P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“But I didna, I swear it on my oath…” Janet looked as if she was about to interrupt. Carey glared at her and she contained herself. Bangtail was waving his arms and clearly winding himself up for a magnificent weaving together of diverse falsehoods.

“Bangtail Cuthbert Graham,” said Carey very quietly, “I take very seriously any man who forswears himself to me. I don’t care who else you lie to, but not to me. Do you understand?”

“Ay sir,” mumbled Bangtail.

“Now, I ask you again and for the last time. Did you tell anyone of the Sergeant’s new horse?”

Bangtail’s boot toe scraped in the rushes and kicked a flowerhead into the fireplace.

“I might…I might have mentioned it by accident to Ekie last night-that’s my half-brother-I think I was talking of…of well, fine horseflesh and where you could get it and I might have said the Sergeant’s wife had a stallion that was as fine as the King of Scotland’s own. And that’s all.”

Dodd remained ominously silent, while Janet simply snorted. Carey let the silence run for a bit. Bangtail flushed, looked at the floor, squashed a stray rush with his other boot toe, coughed and added, “I might have said I thought it was Jock’s new stallion, Caspar, but I asked him not to tell.”

Janet let out a single derisory “Ha!” and subsided again.

“How many men would we need to take your horses back from Jock of the Peartree?” Carey asked Dodd. The Sergeant considered for a minute, his considerable military sense at last beginning to work.

“It’s well too late to stop him reaching Liddesdale, especially with only horses to drive,” he said mournfully. “And to pry him out of Liddesdale with the notice he’s had-I wouldna like to try it with less than a thousand men, sir.”

Privately Carey thought that was optimistic. “Bangtail, how many men can your uncle have in the saddle by this afternoon?”

Bangtail looked shifty. “I don’t know…”

“I think you do know, Bangtail,” Carey said with quiet venom, “and I’m waiting to hear it from you if you want to keep your neck the length it is now.”

“What would you hang me for, sir?” demanded Bangtail. “I never did…”

“March treason, what else?” said Carey, smiling unpleasantly. “For bringing in raiders.”

“Oh.” Bangtail thought for a little longer. “By this afternoon he’d have 800 men or so, plus however many Elliots felt like turning out, and another 300 in the morning, if he calls in the Debateable Land broken men or the Johnstones. If Old Wat Scott of Harden comes in for him, well, it’s another 500 at least and…”

“Going into Liddesdale on a foray with Jock warned and his kinship behind him…” Carey shook his head.

“I can bring in a hundred Dodds myself,” said Henry, “and Janet’s brothers and father can call on another two hundred, all English Armstrongs. And Kinmont Willie would listen to her, he’s an uncle and he likes her and he can have a thousand men in the saddle by morning if he wants…”

Carey shut his eyes momentarily at the thought of the West March descending into bloody chaos three days after he arrived.

“Are ye saying it’s too hard to go and fetch Courtier back from Jock of the Peartree?” asked Janet. Carey felt his temper rise again, she was near as dammit giving him the lie. He took a breath and held it, let it out again.

“No, Mrs Dodd. I am saying that to go into Liddesdale bald-headed and crying for vengeance is simply stupid, since Jock will have laid an ambush and called out every man he could last night in the hope that you and the Sergeant would do precisely what you wanted to do. He’ll cut all your kin to pieces, take prisoners for ransom and go off laughing to run Dodd’s horse at the next race he can.”

They exchanged glances and looked at the floor.

“So there’s nothing ye can do,” said Janet.

“On the contrary, since your husband is my man, there is a great deal I can and will do. In fact, I give you my word on it. You’ll have your horses back.”

Sergeant Dodd nodded grudgingly. Janet still looked dubious but hadn’t the courage to call him a liar. That was good enough for Carey, he didn’t expect to be believed without having to prove himself.

“Meantime, I want you both to make me out a bill of complaint for the Day of Truce.”

Janet nodded. “You’ll see it’s called then, will you, sir?”

“Naturally. Richard Bell can help you if you need…”

“I know how to make a bill of complaint, sir,” said Dodd huffily.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, of course you do,” said Carey at his most charming. “If you see to it now, I can promise you the bill will be called at the next Day of Truce.”

They took the hint. “Thank you, sir,” said Janet. Dodd grunted assent, and Carey ushered them to the door. “Send someone to Janet’s father and your brothers, Sergeant, we don’t want them wasting their time.”

“Ay sir.”

Both Dodds clattered in silence down the stairs. Bangtail began sliding out the door to follow them, but Carey blocked his passage.

“But I thought…”

“Bangtail,” said Carey, full of regret, “If you were capable of thought, you wouldn’t be here. What possessed you? Never mind. You stay here under lock and key until we get the Sergeant’s horses back.”

“In jail, sir?” Bangtail protested.

“In jail.”

“I’ll give ye my parole.”

Carey shook his head. “I’d like to take it, but I daren’t.”

“Och sir, don’t put me in the jail, its…”

“If I have any more bloody rubbish from you, Bangtail, I’ll chain you as well. Now come on. And cheer up, I expect it’ll only be for a couple of days.”

The castle dungeon was extremely damp after all the rain and stank as badly as most jails. Carey shoved Bangtail into the last empty cell, slammed the door and peered through the Judas hole. Bangtail was sitting on the bare bench, chewing nervously on one of his nails.

One of Lowther’s men, whom Carey vaguely remembered was a Fenwick, came in carrying a bag full of loaves of bread and a small cheese. Behind him Young Hutchin was staggering under a firkin of ale. Both of them looked surprised to see him there, so he leaned against a wall and watched as they cut up the cheese and threw the food into each cell.

“Hey,” shouted Young Jock Graham, “where’s the butter, man? Lowther promised…”

“Shut up,” growled Fenwick, “the Deputy’s here.”

“Well, I want to talk to him.”

“It isna…”

“I want to talk to Young Jock too,” said Carey agreeably. “Let me in.”

Fenwick did so, and Carey went in and stood at a safe distance. Jock of the Peartree’s third eldest living son was a lanky long-faced man with greasy black hair, about twenty-three and just past the uneasy borderline between youth and maturity. No doubt he already had a collection of foul bills and complaints against him as long as his arm. Young Jock did not seem pleased to see the Deputy.

“Who’re ye?” he demanded. “Where’s Lowther?”

“I’m the new Deputy Warden,” said Carey, “I’m also the man that captured you and didn’t hang you on the spot. You should thank me.”

Young Jock grunted ungratefully and sank his teeth into the cheese. Three weevils popped their heads out and wriggled and he spat them into the straw and stamped on them, then swallowed the rest.

“What d’ye want?”

“I want,” said Carey thoughtfully, “a full account of where your father has taken the horses he reived last night and also what he’s planning to do with them.”

Young Jock stared at him as if he was mad. At that moment, Young Hutchin knocked and came through the door with a leather mug full of ale, which Young Jock took and gulped down.