P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

Out in the courtyard she found Dodd having a shouting match with Lowther by the gate, watched by a group of highly amused Grahams.

“Ye canna let them out and have him taken, he’s the Deputy Warden,” he was shouting.

“I can and I will,” growled Lowther, “And what’s more, I’m rightfully the Deputy Warden, not that upstart Londoner, or I will be by the end of today, I think.”

“That’s telling him,” laughed Young Jock, “Do ye want the man roasted a bit for impudence before we hang him.”

“No,” said Lowther, “hang him up first, then roast him, don’t take any chances with the young pup.”

“Jesus Christ, at least ransom him, we need to know where the raid’s going…”

“Shut your mouth, Sergeant Dodd,” said Lowther, “I know where the raid’s headed and so does Captain Musgrave.”

“Bothwell could be lying to ye…”

Lowther smiled slowly. “He’s not lying, not with what it is he’s hoping to steal.”

“And what’s that?” put in Elizabeth. “If you really do know, which I doubt.”

Lowther laughed at her rudely. “I’m not telling ye, all women are blabbermouths and ladies nae different. If ye were my wife I’d tan your hide for asking what’s men’s business and none of yours.”

Lady Widdrington paled and her lips tightened. She looked as if she was swallowing a great many large words with great effort.

Young Jock, Ekie and all the Grahams were helpless with laughter. Dodd stepped towards them with his fist raised, but Lowther got in his way, still grinning.

“These are out on bail now, Sergeant,” he said, “and as Deputy Warden I forbid you to leave the castle today. Do you understand me?”

“What?” Dodd’s eyes were fairly bugging with rage. “Are you making me a prisoner in my own keep…?”

“It’s not your keep, it’s mine, and I’m the authority here. In fact…” Lowther’s pale eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you not to do something foolish, Sergeant Dodd. Here, Ekie, Young Jock-fetch the Sergeant into the jail for me, will ye?”

“By God, Lowther, I’ll have your guts…” roared Dodd as the Grahams grabbed him by the arms and manhandled him through the door to the ground floor of the keep. At least Bangtail had the grace to hang back, biting his fist, but he made no move to help his Sergeant. There was a series of thumps and muffled yells. Janet lunged forward, but Elizabeth caught her.

“Up,” she said, “into the keep.”

“But they’re beating him…”

“He’ll survive,” said Elizabeth callously. “They’re only taking a little revenge for what he did to them. Do you want to wind up in there too? You will if you make Lowther think of it. Come with me.”

By main force she had Janet up the steps and through the door before Lowther came out again, rattling his keys suggestively and looking pleased with himself. He paused when Lord Scrope leaned out of a high window in the keep and yelled that he was not to take a single nag from the stables, but then shrugged. They watched him through a shot hole in the wall as he swaggered over to the barracks, no doubt in search of his breakfast, followed by the mob of Grahams.

“What can we do?”

Elizabeth was still watching. The Grahams were moving in a body to the gate: as it opened, they were out into Carlisle town and from there, once the town gates opened, on the road to Netherby.

Carey awoke out of too little sleep, knowing someone was stealing his pillow. He knew before he was properly awake that he couldn’t allow that: gripped it tighter, rolled and pushed himself onto his feet with his back to the wall and his dagger ready.

“Ah well,” said Jemmie’s voice, “it was worth a try. Don’t stick me, peddler, I was only wondering.”

Carey showed his teeth and waited until Jemmie had backed off. One-Lug lifted himself up on an elbow and cursed both of them, then lay down and went back to sleep. Old Wat’s Clemmie hadn’t even stirred.

With the inside of his mouth as full of muck as a badly run stables and his head pounding, Carey thought of trying for another hour’s sleep, but decided against it. Instead he picked his way across the crammed bodies, scratching his face where the newly shaved beard was coming back and his body where the fleas had savaged him. Once outside there was blessed fresh clean air, only a little tainted with the staggering quantities of manure produced by the men and horses packed into Netherby, and the stars rioting across the sky, with just a little paleness at the eastern edge.

Carey wished he could wash his face, but couldn’t find water, so wandered towards the cow byres set against the barnekin wall where there were lights and movement.

Sleepy women were trudging about there with pails and stools. Alison Graham was standing by the big milk churns and she nodded curtly at him as he slouched towards her.

“Ye’re up early,” she said to him. “Any of the other men up and doing, eh cadger?”

“One of them tried to steal my pack, but no,” said Carey ruefully. “Any water about fit to drink.”

She gestured at some buckets standing by for the cows and he went and dunked his head, drank enough to clear out his mouth.

“Is Mary with you?” he asked, “Mary Graham?”

“In with Bluebell at the moment, why?”

“I wanted to ask her about Sweetmilk.”

“Why?”

“In case I heard anything, in my travels. I do, you know,”

Alison Graham looked him up and down suspiciously. “If ye’re trying…”

“God curse me if I lie, missus, I only want to talk to her.”

After a moment she nodded. As she took the buckets from the girl bringing them over on a yoke, lifted and poured them without visible effort, she said, “She only has to squeal and the crows’ll be feeding on you by midday.”

Carey nodded, did his best to look harmless and went into the byre where Bluebell and two other cows were ready to be milked. Following the sound of retching, he came on Mary in the corner, being helplessly sick on an empty stomach. She had her fist clenched on a lace she wore about her neck. Carey watched silently for a moment, knowing perfectly well what was wrong since he had seen the malady before. At last Mary Stopped, spat, and sat down on her stool, with her head rested against the cow’s flank. As if nothing had happened she started milking away with her sleeves rolled up and the muscles in her white arms catching light off the lantern on the hook above as she worked, though she favoured her bandaged wrist.

She jumped when he coughed.

“Can I sit and talk with ye, missus,” he asked gently.

She shrugged and carried on. Carey squatted down with his back to the wall. They watched the milk spurt in white streams, the round sweet smell of it mixing with the smell of hay from the cow’s breath.

“When’s the babe due?” asked Carey after a while, deciding to bet his shirt on a guess.

Mary Graham gave a little sigh and closed her eyes.

“What babe?” she asked. Squersh, squersh, went the milk and the cow chewed contentedly on her fodder.

Carey said nothing for a while. “I wish ye could help me, for then I might help you,” he said at last. “It’s a Christmas baby, is it no’?”

She shrugged, turned her face away from him. Her head was bare like most of the maids in the north, and the straight red-gold hair knotted up tightly with wisps falling into her face as she worked.

“What did Sweetmilk say?”

That opened the dyke. Her fingers paused in their rhythm, her shoulders went up then down, and he saw water that was not sweat dripping off her chin.

“He said…” she whispered, “he said he’d kill the father.”