A Dish of Spurs

by Robert Low

Batty had almost died of the fevers that followed, and his ma, worn out with grief and harshness, had died some weeks later, simply turning her face to the wall. After that, Batty had stumbled on to fresh wars, seeking revenge.

  Captain General Fabrizio Maramaldo went on to fight for the Duke of Orange and the restoration of the Medici against the Florentines. At Gavinana in 1530, he took prisoner his old enemy, Feruccio – already badly wounded – and stabbed the bound and unarmed man in the neck in a fit of furious temper, then assaulted the corpse. That had earned him no favours, so that even his own mercenaries deserted him, shaking their heads about how he would ‘kill a dead man’.

  Will sat stunned and silent while Batty stared blearily through the littered ground at his past.

  ‘I never caught up with him again. I heard he is at the siege of Boulogne this year, but the Pope bans him from any army he finds him in, because of his black heart,’ Batty ended bleakly. ‘He is not a man to cross is Captain General Maramaldo. But we knew that when we joined him, for there was talk even then of his having murdered his wife in Naples, and my ma argued against us taking up with him at all. But he paid well.’

  Will had nothing to say and wondered all the rest of that night at what it must have felt like to have your arm cut off with a farrier’s axe. And what kind of man survived such a thing.

  He would have been surprised to find that Batty could not tell him, that only a little of the pain and horror of it leaked through now and then; the rest was buried so deep even Batty could not find it if he chose.

  He recalled some moments of sweating dim, hearing his ma chant in her lilting Border voice – but since she knew only charms against wens and birthing and water-elf disease, he was never sure if she helped heal him.

  If she had not. If he had died…

  Batty thought about that now and then – especially now that Will had asked.

  What would he miss, being dead? Good drink? Soup? There was not much to Batty Coalhouse, he thought, if you put him in the balance.

  A list of tavern owners who knew him by name. A longer list of snarling growlers who knew him by reputation. An even longer list of folk he owed money to.

  Wife, none. Children, none. Future prospects… None.

  He would not miss any of that. Nor his arm, which itched him now and then. A whore had once asked him, looking at the scars and puckered remains of his body, what had kept him alive when everyone seemed out to kill him by slow degrees.

  Batty told her. The secret of staying alive, he had said, is not wanting to.

  He showed no sign of all this with his calm knitting, let the storm of old memories sink back into the slorach of his soul, while the wind guttered and wheeped, full of conversation about snow.

  Chapter Seven

  Powrieburn

  That same night

  The men slithered in with the dark, which Batty had expected. There were more than three, which he had also expected, though Bet’s Annie, upstairs at one of the small windows, sent Jinet down to tell them she was sure there were forty or more. Batty scorned that, while hoping it would not be the case, just as he had hoped for one more day for the swelling in his leg to go down a little, for the aches and bruises to ease some.

  But you play the cards you are dealt, in life as in Primero, he thought, soothing the dog from squeezing out barks; it subsided, stiff-bristled from neck to tail and trembling. He checked the pistol and wished for three more like it, stuck the basket-hilted blade in the packed earth of the undercroft where he could easily snatch it, and waited for the ritual dance of it all.

  ‘Ho the house! We seek shelter.’

  The lie would usually be answered with demands to know who was at the door, a snappy riposte of refusal, an exchange, a threat, and then matters would move to battering on the door and fistfuls of fire.

  Bet’s Annie, though, was clearly too fretted to jig in the ritual dance. There was a fizz and bang from upstairs, followed by a scream and a series of shouts and curses from beyond the walls.

  ‘Away wi’ ye, ye foutie, hunker-slidin’ hempie infames, or there will be more of the same.’

  Will and Batty listened to Bet’s Annie’s shrilling and laughed grimly to each other.

  ‘By God, she has iron in her,’ Batty declared, and Will, with a sickening shiver, thought that was more than physically likely by the time matters were done here. The dog started in to barking again and Batty gentled it to silence; it looked up at him and whined. Outside was chaos and shouting, with a threnody whimper and a final, plaintive moan.

  ‘My eyes – I am blind—’

  Peppershot will do that, Batty noted exultantly.

  ‘One less is all good,’ Will growled.

  Jinet clattered down the ladder again, half falling into the undercroft and breathing hard.

  ‘Bet’s Annie thinks she has hit one,’ she reported breathlessly, and Batty nodded and smiled.

  ‘So I hear. Help her to reload – keep her match lit while she does,’ he told her, and she scampered back to the ladder, happy to have something to do, and so thrilled with fear that she had already wet herself and blessed the skirts that hid it and the brogued shoes that let it run out.

  Batty took a breath or two, then waited, singing softly to himself as the moaner outside was soothed to soft bleats.

  ‘She turned about her milk-white steed and took True Thomas up ahind. And aye whene’er her bridle rang, the steed flew swifter than the wind.’

  ‘Is that you in there, Batty Coalhouse?’

  The voice cut through the tuneless hum, trailing dead sound in its wake.

  ‘It was when I woke this morning,’ Batty eventually answered, and there was a pungent curse from outside, a moment of hissed exchanges culminating in a command. Batty grinned; so it was Dog Pyntle who had got the peppershot.

  ‘Is that Francie Bourne arguing on how it can’t be me since he never misses?’

  There was a pause from beyond that let Batty know he had struck true and hammered a sliver of fear into them. Faerie-spelled, they would be thinking now – especially Francie, who would sooner have the Queen of Elfland’s hand in the way than admit he had missed.

  ‘You know some things,’ said a voice, grim with purpose and clearly unimpressed by Faerie.

  ‘You will be Dand the Lamb Ker,’ he said, smiling at the effect he knew this would have. ‘Is Dog Pyntle bad shot in the face?’

  He could almost see them look around to see if he hovered in some ethereal form, watching them with the powrie lurking at his heels to do them harm.

  ‘Christ, Dand – get me to my horse…’

  ‘Shush, Dog. We are not done here yet. Francie – fetch our bags.’

  So they’d come prepared. Oil, probably, for the scumfishing – but you needed into the undercroft at least for that. Or up on the roof to put smoulder down the chimney; the women would be ready to hook it down and smother it in a covered bucket before it started to reek.

  Will Elliot’s head had come up at the sound of the last voice and Batty looked inquiringly at him.

  ‘That’s Hen Graham,’ Will whispered savagely. Batty nodded; so the hand of the Keeper was in it more surely than before. And Will, sensibly, was keeping his presence here secret, for such a surprise might make the difference later.

  ‘Has the Keeper men to spare?’ he asked, and Will nodded, sheened with bitterness.

  ‘He can find them for this,’ he hissed. ‘Armstrongs, no doubt.’

  ‘With a Graham at their head? That will not sit easily,’ Batty noted, and then hummed quietly, looking at Will and placing a finger along his considerable nose.

  ‘But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever ye may hear or see.’

  ‘You know we have come for you, Batty Coalhouse,’ the voice shouted. ‘It will be faster and easier if you do not make us work.’

  ‘I am warm and sheltered, Hen Graham’ Batty replied. ‘If you have to work up a sweat in the freeze there, I am happy to watch.’

  He
heard the fall of silence, almost saw the frantic head jerkings from men convinced that they were truly being watched, impossibly, through Powrieburn’s thick walls. More power to the Queen of Faerie, Batty thought, who makes Powrieburn so feared.

  ‘Dand… Francie… Help me.’

  Dog’s plaintive whine ended in a yelp and then silence.

  ‘Listen to that,’ Batty said with as much laugh as he could put in his voice. ‘Kick the Dog when you can kick nothing else.’

  He was looking at the brindle Powrieburn hound when he spoke and added another laugh at the seeming brown-eyed reproach he had from its look. There was silence, then a thunder at the door that made Batty jump and set the dog to crouching and growling; Dand and Francie had clearly fetched a balk and were using it as a ram against the outer doors of the undercroft.

  Bet’s Annie came slithering down the ladder, the caliver in one hand and the match smoking in the other.

  ‘I can’t get to them from the window,’ she announced savagely, ‘but there is a looking slat in the door—’

  ‘I had seen it,’ Batty said matter-of-factly. ‘I was coming to get the yett keys but I see you have brought them.’

  He watched her open the grilled yett and then turned to Will, who had said nothing and sharpened his blade.

  ‘Lock the yett in case Dame Fortune smiles on them and the door collapses.’

  Bet’s Annie snorted.

  ‘That door will not be broken open in a month of hammering.’

  Batty nodded and lumbered into the small space between grille and main door.

  ‘For if you speak a word in Elfyn land, ye’ll ne’er get back to your ain countrie.’

  The great rhythmic shudders on the door hid his soft singing and the sound of him drawing back the looking slat. He saw vague shapes, heard ragged breathing – more than just two, he thought, and stuck the pistol out.

  The wheel whirred and the smoke flashed in the pan. Someone gave a curse, then the pistol went off with a deafening bang and Batty drew it back and slammed the portal shut. He did not think he had hit anyone, but it did not matter.

  He limped back to the yett gate, laughing at the shouts and curses beyond. Will opened it and Batty went through, tucking the pistol under his armless oxter and starting in to reload it, while the dog capered and spun and leaped, sharing the joy of the moment with a reef of slavered teeth and a lolling wet tongue.

  ‘Here – give it here and take the caliver, just in case,’ Bet’s Annie declared.

  Batty obeyed and leaned the gun against his belly, his only hand swinging the slow match in mesmeric, glowing circles, while Bet’s Annie reloaded the dagg, tongue between her teeth; the horses and kine shifted and made little noises of disapproval, restless with the stink of powder and match and the ratchet grind of the dagg wheel being wound.

  He stood for a long moment or two until the sudden boom on the door resumed, then he looked at Bet’s Annie.

  ‘But I have a loaf and a sup o’ wine, and ye shall go and dine wi’ me,’ he sang, gentle as breathing and with as much lightness as he could muster.

  ‘Lay yer head down in my lap and I will tell ye farlies three,’ Bet’s Annie finished – in proper tune too, he noted ruefully and took the loaded dagg back.

  ‘I will fetch a loaf and a sup,’ she declared, taking the caliver and match. ‘It will be a long night.’

  She turned briefly to the dog and weesht it to silence, which command it ignored. Batty watched her hunch herself into the bell-boom of the ram on the door and the mad barking, watched her all the way up the ladder.

  Will laughed softly, jerking Batty’s eyes from the sway of hurdies.

  He wagged a mocking finger at Batty, then smiled.

  ‘O no, O no, True Thomas. That fruit maun not be touched by thee. For a’ the plagues that are in Hell, light on the fruit of this countrie.’

  Hollows Tower

  At the same time

  The Laird looked Mintie up and down with a liquid eye. Then he switched his gaze to Hutchie Elliott and, finally, to the coiled snake of a man in the seat next to him.

  There were others in a crowded hall, Mintie saw, but none that mattered more than us three – save perhaps the richly dressed man who looked like a snake.

  ‘Black rent,’ the Laird muttered and shifted his weight on the seat; his face was a bag of sweating blood and his hand kept moving to the blue glass goblet of wine sitting in front of him. Twice he did this, Mintie noted, then he sighed, took it, drank deep and replaced it as he began to cough; there was white at the corners of his mouth, and Mintie had the idea that he had been drinking for a long time.

  He scarcely seemed to be listening as Mintie made her plea – the Fyrebrande in return for the safety of all at Powrieburn, Batty Coalhouse included.

  ‘We are all loyal vassals of the Keeper and the King,’ she declared, then remembered and corrected herself, flustered. ‘The wee Queen, I meant, my lord—’

  ‘Loyal vassals,’ the Laird repeated. ‘Oh aye, so you say. Yet you have befriended Batty Coalhouse, who has murdered your neighbour’s boy, Will. He was an Armstrong and a loyal vassal of mine own.’

  He coughed again, pressing his hand flat on the table to take the strain of it. The hand twitched towards the goblet.

  Mintie explained the whole sorry story of Will Armstrong and there were a few mutters and growls at it. Someone began to shout out from the draught-flickering shadows and was quickly muffled. That will be Sorley, Mintie thought, trying not to look for him.

  The Laird belched, drank more and sat heavily back in his seat.

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I am minded to forgive, which is Divine—’

  ‘Forgive all you like,’ the snake-man declared flatly. ‘But after I am gone with what I came for.’

  Mintie looked at this one, took in the slashed doublet and puffed breeches, the ronde-bosse enamel of the etui for some holy relic hanging round his neck, the jewel-hilted dagger.

  He was thin, fine-featured, with long fingers which were never still, either brushing back the flop of auburn hair falling over his brow, touching the etui, his dagger hilt, his close-cropped beard. A beast too well bred, Mintie thought. If it was horse or dog, you would put it down – little stamina and too nervous – but here was one of the men eating Andra’s shod geese and used to such fare and better too.

  ‘Never fear, Tom,’ the Laird began in a patronising soothe, his smile slack.

  ‘I do fear,’ the man interrupted, sitting forward with irritation. ‘I fear that I will never be able to leave this God-forsaken Scotch hole with the King’s prize. I fear you will throw out at the final hazard. And I am Sir Thomas Wharton, not “Tom”, nor “coz”, nor “English”.’

  The Laird had eyes like a boar, a red-rimmed stare that shrank all who saw it.

  ‘You are what I decide,’ he said, slow and harsh as a blade on a grindstone. ‘Son of the Deputy Warden of the English March or not. And you are stuck here with your prize until I have my purse. Speak less on it afore your tongue runs you down a blocked road.’

  He leaned forward himself.

  ‘Do you know where your men are? Where my purse is?’

  Wharton waved a dismissive hand and then stuck it in his mouth and started gnawing. A knuckle, Mintie noted with distaste, because all his fingernails are bitten away.

  ‘I thank you for the gift, Mistress Araminta,’ the laird went on, as if nothing had transpired. ‘The beast has lost a deal of topline, but the weather is to blame for that – and for keeping you with us. It is too inclement for me to allow you to leave the hospitality of Hollows.’

  Mintie knew better than to argue, so she curtsied.

  ‘I hear Agnes from Andrascroft is here,’ she said. ‘I hope she is well and that I can see her.’

  Hutchie laughed and the laird glared at him, then studied Mintie for a time before sighing.

  ‘Hutchie will take you to her,’ he said. ‘The Lady of Hollows is there and will see to your needs.’
/>
  ‘What of the horse?’ demanded Hutchie.

  The Laird turned his red-eyed glare on him, and Mintie had the joy of seeing Hutchie shrink under the heat of it.

  ‘Quite right, Hutchie, to remind me of your station,’ the Laird said. ‘You will take Mistress Araminta’s mount to the stables and see to it. I will see to the Fyrebrande’s needs, for it is a finer beast and needs a proper hand on it.’

  Hutchie was scowling now and slouched from the hall with an arrogance that was breathtaking. He will not enjoy Hollows for long with that attitude, Mintie thought with savage satisfaction.

  Up a level were the women, sitting in a brazier-warmed room and playing cards or sewing. They looked up when Hutchie ushered Mintie in with bad grace and made the sketchiest of dues to the oldest of the clutch.

  ‘Lady,’ he said sullenly. ‘Your man bids you see to the needs of this lass. She is a guest, if ye take my meaning.’

  ‘Everyone takes your meaning, Master Elliott,’ the woman answered, purse-mouthed, then waved him away. ‘You have the subtlety of a falling tree.’

  The wife of the Laird was called Margaret, had a careworn air, a threadbare style worn away by too long pretence at being finer than she was. She introduced the others, four or five younger gauds the Lady of Hollows was pretending were tirewomen, or ladies-in-waiting, as if she was the Court at Falkland Palace. They were hipshot and arrogant and whatever serving they were doing was not upright, Mintie suspected, for there were a lot of languid well-bred southrons draped all over the Armstrong tower with little to do but gamble and wink.

  Mintie heard the names of these women but did not mark them, other than as fornicatrices. She had eyes only for the one she knew, the shining-eyed Agnes and the bairn she cradled.

  ‘I heard of your loss,’ she began, but Agnes smiled only a little sadly, then with a sudden blissful radiance held out the bundle for Mintie to see.

  ‘Look what God blessed me with, Mintie,’ she declared. ‘A wee lass to replace the Eck I have losted.’

  Mintie glanced at the prune-faced wrinkle, the hair bright as red gold against the yellow satin wrap, fit to coddle a royal. Her heart went cold then, for she knew now what the secret of Hollows was, and that neither she nor Agnes were likely to be going anywhere in a hurry.