P. Chisholm - A Season of Knives

Dodd grunted again, only slightly mollified, jerked his pitchfork out of the ground, straightened the bent tine with his clog heel, put it on his shoulder and set off for the last field. Janet picked his abandoned jerkin off the ground, and her own rake, and went with him. The Courtier went too, leading his horse.

As they went he talked, and in Dodd’s mind a picture formed of what was happening. At the end of it, he commented, ‘Wattie Graham must be fair annoyed to be risking a foray into the Middle March and so close to Tynedale. Who put him up to it?’

‘I’ve no idea, though I could guess.’

‘Well, ye canna take fifty assorted Grahams and broken men with that lot over there.’

Carey half-smiled. ‘I’m aware of it, Sergeant.’

‘What’s she…what’s Lady Widdrington worth at ransom, then?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea and I have no intention of paying it in any case.’

‘No,’ agreed Dodd. ‘That’d be for her husband to do.’

‘Dodd,’ said Carey with a certain amount of effort. ‘I am not going to allow her to be taken.’

That’s what being at Court and listening to all them poets did for you, Dodd thought savagely; it rotted your brain.

‘I dinna ken what ye can do about it, sir,’ said Dodd, looking about for the other cart which should have finished and come back by now. Oh yes, there it was, being driven by Willie’s Simon with his bandaged arm. Janet had already set down her jug and his jerkin and started in on the furthest row to pile it up. Two of the other girls came down off the wall where they had been waiting and drinking, and started on two other rows. The cart creaked in at the gate and lined up, ready for him. Normally Willie’s Simon would have been helping Dodd pitch the hay, but the wound from an arrow in his arm ten days before was still not healed enough so Dodd had it all to do himself. Janet raked ferociously, muttering under her breath; Dodd knew she was calculating how much more food Sergeant Nixon and the others would require, when she was already feeding too many mouths.

‘How long would this normally take?’ Carey asked fatuously, waving at the field.

‘I’d leave it till the morrow, but it looks like rain,’ said Dodd, driving his pitchfork into a bundle and twisting to lift and throw. ‘It’ll be fair dark by the time we finish.’

‘How many pitchforks have you got?’

What was the Courtier blethering about now?

‘Four. Three over by the barn.’

Carey waved his arm at the men still sitting like puddings and letting their hobbies crop wildflowers from the wall’s base.

‘Sergeant Nixon ,’ he roared. ‘ Over here !’

Nixon came trotting over, looking very wary.

‘Send a man over to Sergeant Dodd’s barn and fetch the spare pitchforks.’

Nixon’s face became mutinous. ‘We’re on patrol,’ he said. ‘We didnae come here to help wi’ Sergeant Dodd’s…’

Carey didn’t appear to have heard him.

‘I will pay an extra sixpence to each man that gives a hand with a pitchfork,’ he said. ‘You can draw straws to decide which will be the lucky ones. The others can help rake if they want sixpence too.’

‘I done my own fields yesterday…’ whined Sergeant Nixon and then seemed to forget what he was going to say when Carey glared at him.

‘Nixon, either you can do what you’re told or you can go back to Carlisle, with no sixpence for a little bit of extra sweat and no chance of what’s at Brampton.’

Dodd pricked up his ears at that and exchanged glances with Janet. Sergeant Nixon’s mouth tightened, he turned his hobby and cantered sullenly off to his men. A chorus of whines and moans rose from them and then stopped, presumably at news of the sixpence which was a full day’s pay for haymaking.

‘Right,’ Carey said to Dodd. ‘I want your professional advice and I want men, and I can see I’ll get neither if you’re worrying about your hay.’

For a wonder, the men did come over, although not Sergeant Nixon who clearly regarded this as beneath his dignity, nor the Lowther cousin. Billy Little came back shortly after with the pitchforks. Then there was an argument over who would stand on the wagon to pack the cart. Willie’s Simon couldn’t do it because of his arm and the girls were busy raking with Janet. The others felt it was beneath their dignity to do a wean’s job and said so at length. Carey listened impatiently for a while, then tethered his hobby to a bush and started undoing the fastenings of his morion helmet and the lacings of his jack. What the devil was the man playing at, Dodd wondered, in the middle of explaining that as the head of the household he couldn’t possibly stand on the cart…

Carey took his morion off, scratched his hair and put the helmet down carefully on the wall. His sword belt he laid down beside it, followed by his knife-belt, then he slid his shoulders out of his jack, revealing a darned but very fine linen shirt. Janet was staring at him open-mouthed as he hung his armour over a stone, turned and grinned at Dodd who was just beginning to suspect what the madman had in mind.

‘I’m afraid I’d be a danger to man and beast with a pitchfork,’ he said. ‘But I know how to pack a cart, so I’ll do that.’

He turned and jumped up onto the empty cart, took the small rake lying in it.

Dodd made a short rattle in his throat. Carey was rolling up his sleeves.

‘Barnabus will want to kill me,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What’s the problem, Sergeant?’

What Dodd wanted to say was that he had never in all his life heard of a Courtier to the Queen helping to load a haywagon like a child. In fact his mouth was open to say it but no words came out.

Janet was better with her tongue. She came over to the cart and looked up at him severely.

‘Sir,’ she said. ‘It’s not fitting. You’re the Queen’s cousin.’

Carey raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Yes,’ he said down his nose. ‘I am. That’s why I can do what I bloody well choose.’

Sergeant Nixon and the Lowther cousin, who were looking after the horses leaned on their saddle horns and openly gawked at the insanity of the Deputy Warden. Carey was telling the truth; he coped perfectly well with the forkfuls of hay being tossed up to him and didn’t trample it down too much. Nor did he fall off when Willie’s Simon was too busy staring to warn him when the oxen moved on along the rows. In fact, the lunatic looked as if he was enjoying himself. Certainly he was whistling something irritating.

Dodd shook his head to clear it and bent to his work. After a while he began to see the funny side, and his ribs almost burst with the effort not to laugh. The last field was cleared in record time with so many helpers, and as Willie’s Simon goaded the oxen through the gate, Carey slotted his rake in behind the seat and jumped down.

‘What’s the joke, Sergeant?’ he asked as he came over, brushing bits of hay off himself.

Dodd snorted and put his pitchfork on his shoulder to follow the cart back behind the barnekin wall.

‘Only I was thinkin’ I’d be willin’ to take ye on for the harvest, sir, if ye was free,’ he said grudgingly while Carey hefted up his jack and put it back on again.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Carey deadpan. ‘I’ll certainly consider your offer.’

***

Janet had already gone back to their peel tower ready to welcome them in with the best beer and lead them to their suppers. The trestle tables were packed tight with friends and neighbours in the hall of the tower and Dodd presided over the lot of them at the head of the top table. He had offered the place to Carey but Carey had courteously refused and sat at his right instead. Once Dodd had swallowed enough pudding to quiet his empty stomach, he banged mugs with Carey and laughed again.