followed by half a dozen servants almost hidden under the weight of gowns for the paid mourners waiting by the gate. And Lowther had arrived. He ignored the man and continued.