P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

It was a little more difficult to pick her way amongst the servants asleep in the rushes in the main room, but she managed it with no more than a few grunts and a feeble grope after her by one of the men. She was on the point of opening the heavy main door, when she heard stealthy footsteps and whispered conversation, and the rattle of keys.

She froze, then as she heard them open the iron door to the jail and go in directly beneath her, she pulled on her boots, opened the door a little, to peer out.

Sir Richard Lowther was emerging from under the wooden steps that led to the door she was hiding behind. At his back were five tousled bearded men-no, six. The last she knew was Bangtail Graham and the others must be the raiders Sir Robert Carey had captured the day before yesterday.

Lowther beckoned them to stand around him.

“He’s gone to Netherby,” he explained, “dressed as a peddler, by name Daniel Swanders. Now you’d know him again, wouldn’t you Young Jock.”

“Oh ay,” said Young Jock, “I’d know him.”

“I can’t spare you more than one horse, so Young Jock will have to ride and the rest will have to follow, but…”

Elizabeth Widdrington opened the door, walked out onto the steps and stopped, looking down at them.

Richard Lowther looked up at her, not at all worried.

“Good morning, Sir Richard,” she said.

“Good morning, Lady Widdrington,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

It was hard for him to refuse to answer a direct question, though it was obvious enough he thought it none of her business.

“These men have got bail, Lady Widdrington,” he said, “I’m letting them go home to their families.”

“Bail?” she asked archly.

“My lord Scrope agreed it last night.”

Damn the man for his vagueness. Even when he was sick, Scrope’s father would have wanted to know the reason for Lowther’s interest.

“They’ve given their words of honour they’ll come when their bills are called at the next Day of Truce, and they cost the castle six pence a day each to guard and feed.”

“Is the gate open yet?”

“Not yet. Soon enough.”

No she was not going to let him give one of their precious horses to Jock of the Peartree’s sons. Let the raiders walk to Netherby on their own two feet that God gave them.

She came down the steps as the whole group of them went to stand by the gate and wait for it to open. At least Lowther hadn’t the authority to open it before time. As they passed her she stopped Bangtail.

“Where’s the Sergeant?” she demanded.

“He has a little chamber by the barracks door,” said Bangtail, “Why did ye want him, missus? Can I help.”

“I doubt it, but you could wait and see if I have a message for you if you want to earn yourself a little drinkmoney.”

“Ay missus.”

Elizabeth hurried across the yard to the bright new barracks building and opened up the door to find Janet Dodd standing in the passage in her kirtle with her stays half laced, head down as she brushed her red hair.

“Janet, where’s your husband?”

“In there,” said Janet, surprised at seeing a gentlewoman up so early. “Why, what’s the matter, my lady?”

“Would you go in and see if he’s decent. I must speak to both of you at once.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Janet peeked round the door, turned to Elizabeth.

“He’s dressed and drinking his beer, and if I were you, I’d wait until he comes out, he’s ay like a bear in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, this is very urgent.”

From behind the door that led to the main part of the barracks came the hawking and moaning of the garrison waking up. Brooking no argument, Elizabeth gestured Janet ahead of her into the tiny chamber and followed herself.

Dodd was sitting on the little sagging bed with his chin on his hand, drinking miserably.

“Goddamn it, woman, can ye never find better than sour…Oh, sorry, ma’am.” To be fair to him, Dodd pulled at the open front of his doublet and made to stand up, but Elizabeth shook her head, shut the door firmly behind her.

“Lowther’s freeing the men you and Sir Robert caught the day before yesterday. They’ll be out at the gate as soon as it opens.”

Dodd looked cynical. “That’s no surprise, he’s well in with the Grahams and wants to stay that way. Why? What do you care?”

Elizabeth charitably ignored his insolence. “I care because Robert Carey went to Netherby last night in disguise as a peddler.”

That woke him up. He sat bolt upright. “Good Chri…why?”

“Didn’t Barnabus tell you last night? To see about getting your horses back and finding the man that really did kill Sweetmilk. And also to know where Bothwell is planning to raid.”

“The man’s mad,” said Dodd definitely.

“I never thought he’d do that when he gave his word,” said Janet, clearly appalled. “They’ll half-kill him if they find out.”

“Which they will do as soon as Young Jock and his men get to Netherby.”

“Stark staring lunatic,” continued Dodd. “That Earl of Bothwell could hang him as soon as look at him, I’ve known him do it for less.”

“Who else knows of this?” asked Janet.

“Myself and Robert’s servant Barnabus Cooke, who’s still abed as far as I know. And Lowther, somehow.”

“Cooke’s a Londoner,” said Dodd, “Canna ride better than a hog in breeches. What’s to be done?”

“Stop Lowther.”

Dodd sucked his teeth. “I dinna see why he should pay me any mind, but I’ll try for ye, my lady. Good God almighty…Sorry ma’am. Disguised as a peddler, would ye credit it?”

Elizabeth left them there with Janet doing up Dodd’s laces and finding his cap, while she hurried back to the keep, threaded through the wakening servants and ran up the stairs to the Scropes’ chamber.

It took her five minutes to shake the maidservant awake and the maid took another five to waken Philadelphia who climbed tottering out of the high bed and blinked at Elizabeth.

“Wh-what’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it a raid?”

“No, it’s your brother.”

“What’s he done?”

Elizabeth told her, including what Lowther was up to. Philly’s eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth.

“But the Earl will hang him.”

“Robin didn’t think so.”

“He doesn’t know the Earl of Bothwell, he’s a wicked Godless man and cruel with it. Thomas, Thomas, wake up.”

“I’m awake,” came Scrope’s tetchy voice from behind the curtains. “What’s that mad brother of yours done?”

Elizabeth fidgeted about the room while Philadelphia explained. The two voices rose and fell, one irritable, one pleading. At last Scrope poked his head out of the curtains, causing his nightcap to fall off.

“I said they could have bail and I’m not going back on it,” he snarled. “Lowther can let them out but they’re not to have horses.”

“But Robin…” wailed Philly.

“Your precious Robin can look after himself. He should have thought of it before. Man’s mad, going into Netherby dressed as a servant…”

“A peddler…”

“I don’t care if he went dressed as the bloody Queen of France, I’m not getting him out of some schoolboy scrape.”

There was a thump as Scrope flounced back onto the pillows.

“Anyway,” came the reedy voice, “I’m unwell. I think I have an ague.”

Philadelphia scrambled out of bed again, leaving the curtains drawn, and fluttered about the chamber, trying to get dressed while she crumpled up her little face and bewailed her husband. Elizabeth waited for a moment, then decided there was no help to be got there, made an impatient “Tchah!” noise, and went down the stairs again.