P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“And who’re ye?” demanded the black-bearded man, swinging round to look at him.

“Daniel Swanders, at your service,” said Carey, taking off his cap.

“What’re ye doing here?”

“I heard ye were after horses. Are you the laird?”

“Nay, lad, that’s Wattie Graham there, with the red face shouting at the Earl. I’m Walter Scott of Harden. Ye’re not from this country.”

“No, master, I’m from Berwick.”

“Ay, thought so. The horses yourn?”

“Ay master.”

“Mphm.”

The football match seemed to be breaking up, as the Earl’s side had seemingly won by five goals to none. The losers were sullen and some of them were nursing bruised shins and the man who’d taken the full force of the Earl’s elbow in his stomach was still coughing.

Francis Stuart, Earl of Bothwell was a large handsome man with brown hair and a long face never at rest, its features oddly blurred by the continual succession of emotions crossing it, like weather. He was in a good mood from winning the football match and after slapping Wattie Graham on the back and promising him a rematch, he spotted Carey and came striding over to inspect him. Carey tensed a little: it wasn’t very likely the Earl would recognise him, he thought, having met the man only once, officially, and the Earl being the kind who is usually so wrapped up in his own importance that anyone not immediately useful to him is nothing more than a fleshly ghost. But still, Bothwell was the only one there who knew Carey at all.

Carey doffed his cap and made a clumsy bow and repeated his story about the horses. He found himself being looked up and down in silence for a moment.

“What’s the price on them?” asked Bothwell, his guttural Scottish bringing back memories of King James’s Court that Carey would have preferred to forget. At least he could understand it, once his ear was in, and it made it easier for him to slip into the Berwick manner of speaking that southerners thought of as Scottish in their ignorance.

“Well, sir, I thought…”

Bothwell laughed. “Makes no matter what ye think, man, I havnae got it. So now.”

That was no surprise. Carey smiled ingratiatingly. “Sir, I thought I could lend them to ye, for the raid, and then get them back with a little extra for the trouble after. As an investment, see.”

Bothwell’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do ye know of the raid?”

“Nothing, your honour, nothing. Only I canna see why ye would be collecting horses for fun.”

Bothwell barked with laughter. “And the pack?”

Carey coughed. “Well, I’m a peddler by trade, sir, I thought ye might let me open it and offer what I have to your ladies.”

“And yourself?”

“Myself, sir?”

“You look a sturdy man, yourself, can you back a horse, hold a lance?”

Carey hesitated. What would Daniel say? He decided on cunning. “I can ride as well as any man, but it’s no’ my trade, see.”

“There’s more than cows where I’m riding, ye could come well out of it.”

“Well sir…”

“Tell me later,” said the Earl generously and clapped Carey’s shoulder. “Put your horses in the paddock with the others. If ye ride with us, ye’ve got your own remounts and I’ll see ye have a jack and a lance. If ye dinna, ye must bide here till we come back, if ye follow me?”

“Ay sir.”

There was a clanging of a bell from the castle and Carey trotted his horses over to the paddock, then joined the general rush of football players and watchers and horse tenders into the barnekin and so up the rickety wooden steps to the main room of the keep.

Crammed up tight on a bench at a greasy trestle table between a man with only one ear and another Scott, who was one of Old Wat’s younger sons, Carey knew perfectly well that no one trusted him. With the number of outlaws around, it was a wonder anyone could trust enough to put their heads down to eat. Broad wooden platters lined the tables filled with porridge garnished with bacon and peas. Carey reached behind him for his pack and pulled out Daniel’s wooden bowl and spoon, drew his knife and wiped it on his hose, which only made it greasier.

The braying of a trumpet behind him almost made him jump out of his skin. He craned his head round to see the dinner procession of servants in their blue caps, bearing steaming dishes: he caught the smell of cock-a-leekie and a roasted kid and even some bread. Odd to see all that food go by and know none of it was for him. It was a hard job for the servants to pass between the packed benches and up to the high table where the Earl sat, with his cronies on one side of him and Wattie Graham of Netherby on his right, then Old Walter Scott of Harden, each of them flanked by his eldest sons and the young laird of Johnstone. There didn’t seem to be a woman in the place, though Carey couldn’t blame their menfolk if they wanted them out of sight.

As the procession reached the high table and the chief men were served, the Earl stood up and threw half a breadroll at a nervous-looking priest in the corner.

“Say a grace for us, Reverend,” he shouted.

The Reverend stood up and gabbled some Latin, which was in fact a part of the old wedding service, if Carey’s feeble classical knowledge served him right. Everyone shouted Amen, bent their heads and began shovelling food into their guts as if they were half starved.

There was indeed a shortage of food: Carey was slow to help himself and wound up with watery porridge, a few bits of leek and kale and a minute piece of bacon that had hidden under a lump of oatmeal. He gulped the skimpy portion down, and hoped it wouldn’t give him the bellyache.

At the high table the Earl of Bothwell was laughing at some joke told by the man beside him; a man, Carey saw with narrowed eyes, who wore a gold threaded brocade doublet and a snowy white falling band in the French style. Unfortunately, about five of the men around Bothwell, including Wattie Graham, had some gold thread in their doublets, being well-able to afford finery on their ill-gotten gains.

“Where are ye from?” demanded the earless man beside him. Carey trotted out his story again and the man nodded.

“One-Lug Johnstone,” he explained with his mouth full. “And that’s Old Wat’s Clemmie Scott.”

The man on the other side who had been digging his elbows into Carey’s ribs as he struggled with a tough piece of bacon, nodded politely.

“Ye’ve come up from Carlisle,” continued One-Lug, waving for an ale pot and being ignored by the group at the end of the table who had managed to lay hold of it. “What’s the news there?”

“Old Scrope’s dead,” began Carey.

“Ay, so I heard, Devil keep him. His son’s the Warden now, I heard tell. How’s Lowther?”

“The Warden’s got a new Deputy,” said Carey.

“Not Lowther?” One-Lug found that very funny and beckoned over two friends of his who’d been playing football. “Listen to this, Jemmie, the man’s saying Lowther’s not Deputy Warden.”

“Who is it then?” demanded Jemmie.

Carey coughed. “Some courtier the Queen’s sent up from London,” he said modestly, “they say he willna last the year out.”

“Nor the month.” All three of them were hysterical with laughter at the idea. “Och save me,” said One-Lug, in what he thought was a London accent, “Please don’t stick that lance in me, Mr Graham, it hurts.”

“A cow?” added Jemmie. “Why, what on earth’s a cow?”

“Och, my lord Warden, the rude men have stolen my horses…”

Carey laughed with them until Old Wat’s Clemmie finished chewing on his lump of bacon, swallowed what he could, spat out what he couldn’t onto the floor and grunted, “He faced down Sergeant Dodd at the castle yesterday, I saw him.”