P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

Carleton nodded. “I heard that the Grahams were blaming Dodd for the murder, poor man.”

“You don’t think he did it either?”

“God, no,” Carleton laughed. “Any man of any sense that had a Graham corpse on his hands like that would take him down to the Rockcliffe marshes and throw him in the deepest bog he could find, not take him up to the old battlefield and try and hide him in a gorse bush.” Carleton shook his head, his broad face full of mirth. “Me, I’d leave him on Elliot or Armstrong land and let them take the heat. Dodd’s no jewel, but he’s not mad.”

As they went down the stair, Carey put his hand to his head as he remembered something.

“By the way, Captain, you’ve a right to a part of our fee for helping the trod, haven’t you?”

Carleton clapped a massive paw on Carey’s shoulder.

“Lad,” he said, “watching you and Dodd and the garrison mixing it with those Grahams was almost worth the fee to me. Pay me a quarter of whatever you make on the heifer and the younger cow. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for months, and you won me a pound off my brother.”

“Oh?” smiled Carey, “what did you bet on?”

“Whether you’d dare attack, what else?”

Carey laughed. “At least it wasn’t on whether I’d fall off my horse.”

Carleton’s face was full of pleasure. “Nay, Sir Robert, I won that bet the day before yesterday.”

Philadelphia Scrope was waiting impatiently for the men to stop blathering and come out of the council room at the back of the keep. She stopped Robert, who was looking very fine, if a bit baggy under the eyes, and took him mysteriously by the arm.

“All right, Philly,” said her brother resignedly, “what’s the surprise.”

“Come with me.”

“Philly, I’ve about a hundred things to do and at least fifty letters to write and Richard Bell promised me he could only be my clerk this morning, so…”

“It’ll take no more than ten minutes.”

Carey sighed and suffered himself to be led. They went out through the Captain’s gate and down the covered way a little to Bessie’s handsome inn and through the arch to the courtyard.

Behind them three of Dodd’s men came tumbling out of the inn’s common room, teasing a fourth for missing out on his share of the trod fee. The men headed for the drawbridge gate shouting crude jokes about the origins of Bangtail’s nickname and how they would improve it, looking very pleased with themselves. Carey watched them go approvingly and when Philly pulled impatiently on his arm, he turned the way she was pointing him.

A tall woman in a fine woollen riding habit of dark moss green and a lace edged ruff was standing with her back to him, talking to a sandy-haired young man with broad shoulders and a terrible collection of spots, pockmarks and freckles. Carey stopped dead when he saw them.

“Philadelphia…” he growled.

She grinned naughtily at him and went over to the woman. “Lady Widdrington,” she said, “how splendid to see you.”

They embraced, and Lady Elizabeth Widdrington saw Carey over Philly’s shoulder. Philly could feel the indrawn breath and had a good view of the blush creeping up from under Lady Widdrington’s ruff to colour her rather long face to a surprising semblance of beauty.

Lady Elizabeth curtseyed to Robert, who automatically swept her an elegant court bow. He paused, took breath to speak, then paused again. Philadelphia decided to take a hand.

“There, Robin,” she said blandly, “you can go back to your dull old papers now.”

Lady Widdrington was the first to recover her senses.

“Sir Robert,” she said formally, “I believe I should congratulate you on your Deputyship. I hope you don’t miss London and the Court.”

He made a little bow and laughed with delight.

“Only you,” he said, instincts reasserting themselves, “could have brought me here so quickly to the land of cattle-thieves. I’d hoped I could find an excuse to chase a few raiders into Northumberland and catch them dramatically on your doorstep…”

“And if necessary you would have paid them to go that way,” said Lady Widdrington drily. Carey laughed again.

“Absolutely.”

“Of course, I’m only here for my Lord Scrope’s funeral. Your sister invited me.”

Philly managed to look both smug and shocked. “It was Sir Henry I invited.”

“In the certainty that his gout would prevent him coming,” said Robert. “Honestly, Philadelphia, your plots are transparent.”

“Who cares so long as they work,” said Philly. “Will you come to dinner, Lady Widdrington. I’m hoping my brother remembered to bring some new madrigal sheets with him, and if he didn’t I’ll make him listen to one of our border minstrels instead.”

“No, please, save me,” said Robert. “I brought the madrigals and they’re well beyond my voice so good luck to you.”

“You’re invited too, Robin,” said Philly inflexibly. “We need a tenor. Now…”

What she was about to suggest next nobody ever found out. There was a sudden shouting and commotion further down the street, near the drawbridge gate.

A woman had come riding in at a gallop, sandy red hair flying. She hauled her horse back on his haunches when she saw Dodd’s men staring at her from the gate. Then she leaped from the saddle and caught one of them by the front of his jack. She let fly with a punch and booted him in the groin for good measure. The man tried to defend himself, hurt his hand on her stays, got another boot in his kneecap, and rolled away. He ran limping up the street with the woman in full pursuit, her homespun skirts kilted up in her belt, and Carey saw it was Bangtail Graham and that his enemy was Janet Dodd.

Automatically he stepped out of the courtyard into the street.

“What the…?”

Bangtail ran behind Carey and dodged another punch.

“It wasna me, it wasna me…” he was shouting, “I only told my brother…”

Janet Dodd sneered at him as she circled round. “Get out from behind that man, Bangtail, you bastard, you lily-livered git, you’ve lost me five horses, a house and half a field of grain trampled…”

“Mrs Dodd, Mrs Dodd…” Carey tried to remonstrate.

“I’ve no quarrel with you Deputy but if ye protect yon treacherous blabbermouthed…”

“What’s he done?”

Behind Janet, Carey could see Sergeant Dodd sprinting down from the Castle yard.

Bangtail unwisely made a break for it from behind Carey’s broad back, and Janet was on him. Philly, Lady Widdrington and Young Henry Widdrington watched with open-mouthed curiosity. Bangtail tried his best, even marked Janet’s cheek, but he was born down and kicked again before Dodd came up behind his wife and grabbed her round the middle, swung her about like a dancer in the volta, dodged a fist, and roared in her ear, “Goddam it wife, what’s wrong?”

“He sold us to Jock of the Peartree,” she shouted. “That filthy bastard Graham told Jock…”

“I never…” protested Bangtail.

“What? What happened?” Dodd was shaking his wife’s shoulders. “Are you saying Jock raided us last night?”

“Five horses,” shrieked Janet, “five horses, Clem Pringle’s house burned again, half the barley trampled into the mud, poor Margaret miscarrying her bairn with the fright, Willie’s Simon with an arrow in his arm because yon strilpit nyaff couldna keep his mouth shut…”

“Jock of the Peartree did this?”

Carey watched with interest. Dodd perpetually looked as if he had lost a shilling and found a penny, but he was beginning to suspect that that often denoted good humour. Now the long jaw and surly face were darkening and the thin mouth whitening with rage.