P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

He paused, blinked, put the stool down and slammed his fist on the desk instead.

“ Good God !” he shouted slightly less loudly. “ That lily-livered halfwitted pillock is Henry Scrope’s son, I can’t bloody believe it, JESUS GOD…”

Barnabus was mopping busily and examining the goblets, only one of which was dented, fortunately. He could take it to the goldsmith when he went tomorrow. What was left of the table would do for firewood. Simon, he noticed, was cowering in the corner by the bed while Carey paced and roared until he had worked his anger off. Those who doubted the rumours about Carey’s grandfather being King Henry VIII on the wrong side of the blanket, and not the man who complaisantly married Mary Boleyn, should see him or his father in a temper, Barnabus thought, that would set them right.

He beckoned Simon over and sent the trembling lad out for some more wine. By the time he came back, Carey was calm again and looking wearily at the pile of papers Scrope had brought.

“God’s truth,” was all he said, “He’s set it for Thursday and it’s Monday now. How the devil does he think I can organise anything in two days…?”

Dodd was roused out of sweet dreams concerning Janet two hours before dawn and an hour before he would normally get up. He had pulled his jack on and was feeling for his sword before he woke up properly and heard Red Sandy telling him it wasnae a raid, it was yon scurvy git of a Courtier in the yard wanting to inspect them again.

He stumbled out of the barracks to find the scurvy git standing there, flanked by his two body-servants holding torches, waiting patiently for his men to appear.

At least they were lined up quickly since turning out fully armed in the middle of the night was something they did regularly, even if nothing much generally came of it. Lowther had always liked to make a bit of a show of a hot trod.

Once they were there, Carey nodded.

“Not bad,” he allowed, “I know the Earl of Essex’s soldiers would still be scratching their backsides and wondering where their boots were. Now then.”

There followed a full hour of meticulous individual examination followed by shooting practice with the new longbows at the butts on the town racecourse. At the end of it Carey brought them back to the castle, stood in front of them and said simply,

“I find you satisfactory, gentlemen.”

The heavy-eyed men brightened considerably. Carey called out Archie and Long George and went into the now busy Keep with them. They returned a few minutes later with a folding card table and stool, Carey carrying a sheaf of papers and what looked like an account book. When the table was set up, he put them down, and nodded at his servant, Barnabus, who led Archie and Long George self-importantly into the Queen Mary Tower and out again a few minutes later, carrying a small but heavy box.

Bangtail and Sandy were talking to each other, covertly watching Dodd, who had his mouth open as his brain caught up with what he saw.

Carey opened up the account book and squinted at the figures. He blinked, his lips moved as he calculated and his face took on an irritated cynical expression. Just then a short figure erupted from the Keep and ran across the yard, comically dressed in shirt, hose, pattens and a flying taffeta gown. He was already gabbling in a high-pitched squeak that it would be quite impossible for anyone without the right training in accounts and mathematics to understand the very precise and detailed figures it was his job to…

Carey shut the book and smiled down at him.

“What did you pay for your paymaster’s job, Mr Atkinson?” he asked.

“Sir Richard had fifty pounds from me, sir,” said Atkinson, surprised into honesty.

“For the two offices, the Armoury and the Paymaster?”

“N- no, sir. Just the Paymaster clerkship.”

“And how long have you held this particular lucrative office?”

“Er…only four years and…”

“Then you have made back your investment at least tenfold and will suffer no loss if you lose it.”

“I…”

“You have lost it, Atkinson. Get out.”

There was a murmur of interest from the men, craning forward to hear this exchange.

“Silence in the ranks,” snapped Carey as he seated himself at the table and re-opened the account books. “Sergeant Dodd, you may call your men to muster for their pay.”

Goddamn him, Dodd thought, as the men cheered, and Red Sandy looked with morbid curiosity at him. On muster days it was Red Sandy’s job to bring in three of their cousins to take the place of the patrolmen who had died and whose pay Dodd kept.

Blandly Carey began to call through the men’s names and pay out as each stepped up in front of him. They didn’t get all of their backpay, naturally, but they got six months’ worth each which was better than they had ever done under old Scrope. Dodd was called last.

“Your pay, Sergeant,” said Carey, handing it over. Dodd took the money in silence and turned to go. “Sergeant.”

He turned, waited for the axe to fall.

Carey pointed at the dead men’s names. “Faggots, I take it.”

Dodd’s mind reverberated with excuses, sickness, wounds, dilatoriness. In the end he said, “Yes sir.”

“Have you a reason for defrauding the Queen?”

Outrage almost made Dodd splutter. It was traditional for the sergeant to take the pay of men who died, how else could he live?

“Yes sir,” he said stonily.

“What’s that?”

“Poverty.”

Carey smiled. “I’m the youngest of seven sons, and the last time I was out of debt was in ’89, the year I walked from London to Berwick in twelve days for a bet of two thousand pounds.”

Dodd said nothing. Did the bastard Courtier expect him to be impressed?

“I’m not one to go against tradition, Sergeant. You may keep two faggots at any time and no more. Do you understand?” He crossed out one of the names.

Oh God, Janet would have his guts. “Yes sir.” He turned to go, but Carey stopped him.

“Sergeant, do you think you could give me that list of men I can call upon to fight by this evening?”

“Any particular surnames?”

“No, Sergeant, surname doesn’t matter to me,” said Carey heretically. “Dislike of Lowther and a willingness to fight is all I want.”

“Well sir…”

“I’ve asked Richard Bell to be your clerk if you need him.”

Dodd was relieved. It wasn’t exactly that he couldn’t write, it was only that not being a gentleman, paperwork of any description always took him several hours and more sweat than a pitched battle.

Carey grinned, shut the book and stood up.

“We’ve finished here. Don’t drink it all at once, gentlemen, that’s all I’ve got. Company dismissed.”

The men left the castle in a rabble, jingling their purses and planning extensive wanderings among the town’s alehouses that night. Naturally they decided to have a magnificent breakfast at Bessie Storey’s and they marched into the common room in a bunch, called for quarts and steak for their meals. Oddly enough she seemed to be expecting them and as soon as the last order was in, Bessie’s cousin Nancy Storey barred the door. Bessie herself shuttered the windows and rang her bell.

Janet Dodd, broad and resplendent in her red wool market gown, led the wives of Bangtail, Archie, Red Sandy and Long George into the common room. Grim determination on their faces, they split up and moved in on their husbands. At last Dodd cracked. He laughed and laughed until the tears were dripping in his beer, while Janet marched up to him, sat down beside him and held her hand out. Still snorting feebly, Dodd took five shillings beermoney out of his pay and gave the rest into her hard upturned palm.