P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“Nothing sir, I…”

Carey folded his arms and waited. Dodd was glaring at Storey who looked terrified.

“Well, nothing much, sir…”

“What did you take off him?” Carey didn’t raise his voice.

Bessie’s Andrew muttered something.

“Speak up, boy,” growled Dodd.

“He…er…he had a ring.”

“ A ring?” Carey’s eyebrows were very sarcastic. Dodd wondered if it was the eyebrows that broke Bessie’s Andrew’s spirit.

“Well, he had three rings, gold and silver and one with a little ruby in it,” stammered the boy in a rush, “and he had a purse with some Scots silver in it, about five shillings worth and he had a dagger with a good hilt…”

“By God,” said Bangtail admiringly, “that was quick work picking him clean, lad.”

Bessie’s Andrew stared at the ground miserably. “And that’s all, sir.”

“ All ?”

Dodd was impressed for the first time. Bessie’s Andrew’s face twisted. “He had a good jewel on his cap. No more, I swear it.”

Carey reached out and patted Storey’s shoulder comfortingly.

“The Papists say that confession makes a man’s soul easier in his body. Don’t you feel better?”

“No sir. Me mam’ll kill me.”

“Why?”

“I only gave her the rings sir, but I took a liking to the jewel and the dagger and the silver…”

“Of course you did,” said Carey softly. “Now, Storey, look at me. Do I look like a man of my word?”

“Ay sir.”

“Then you believe me if I swear on my honour that if you ever rob a corpse while you’re in my service, I will personally flog you.”

Bessie’s Andrew went white. His large Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as he nodded.

“And,” Carey continued, “if there’s a second offence, I will hang you. For March treason. Do you understand?”

Bessie’s Andrew squeaked something.

“What?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“Which applies to any man in my service whatsoever,” said Carey, glaring at Bangtail and then at Dodd. “You’ll see the men know that.”

“Yes sir,” said Dodd. “When did you want to flog him?”

“It depends if he’s told the truth this time and if he hands over what he took.”

Bessie’s Andrew’s face was the colour of mildewed parchment. “But my mother…”

“Blame it on me.” Carey was inflexible.

“Och God…”

“You can bring me what you took after we get back. I might be merciful this time, since you were not, after all, in my service when you stole Sweetmilk’s jewels.”

Carey seemed to dismiss the wretched Bessie’s Andrew from his mind completely. He was pulling at the branches near where the corpse had lain, turning them about. One of the spines stabbed him through the leather of his glove and he cursed.

“What are you looking for, sir?” asked Bangtail. “More gold?”

“That or bits of cloth. Anything that shouldn’t be in a gorse bush.”

They all looked. It was Bessie’s Andrew who found the only thing that Carey found interesting, which was a long shining thread of gold. Carey put it away in his belt pouch and they searched fruitlessly for a little while before struggling back out of the bushes again to find the men also wandering about, checking hopefully for plunder from the old battlefield. There was none of course, the field had been picked clean for fifty years by crows and men. And nobody had bothered to set a watch, which caused Carey to lecture them again.

It was sad to think of all the fighting and the men who had died fifty years before, among them a couple of great-uncles of his, Dodd thought. Some of them were sucked into the mosses round about, quagmires they knew well enough but could not avoid in a pitched battle. That was a bad death-to go looking for a fight and end up with a mouthful of mud and foul water. Those would be angry ghosts. Nothing short of a loaded dag would have persuaded Dodd to venture near the place after dark, and he might have taken his chances with a bullet. He was relieved when Carey gave the signal to mount and they rode away, back to the ford.

Bessie’s Andrew was sent ahead to scout and prevent ugly surprises like the last one and the ever-venturesome Bangtail took the chance to ride alongside the Deputy Warden.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Bangtail.”

“How did you know so fine that Bessie’s Andrew was lying?”

Carey smiled and looked mysterious. “Never lie to a courtier, Bangtail. We’re all experts at the game.

Dodd grunted to himself. He thought he knew another reason why Carey had been so sure of Andrew Storey’s perfidy. After all, he’d had the chance to take a good look at the corpse, and rings long-worn leave dents on a man’s fingers.

At Carlisle, Carey dismissed them and hurried into the Keep calling for Bell. Once they were safely in the barracks, and Bessie’s Andrew had taken his jack off and put it on a stand, Dodd turned to him and punched him hard in the gut. Bessie’s Andrew sank to the floor mewing and gasping. Dodd kicked him a couple of times for good luck.

“And that’s for keeping the gear from me ,” he snarled.

With Carey gone about some urgent business, Dodd rubbed down his own horse, saw the animals were properly watered, fed and clean, and then wandered, belly rumbling, down towards Bessie’s again. Time enough to eat the garrison rations when he had no more money left. He was still in a bad temper and cursing Bessie’s Andrew: if the ill-starred wean had behaved properly with his windfall and shared it with his sergeant, Dodd could have given Janet a little ring with a ruby in it which she would have liked. On the other hand, he might then have had to ask for it back…

He was sauntering along, thinking about that with his long dour face like the past week’s weather, when he saw something that cheered him at once.

There, astride Shilling his old hobby, rode the splendid sight of his wife Janet, market pannier full of salt and string and a sugar loaf poking out the top, her eyes and the dagger at her waist daring any man to try robbing her. Unlike the Graham women, she felt no need of carrying a gun to keep her safe. Dodd liked his woman to look well and Janet was in her red dress with the black trim, a neat little ruff round her neck, and a fine false front to her petticoat made of part of the old Lord Scrope’s court cloak, which the young lord had disdained since it was out of fashion, Philadelphia had accepted, her maid taken as a perk and Janet snapped up as a bargain the month before. Her white apron was of linen she had woven herself and was a credit to her. The red kirtle suited her high colour and the snapping pale blue eyes and Armstrong sandy hair. If her teeth were a little crooked and her hips broad enough to be fashionable without need of a bumroll (though she wore one of course) and her boots heavy and hobnailed, what of it? He put his hand to the horse’s bridle and Shilling whickered at him and tried to find an apple in the front of his jerkin. Janet smiled at him.

“Now then wife,” said Dodd, grinning lecherously at her.

“I heard you were out on patrol.”

“We were looking at the place where we found a body.”

Janet frowned. “Was that the body of Sweetmilk Graham you’ve not yet told me of?”

“It was.”

“Will Jock raid us, do you think?”

“Why should he?” demanded Dodd, “It wasn’t me that killed his son.”

Janet looked dubious. “What about lying to him at the ford?”

Christ, how did she hear so much? “He’ll know it was because I was not inclined to a fight. And where are you off to?”

“To see my lover,” said Janet with a naughty look. Dodd growled. She slid from the horse and began leading the animal, holding her skirts high above the mud.