P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered. “I’ve been had.”

“Ay, sir,” said Dodd.

“Let me go, Deputy, I willnae kill the bastard until this evening, Ah swear it. There’ll be nae witnesses, or none that’ll make trouble…”

“Will you hold your tongue, Young Hutchin Graham?”

Ay, lad, thought Dodd, but didn’t say, do it quietly and keep your mouth shut.

“Ah wisnae expecting to be shoved like that, Ah wisnae, sir, if…”

“Be quiet. Did you take any hurt when you fell?”

“Nay, sir, but I cannae let that Lowther bastard…”

“He’s a Lowther, is he?”

“Ay, sir, he’s a cousin or similar, will ye no’ let me go and talk to him, just? Please, sir?”

“Absolutely not. Stay away from him.”

“But I lost the race because of him, for Christ’s sake, sir, will ye no’ let me…hurt him, at least, sir?”

“It was only a horserace,” said Carey, distantly, clearly doing some mental arithmetic of his own, “I’m sorry, but you don’t murder or assault people over a horserace.”

Hutchin’s young face was miserable with disappointment and uncomprehending resentment.

“But, sir…”

“And besides, he’s bigger than you are and he’ll be ready for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some others of his kin waiting for you, so you stay by me.”

Young Hutchin’s face took on an evil look of cunning at this and he calmed at once.

“Ay,” he said thoughtfully. “Ay, ye’ve the right of it, sir, he will. Ay. Me dad allus says there’s time to take yer vengeance, all the time in the world.” Carey either wasn’t listening or tactfully pretended not to hear.

“Whit about Thunder, sir?” Hutchin asked after a moment.

“One of the boys has already caught him, don’t worry about it. You should have won and it wasn’t your fault you didn’t; just don’t get yourself hanged over it, understand?”

“Ay, sir,” said Young Hutchin ominously.

Carey smiled faintly. “Keep an eye on him, Dodd.”

He sighed, squared his shoulders and marched briskly over to the triumphantly grinning knot of Salkelds, taking his purse out from under his jack and doublet.

Even Dodd had to admit that there was more style in bowing graciously to Salkeld as he patted his mare’s nose and personally led her up and down to cool her off. Carey paid his losses with a negligent flourish, smiling and laughing good-humouredly with Salkeld and ignoring Lowther. You could see that it took the edge off the bastards’ pleasure that the Courtier didn’t seem to care about his losses.

Philadelphia Scrope was less suave as she presented the silver bells for prizes. She glowered ferociously at Mr Salkeld as well as at Sir Richard Lowther, from which Dodd guessed she was hurting in her purse as well. It couldn’t have helped that Sir Simon Musgrave had been sitting beside her and was looking as happy as Lowther. Dodd saw her hand a small fat purse to him and sighed. God damn it, if Carey and his sister had lost their shirts on the race, where were Dodd’s wages to come from?

The savour had gone out of the day for him, and it only confirmed his mood when his wife caught up with him and demanded briskly to know exactly how much he had lost on the Courtier’s big charger and didn’t he know better than to think a Salkeld would lose so easily?

He heard his name called and turned eagerly to see who it was. Red Sandy was standing on one of the marker stones of the race track gesturing over by the rail, where a crowd swirled around a knot of shouting men.

Dodd mumbled an excuse to his wife and arrived at the outskirts in time to see two Lowthers piling into a Salkeld with their fists. The Salkeld bucked and heaved and slipped away, started shouting for his kin, three more Salkelds attacked the Lowthers and then it seemed half the crowd was at it, swinging fists, shouting and roaring and pulling up hurdles from the fencing to use as weapons.

Dodd had more sense than to dive into that lot, even if Carey had not given them strict orders on no account to get into any fights on their own. He blew the horn he had on his baldric, dodged somebody with a club and heard hoofbeats behind him. Carey was riding up with four of the men, leading a horse for Dodd which the Sergeant took gratefully and vaulted into the saddle.

“Reverse lances,” Carey called. “Don’t stick them.”

In the early moments of a fight they could push the combatants apart; once it had got to this stage, the only thing they could do was stop it from spreading by using their horses as barriers and try and push the fighters over and away from the main crowd. The shouting swirled and spread, more of the garrison horse came over, Carleton with his troop and the rest of their own. There were knives flashing now, ugly and bright, someone was puking his guts up by the fence and the horses were whinnying as they objected to being used as mobile fences. Then Sir Richard Lowther rode over with Mr Salkeld behind him and instead of joining the line of garrison men, he rode straight into the middle of the melee and began laying about him with the flat of his sword. Evidently, thought Dodd, he had gone mad. There he was, bellowing that as God was his witness, he would shoot one of them-ay, Ritchie’s Clem, you too-if the fighting didn’t stop.

Astonishingly, it did. Men who had been at each others’ throats let go of each other, the knives disappeared, the fence posts were dropped. A few seconds later all of them had dispersed into the crowd.

Lowther sheathed his sword and rode over to where Carey was sitting with his fist on his hip, looking contemplative.

“That’s how ye keep order at a muster,” said Sir Richard, swelling like a turkey. “Ye know the men because ye’ve been ruling ‘em for years and ye call them by name.”

Carey ignored him pointedly.

Lowther’s jowls purpled above the tight ruff while Dodd gazed busily into the distance. Away in the hills to the north was a long line of animals, small as ants, no doubt heading for Dumfries where King James would be in need of supplies. Eventually Lowther rode away.

The muster of the West March didn’t come to an end so much as tail off. Those who lived less than ten miles away went home, those who lived further out went to their exorbitantly-priced, shared beds in the inns and taverns of Carlisle, or lit camp fires and prepared to doss down for the night, each surname forming its own small armed camp in the meadows and gardens around Carlisle. The competing smells of bacon pottage and salt fish rose here and there.

Carey caught up with Scrope at last and found him deep in conference with Sir Simon. He waited politely for a while and finding himself to be somehow invisible, turned his horse away to go and seek out Thunder and give him some carrots. You couldn’t blame the horse: he had been doing his best to win and it wasn’t his fault that he had mislaid his rider.

Carey had got as far as the paddock when he heard a shrill cry behind him.

“Deputy, Deputy!”

He realised that a woman had been chasing after him and shouting for some time, so he turned his horse to look down at her. It was a skinny whippet of a woman, with her blue homespun kirtle held up and her feet bare.

“Goodwife Little,” Carey said courteously. “What can I do for you?”

She came up to him, skidded to a halt and dropped a sketchy curtsey which he acknowledged.

“Deputy, I want Long George’s back wages and a pension.”

“I’m sorry?”

“How am I to look after his bairns? We havenae land of our own, he was a younger son, and now I must pay the blackrent we owe the Graham and…

“Goodwife, wait a minute,” Carey dismounted and stepped towards her. “Are you saying Long George is dead?”