P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“My father gave me some but the Queen gave me the rest and if I lose it, she’ll put me in the Tower. It’s a loan, anyway,” said Carey sadly, ‘and it took an hour of flattery to stop her charging me interest. So for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut, Barnabus. If somebody robs me before I can use it and I go into the Tower, you’re going into Little Ease and staying there.”

“Never, sir,” said Barnabus, recovering a bit now Carey had put the false bottom back in the chest. “I’d be in Scotland, you know that.”

Carey said “Ha!”, went back to the desk and sat down. “They’d rob you blind and send you back naked, that’s what I know. Now then, my lord Scrope will be here in a little while when he’s had supper with some of the arrangements for the old Lord’s funeral which he wants me to organise. Any chance of a bite…”

As luck would have it, Simon came in at that moment with part of a raised pie, mutton collops, good bread from Scrope’s kitchen and some cheese Lady Scrope herself had made, according to Goodwife Biltock, and some raspberry fool.

Scrope arrived just as Carey was finishing, which was unfortunate because he polished off the fool that Barnabus had had his eye on, leaving him and Simon with the choice of what was left of the pie and bread or a trip into the Keep’s hall for whatever Scrope’s servants were eating. Scrope sent Simon out for wine, so Barnabus told him to eat in the hall and himself quietly finished what was left of his master’s meal. Then he went into the corner where he kept his own chest, found an old shirt and began tying up each coin separately into a band to put round his waist until he could get to the goldsmith’s the next day. Proximity to so much money was making him as nervous as a cat at a witchburning.

The talk of the funeral took twice as long as it needed to because Scrope would not keep to the point. Carey dealt with him patiently, sitting at his desk, writing lists and making notes like a clerk, until the question of horses came up.

“What do you mean, my lord, there are no horses? You mean, no black horses?”

Scrope was up off the chair that Biltock claimed Queen Mary had sat on and was pacing up and down the room, the flapping false sleeves on his gown guttering the rushlights.

“I mean, no horses, black, white or piebald. We’ve what there are in stables but the garrison will need them to form an honour guard, but apart from the six you brought, the horse merchants say they’ve never known mounts to be so hard to find and the price in Scotland is astonishing, sixty or seventy shillings for a poor scrawny nag, I heard, and whether it’s Bothwell being in Lochmaben at the moment or what, I don’t know, but horses there are none…”

“How many do we need?”

“Six heavy draught horses at least to pull the hearse and fifty more mounts for the procession and we can’t use packponies so…”

“Where have they gone?”

“Scotland, I expect. I was hoping for black horses, of course, but any beasts not actually grey or piebald will do well enough, we could dye the coats…”

“What’ the need for horses in Scotland, at the moment?”

Scrope blinked at him. “I don’t know. Probably the Maxwells are planning another strike at the Johnstones or the King is planning a Warden Raid at Jedburgh or Bothwell’s planning something…”

“Bothwell?”

“He took Lochmaben last week, didn’t you know?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet him at King James’s Court?”

“I did,” said Carey feelingly. “Once. No, twice, the bastard fouled me at a football game in front of the King. What’s he up to?”

Again Scrope shrugged. “It’s some Court faction matter in Scotland. I’m hoping Sir John Carmichael will let me know when he knows what’s going on.”

“And the Earl of Bothwell’s taken Lochmaben, you say? How the devil did he do that?”

“Dressed as a woman, apparently, got inside the Keep and opened it up when his men arrived. The whole Border was laughing about it and Maxwell’s enraged but too afraid of Bothwell to do anything about it. They say he’s the King of the Witches, you know.”

“Nothing would surprise me about Bothwell. So he’s got all the horses in the north.”

“Well no, the surnames have their herds of course, but they won’t loan them out to us no matter what we offer and…”

“The surnames are refusing honest money? How much did you offer?”

“Twenty shillings a horse for the two days.”

Carey put his pen down. “Aren’t you worried about this, my lord?”

Lord Scrope flapped his bony hands. “Philadelphia keeps telling me to be careful, but what can I do? It’s all happening in Scotland and until my father’s buried and the Queen sends my warrant, my hands are tied.”

“With respect, my lord…”

“Anyway, we simply must get this funeral organised, I will not have my father dishonoured with a miserable poor funeral. Lowther says he might be able to get horses.”

Barnabus winced, knowing how much his master disliked clumsy manipulation, but Carey only took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And what about your man Dodd killing that Graham fellow?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“It’s all over the castle.”

Barnabus prepared to duck, but Carey spoke quite quietly, counting off on his fingers in an oddly clerkish way.

“Firstly, my man Dodd, as you put it, was not my man when he found the body; secondly, I doubt very much he did the killing since he’s not a fool and in any case the body was stone cold when it was found, and thirdly, the inquest is fixed for tomorrow and no doubt the Grahams will be coming to fetch the corpse afterwards. Those of them that aren’t outlawed, of course.”

“Hm, yes, well. I’m very worried about this quarrel between you and Lowther, Robin. He’s a dangerous man to cross.”

Carey picked up his goblet off the small table beside him a little too carefully. Barnabus who knew how he loathed being called Robin by anyone except women and relatives, grabbed a cloth. All he did was drink.

“My lord,” he said formally, “you have two options. You can confirm Lowther as Deputy and let him take back the ruling of your Wardenry as he did while your father was ill. If that’s what you plan, let me know and I’ll be on my way back to Newcastle as soon as your father’s in his grave.” Scrope blinked unhappily and twiddled his thumbs.

“Or,” continued Carey in the same dangerously quiet voice, “you can ignore his howling, confirm me as your Deputy and support me if I have to fight him.”

“Well, I…”

“Tell me now, my lord. If my position is insecure I can do nothing at all to help you.”

There, thought Barnabus with satisfaction, if you want your father buried nicely, there you are.

“Do you think you can deal with Lowther?”

“Oh yes, my lord. I can deal with Lowther.”

“Right,” said Scrope, still twiddling. “yes. Right. I’ll confirm you as my Deputy of course and I’ll support you…”

“To the hilt, my lord. Otherwise, I go back to London.”

“Yes, to the hilt, of course, right.” As if he had only just noticed the compression of Carey’s lips, Scrope began wandering to the door. Carey stopped him.

“My lord.”

“Er, yes?”

“I want my warrant before dawn tomorrow.”

“Warrant. Dawn. Right. I’ll tell Richard Bell to have it ready. Yes. Um…good night, Robin.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Scrope shut the door carefully and went on down the stairs. They heard his voice in the lower room and the creak of the heavy main door. Barnabus got ready.

“JESUS CHRIST GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” roared Carey, causing the shutters to rattle as he surged to his feet and kicked the little table across the room. The goblet hit the opposite wall but luckily was empty. Scrope’s half full goblet rolled after it, bleeding wine, and Carey had the stool in his hand when Barnabus shouted, “Sir, sir, we’ve only found the one stool, sir…”