P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“I’m not quite certain what the legal position is when you steal a horse from the thief that stole it,” said Carey, “but you haven’t told me the most important thing.”

“What’s that?” Daniel was wary.

“Who you saw in the gorse bush?”

Daniel threw up his hands, palms upwards. “If I’d known him, I’d tell you, of course I would, especially when the bastard must have done a murder for the beast. But I didnae know him, I’d never seen him before. And he didna look like a Borderer, forbye.”

“Why not?”

Daniel shrugged. “Too glossy, too elegant, with his pretty doublet with the gold thread in it, looking like some sodomite of a courtier, is what he looked like, saving your presence, sir.” He grinned disrespectfully at Carey, who looked stern.

“Could you recognise him again?”

“Oh ay,” said Daniel, “I could, if you think I make a good witness.”

“Experienced, anyway,” muttered Carey, tapping his forefinger on his front teeth and staring out the window with an abstracted expression on his face. “Tell me, how well known are you in these parts, how long have you been here?”

Daniel winced a little. “Well, I only left Berwick a couple of weeks ago.”

“And why did you leave?”

“Er…well…your brother’s very hot against horse-smuggling at the moment and he’s never liked me. I’d had a couple of nasty frights so I thought I’d go where it was a mite calmer.”

“And you came here , to the West March .”

Daniel coughed. “You know what I mean.”

“How did you know Thomas the Merchant?”

“I didn’t. I had a letter of introduction from Mr Fairburn in Northumberland, and this was the first job I did for him.”

“Do you know anything of Netherby castle and what they’re doing there?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, I’ve never been there.”

“Have you ever met Jock of the Peartree, Old Wat of Harden or the Earl of Bothwell?”

“No, never, thank God, and I hope I never do.”

Carey was stroking his neat court beard thoughtfully. “Do you know anything of the reason why the Earl of Bothwell might want a couple of hundred horses at the moment?”

Daniel shook his head.

Carey beckoned Barnabus over into a corner with him, while Daniel continued to play with Barnabus’s dice. He’d pocketed a couple of them, Barnabus noticed.

“I’m very worried,” Carey said, “I want to know three things: what the Earl of Bothwell is up to…”

“I thought the Earl wanted to keep the Queen sweet at the moment, sir.”

“Barnabus, the man’s mad. He’d probably think he could charm her round.”

“And could he, sir?”

“Who knows? If I understood that well how Her Majesty’s mind works, I’d be rich. He’s got good legs, he might. He surely thinks so, anyway.”

Barnabus nodded. “And the other things, sir?”

“The other problem is Dodd’s horses. I gave my word on it that he’d get them back, and I’ll lay all Westminster to a Scotsman’s purse the nags are eating their heads off at Netherby right now. And I don’t like the sound of Jock of the Peartree believing Dodd was the man that killed Sweetmilk, so I want to find out who really did it.”

“What are you planning, sir?” asked Barnabus warily, knowing the symptoms of old.

Carey grinned at him, confirming all his fears. “It seems the answers to all of my riddles lie at Netherby and so…”

“Oh no sir, we’re not going to Netherby tower?”

“You’re not, I am.”

“Sir…”

“Shh. Listen. I’ll borrow Daniel’s clothes and his pack and you can shave off my beard and brown my face and hands and then…”

“Sir, sir, ‘ow do you know you can trust ‘im, ‘e’s a thief and he’s a northerner and…”

“He’s a relative of mine. Also, we’ll have his clothes and we’ll give him to Madam Hetherington to keep safe for us.”

“What do you mean, sir, relative? What sort?”

“Ask my father.”

“Oho, it’s like that is it?”

“It’s like that, and if you gossip about it, I’ll skin you.”

Thinking about a certain young woman at Court who would no doubt be married very shortly, Barnabus muttered that it was a wise Carey that knew all his children. Carey pretended he hadn’t heard.

“But look sir,” he said conscientiously trying again, “why couldn’t you send Swanders in there instead of you, if you need a spy so bad, I mean, if they topple to you, you’re done for, ain’t you? Daniel…”

“It’d be worse for him. They’d likely hang him if they thought he was a spy, but they might not kill me. Anyway, I want to know who killed Sweetmilk Graham so I can bring him to justice and get Jock of the Peartree off Dodd’s back. There’s the makings of a very nasty feud there, when they’ve finished with their raid.”

“What about the Earl of Bothwell, you said yourself ‘e’s mad and I’ve heard tell ‘e’s a witch besides, won’t ‘e know who you are?”

Carey shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s four years since I was at King James’s Court and he met me with a number of other gentlemen. There was the football match, but I don’t see why he’d remember that either. I’ve got unfinished business with him anyway.”

“What sort of unfinished business?”

“He practically broke my shin bone taking the ball off me.”

“Sir, you can’t…”

“Oh shut up, Barnabus, I know you mean well, but my mind’s made up.”

“Well can I come with you…”

“Absolutely not. What would Daniel Swanders the peddler be doing with a servant from London-you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So would you, sir, you don’t sound like…”

“Ah was brought up in Berwick, Barnabus,” said Carey switching to a nearly incomprehensible Northumberland accent, “An’ I rode a couple of raids meself when I were a lad.”

“Oh bloody hell, sir.”

“Don’t swear,” said Carey primly, “Lady Scrope doesn’t like it. Now you run out and find an apothecary; buy some walnut juice and borrow shaving tackle from Madam Hetherington on your way back. I’ll talk to Daniel.”

Barnabus left the bawdy house at a dead run and sprinted through an alleyway into English Street, heading for the castle. Once there he quartered the place looking for Lady Widdrington and found her at last in the kitchen supervising the making of sweetmeats for the funeral feast. He panted out his tale to her, she took it all in and frowned.

“He’s mad,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” said Barnabus disloyally. “Ma’am, will you come and talk him out of it…”

“I can’t go to Madam Hetherington’s, Barnabus, I’d cause no end of talk. Do you know the Golden Bell inn, just outside the gate? Make sure he stops off there and I’ll do my best.”

Barnabus sprinted back down Castle Street and English Street, bought the walnut juice at one of the apothecaries, made a quick detour to an armourers in Scotch Street and came panting and blowing into Madam Hetherington’s an hour after he left.

When he’d recovered a little, he found Carey and Daniel Swanders drinking and eating an excellent dinner of baked chicken and a bag pudding, reminiscing in harsh Northumbrian voices about some escapade they had both been involved in as boys.

“What kept you, Barnabus?” asked Carey, switching back to his normal way of speaking, “I was starting to get worried.”

It was so odd to hear him: one minute he was a northerner to the life and the next minute he was as understandable as any of the Queen’s courtiers. Barnabus sat down to what was left of the meal and got his composure back.

“I couldn’t tell you weren’t a Northumbrian myself, sir,” he said, “but what about a native, couldn’t he tell?”