P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“I talked to him from the wall,” Janet said catching her breath. “Courtier’s his horse, he called him Caspar. You said you’d know if he was reived from this country, you said you’d know…Stay there, Bangtail, or I’ll gut you…”

“You never gave him Courtier,” shouted Dodd.

“I had nae choice, he caught Little Robert and ransomed him for all the horses except poor Shilling,” Janet wailed. “He said Courtier was his and he said he was proof you’d killed Sweetmilk…”

“Jock of the Peartree has Courtier …?”

“Oh Christ,” muttered Carey under his breath, having listened to Dodd boast about the beautiful stallion most of the way back to Carlisle that morning.

“Wake up, Dodd, wake up. It’s not just the horse, it’s the Grahams thinking you were the one who murdered Sweetmilk. Ye think it’s bad now? What will ye do when they come and burn the tower and us all in our beds…?”

Looking at his Sergeant, Carey could already hear the hooves thundering and the lances clattering. Dodd’s face was now completely white.

“Mrs Dodd, Sergeant,” Carey appealed, stepping between them with his hands out and his most courtly appeasing smile on his face. He managed to have got between both Dodds and Bangtail who was nursing a bleeding nose and his groin and looking terrified. “Please. If you’ve been raided…”

“What business is it of yours?” demanded Dodd, “I’ll have my own justice. Janet did you send to your father?”

“I did and I also…”

By this time a small audience had formed, including Elizabeth, Philly and Henry Widdrington, plus Scrope himself, glimpsed like a nervous crane fly beyond the crowd.

“If you will come into the castle,” hissed Carey, “we’ll see what we can…”

“Keep yer long neb out of my affairs, Courtier,” snarled Dodd.

Carey was tired: in particular he was very weary of Dodd’s sullenness. Without any of the usual warning signs his patience suddenly snapped. He drew his borrowed sword, stepped up close to Dodd and put the point against the man’s belly.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Scrope winced and began backing away. Out of the corner of his eye, Carey saw Janet’s hand go to the hilt of her knife.

“Now,” he said very softly. “Firstly, Sergeant, you will address me as sir if you wish to speak to me. Secondly, this ugly street brawl will stop. Thirdly, you will come into my office now, with me, where we will consider what is to be done. And fourthly, Dodd, if you tell me this is not my affair once more, I’ll run you through. Mrs Dodd unless you want to be a widow, you’ll put up your weapon.”

For a moment the whole thing held in the balance, and then Janet said, “What is your interest, Sir Robert?”

“If the Sergeant of the Warden’s Guard is raided by any man, Scots, English or Debateable, that makes it my affair. I will not have it.”

“You’ll lead the trod?”

“I will.”

Janet smiled, which was in some ways more frightening than her rage.

“ If there’s a trod,” added Carey.

“What does the Warden say?”

Scrope was trying to become invisible at the entrance to a wynd. Carey glared at him.

“Oh I agree,” said Scrope, rearranging his gown. “Absolutely. Can’t have the Sergeant raided. It’s an insult to the Wardenry.”

Thank you Thomas, thought Carey, watching Dodd intently. Dodd was still tense, but seemed to be thinking. He nodded. Carey put his sword away and the audience began to wander off on important appointments, since the thrilling prospect of a fight between the Warden’s Deputy, the Sergeant and his wife seemed to have faded. Philly was speaking in a low tactful voice to the Widdringtons and leading them into Bessie’s. God damn the luck, that Elizabeth should have had to see such a brawl.

“Now please, come up to my chamber,” he said to the Dodds. “No need to broadcast to Jock what trouble he’s in.” Not very subtle flattery, but it worked well enough.

Both Dodds nodded at that and they all walked docilely towards the castle. Missing someone important, Carey fell back a little and spotted Bangtail limping down an alley. He darted after the man, grabbed his collar and twisted his arm up his back, propelled him along in front. Bangtail gibbered excuses.

“Silence,” hissed Carey, “or I’ll break your arm.”

“But I never…”

“I’ll give you to Janet Dodd.”

“Yes sir.”

Scrope disappeared, muttering about arrangements for the funeral. Carey barged Bangtail up the stairs of the Queen Mary Tower, followed by the Dodds. Once into his second chamber, he ordered Richard Bell the clerk out, pulled up a stool for Janet to sit on, kicked the door to the stairs shut, dropped Bangtail in a heap on the floor and then sat at his desk. The others stood looking at each other.

“Barnabus!” Carey roared.

The servant’s ferret-like face poked nervously round the door.

“Fetch wine and four goblets. Send Young Hutchin to bring in Mrs Dodd’s horse and have him rubbed down and settled with some fodder in the stables.”

It was interesting to watch how they waited. Janet ignored the proffered seat and stood with her arms folded and her hip cocked and her long wiry ginger hair adrift from its pins down her back with a colour on her cheeks that the Court ladies spent hours in front of their mirrors to achieve. Dodd simply stood in a lanky slouch, his fingers tapping occasionally on his belt buckle. Bangtail had the sense to stay where he’d been dropped, pinching his nose to stop the blood.

Barnabus came in with the wine and four silver goblets from Carey’s own silver chest. He had a napkin over his arm and at Carey’s imperceptible nod he poured, bowed and removed himself.

Carey rose, passed around the goblets as if he were hosting a dinner party in London. Bangtail took his with considerable surprise and some gratitude.

“Sergeant Dodd, Mrs Dodd, Mr Graham,” said Carey formally. Bangtail blinked, seemed to get the message and scrambled to his feet. He quailed at Janet’s glare but remained standing. “I give you the return of the Sergeant’s horses and confusion to Jock of the Peartree.”

“Ay,” muttered Dodd. Bangtail coughed, Janet said nothing. They all drank.

Carey seated himself once more, cleared some bills of complaint away and looked up again.

“We will never again have a scene like that in public.” Janet took breath to speak but Carey simply carried on. “I don’t care if King James is hammering over the border with the entire Scots lordship at his back and Bangtail is to blame, it will not happen again. Is that understood?”

Dodd nodded, Janet simply pursed her lips.

“Please, Mrs Dodd, be seated.” She sat. “Now give me the story.”

He heard the tale in silence, turned to Bangtail.

“Mr Graham. You were not with us on the hot trod as your duty was, where were you?”

“I was sick,” Bangtail said full of aggrievement, “I was sick in my bed with an ague…”

“That’s not the tale you told me,” snorted Dodd, “An hour ago you said you were at the bawdy house asleep and never heard the bell.”

Bangtail reddened and looked at the floor.

“Somebody told the Graham family who had this horse Sweetmilk rode,” said Carey reasonably. “Who else knew you had the animal, Sergeant?”

Dodd counted off on his fingers. “Me, my wife, the lousy git that sold him to her-Reverend Turnbull-anyone who was in Bessie’s courtyard last night.”

“You saw Courtier,” said Janet accusingly to Bangtail, “You came in from the midden while I was talking to Dodd.”

“Ay,” growled Dodd, “and then you were off somewhere in an almighty hurry. Ye left the game.”