P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

Having been given fair warning by Carey, Dodd mustered the men as soon as he rode into the castle, told them what would happen and further his reaction if they failed to show the Courtier how things were done properly on the border and his men scattered looking deeply worried.

Paperwork for the inquest attended to and his temper a little improved by a morning bite of bread and cheese, Dodd checked his tack, his weapons and his armour, and after a nasty scene with his occasional servant, John Ogle’s boy, was in reasonable order by ten o’clock.

Carey inspecting men and weapons was an interesting sight. At least it was quick. He had all six of the men stand in a row facing him in the castle courtyard. Then he walked up and down the line, smiling slightly. He picked out Archie Give-it-Them Musgrave, though how he already knew that Archie was the worst for his tackle among them Dodd had no idea. Archie sweated for a quarter of an hour while Carey painstakingly explained why his caliver would inevitably misfire because the pan was clogged, his lance-point needed new rivets, his sword had no edge and was rusty and his jack was a disgrace. Archie thought he had scored when Carey asked what the brown stain on his jack happened to be.

“Armstrong blood, sir.”

“How old?”

Archie’s talents were not in his brain. “Sir?’

“How old is the blood?”

Archie mumbled. “I killed him in April.”

The snotty git, thought Dodd, to pick on poor Archie. Carey nodded for Archie to go back to his position in the line. He then stood with his left hand on his rapier hilt and his right fist on his hip and looked at them thoughtfully.

“Gentlemen,” said Carey at length, “I have served in France with the Huguenots, and under Lord Howard of Effingham against the Spanish Armada. I have served at several sieges, I have fought in a number of battles, though I admit most of them were against foreigners and Frenchmen and suchlike rabble. I have commanded men on divers occasions over the past five years and I swear by Almighty God that I have never seen such a pitiful sight as you.” He paused to let the insult sink in.

“I was born in London but bred in Berwick,” he continued in tones of reproach. “When I took horse to come north, a southerner friend of mine laughed and said I should find your lances would be rotten, your swords rusted, your guns better used as clubs and your armour filthy. And I told him I would fight him if he insulted Borderers again, that I was as sure of finding right fighting men here as any place in England-no, surer-and I come and what do I find?” He took a deep breath and blew it out again, shook his head, mounted his horse without touching the stirrups and rode over to where Dodd sat slumped in his saddle, wishing he was in the Netherlands.

“Sergeant, sit up,” said Carey very quietly. “I find your men are a bloody disgrace which is less their fault than yours. You shall mend it, Sergeant, by this time tomorrow.”

He rode away, while Dodd wondered if it was worth thirty pounds to him to put his lance up Carey’s arse. He had still not found Graham’s body.

Carey came by while they were waiting for the blacksmith to get his fire hot enough for riveting and beckoned Dodd over.

“Who’s in charge of the armoury?”

“Sir Richard Lowther…”

“Who’s the armoury clerk?”

“Jemmy Atkinson.”

“Is he here?”

Dodd laughed shortly and Carey looked grim. “As soon as you’ve finished, I want to roust out the armoury and see what sins we can find there.”

Dodd’s mouth fell open. Sins? Sodom and Gomorrah came to mind, if he was talking about peculation in the armoury. “We’ll not have finished with your orders until this evening, sir,” he protested feebly.

“I want to see if your longbows are as mildewed as the rest of your weapons, assuming you have any longbows. The rest can wait.”

“But sir…”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“It’s locked.”

“So it is, Sergeant.”

The Lord Warden was there when they went to the armoury in a group, a little before dinnertime, walking up and down, winding his hands together and blinking worriedly at the Captain’s Gate.

“Do you really think this is necessary…?” he began as Carey strode over with a crowbar under his arm, followed by his little London servant who was struggling with an odd-looking wooden frame.

“Yes my lord,” said Carey briskly, inserting the crowbar in the lock.

“But Sir Richard…”

There was a cracking ugly noise as the lock broke and the door creaked open. Everyone peered inside.

Carey was the first to move. He went straight to the racks of calivers and arquebuses. Those near the door were rusted solid. Those further from the door…Dodd winced as Carey pulled one down and threw it out into the bright sunlight.

Bangtail whistled.

“Well, Atkinson’s found a good woodcarver, that’s sure,” he said.

More dummy weapons crashed onto the straw-covered cobbles, until there was a pile of them. They were beautifully made, carefully coloured with salts of iron and galls to look like metal. Occasionally Carey would grunt as he found another real weapon and put it on the rack nearest the door. Then he went to the gunpowder kegs and opened them, filled a pouch from each, and brought out the least filthy arquebus.

“Please note, gentlemen,” he said taking a satchel from his perspiring servant, “this is the right way to clean an arquebus so it may be fired.”

By the time he had done scraping and brushing and oiling, there was an audience gathered round of most of the men of the garrison. Behind him the Carlisle locksmith was working to replace the lock he had broken.

Carey made neat little piles of gunpowder on the ground and called for slowmatch. The boy he had brought with him came running up with a lighted coil. He blew on it and put it to the first pile, which burned sullenly.

“Sawdust,” said Carey.

In silence he went down the row of little mounds with his slowmatch. Lord Scrope had his hand over his mouth and was staring like a man at a nest of vipers in his bed. The last pile of gunpowder sputtered and popped grudgingly.

“Hm. Sloppy,” said Carey sarcastically, “they must have missed this barrel.”

He loaded the arquebus with a half-charge, tamped down a paper wad and used his own fine-grain powder to put in the pan. He then fastened the arquebus carefully on the frame his servant had brought, aimed at the sky, and stepped back.

“Why…?” began Scrope.

“In Berwick my brother had two men with their hands and faces blown to rags after their guns exploded,” said Carey. The audience immediately moved out of range.

He leaned over to put the fire to the pan, jumped away. The good powder in the pan fizzed and the arquebus fired after a fashion. It did not exactly explode; only the barrel cracked. There was a sigh from the audience.

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.

Carey folded his arms and waited as Lowther shouldered his way through, red-faced.

“How dare you, sir, how dare you interfere with my…”

His voice died away as he saw the pile of dummy weapons and the still feebly smouldering mounds of black powder.

“ Your armoury?” enquired Carey politely.

Lowther looked from him to the Lord Warden who was glaring back at him.

“There is not one single defensible weapon in the place.” said Lord Scrope reproachfully, “Not one.’

“Who gave him authority to…”

“I did,” said Scrope. “He wanted to check on his men’s longbows as part of the preparations for my father’s funeral.”