P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“What do you think I’m worth on the hoof?” Carey asked after a pause.

“Everyone knows Scrope’s a rich man. A thousand pounds, perhaps,” said Jock consideringly. Carey whistled.

“He might not pay that much.”

Jock clearly regarded this as a feeble attempt at bargaining.

“Well, if ye’re Lord Hunsdon’s son, he’ll stump up for you. Of course, first ye’ve got to get yon Earl to talk civilly to ye, and that might take a while.”

“He is very upset. What are my chances?”

“It’s always possible,” Jock allowed, “a one-legged donkey with spavins could win the Carlisle horserace, but I wouldnae put my shirt on it.”

“I think you’re a bit of an optimist, Jock,” said Carey drily.

Jock laughed again, then winced. “Ye could loosen my arms a bit,” he suggested, “I canna feel my hands.”

Carey leaned over cautiously and felt one of the hands. It was a little swollen, but not too bad.

“No,” he said, “I’ve got too much respect for you, Jock. I don’t want to waste all the care I had of you if you take it in your head to jump off the top of the tower.”

“I think it’s you’ll be making the jump from a high place in the end.”

“No,” said Carey, leaning his head back and feeling very tired, “he won’t hang me.” Jock looked dubious. “That’d be too quick for Bothwell.”

Jock grunted. “I never said he’d hang you first. That’d be after he’d skelped and roasted you. And I’ll be first in with the whip, believe me.”

Carey had his eyes half-shut. “Oh, I believe you, Jock. And yet, you know, one reason I came here was so I could find out who killed Sweetmilk.”

Jock’s face changed. The long craggy canyons in it deepened, the mouth lengthened, and his chin fell on his chest.

“Poor Sweetmilk,” he said, “he was such a bonny wee bairn, running after me and laughing.” Jock’s chin quivered, then hardened again. “Anyway, what do ye care, Deputy, he’s one less Graham you’ve got to chase over the Bewcastle waste.”

Carey thought of trying to explain the idea of an impartial law enforcement officer, as interested in the wanton killing of Grahams as in cattle raids and suchlike, but decided it would take too long.

“I don’t want you blaming Dodd,” he said at last, “and I’m puzzled about it.”

“What’s to puzzle about, the lad was shot in the back.”

Carey shook his head. “You wouldn’t be interested, it was only a theory of mine.”

Jock was watching the bottle as Carey drank from it, too stiff-necked to admit he needed a drink. Carey found one of the rags for lighting the beacon, went to the rainbutt to wet it and came back to Jock. He held the bottle for Jock to drink, then mopped the dried blood off Jock’s face with the rag. Jock tolerated this in grim silence. On a thought Carey went back to the rainbutt, found two buckets there, filled both of them and brought them to where he was sitting with Jock.

“Does Netherby have any long ladders about?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

Carey peered over the parapet again, saw somebody with an arquebus taking aim and ducked down just in time. The crack sounded in the distance, but the bullet didn’t even splinter the wall. He picked up one of the buckets and poured it over the side, producing a yell of anger from below, then went and refilled it.

The next time the men with the battering ram from the log pile backed up, Carey shot at them with one of their own arrows. Three more came sailing over the wall, before Bothwell yelled for them to stop.

“Why did you do this?” asked Jock.

“A number of reasons,” Carey said. “Firstly, I wanted to know what Bothwell needed all the horses in the West March for.”

“Och, that’s easy. I’ll tell you, since you’re going nae further with it. We’re running a big raid deep into Scotland, to Falkland Palace, to lift the King and hold him to ransom for a big pot of gold. It’s about two hundred miles, so we’ve all needed remounts.”

Carey breathed cautiously. “Right,” he said, “you’re kidnapping King James.”

“Ay,” said Jock. “Bothwell says he’s worth the Kingdom if we can get him.”

“Right,” said Carey again. “Of course, Bothwell tried before at Holyrood and he didn’t manage it. That’s why he’s an outlaw.”

“He didna have us with him.”

“No. Don’t you think somebody might notice, a big pack of Border raiders riding into Scotland like that? Don’t you think they might take it into their heads to warn the King?”

“Not if we ride fast enough and keep to the waste ground.”

“And there are the horses, of course.”

“Eh? Oh ay, we’ve got enough horses now. We’ll be off tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” Carey’s voice was carefully casual. “No, I didn’t mean the little nags you’ve been reiving. I meant the King’s horses. But I suppose you’re not interested in them.”

“No,” said Jock, “we’re not. It’s the King we’re reiving.”

“Right.”

“What theory?” demanded Jock.

“Eh?”

“What theory were ye talking about before? Your theory concerning Sweetmilk.”

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

“How the Devil do you know that if ye won’t tell me what it is?”

Carey peeked over again, saw Bothwell, shot at him, missed and ducked down again as two more arquebuses cracked down below.

“I suppose the nearest cannon are in Carlisle?”

“Of course they are,” said Jock, “unless your friend Lowther’s bringing one up here.”

“No, he wouldn’t have any powder for it.”

“Is that a fact?”

“You know it as well as I do. In fact, I’ll bet the powder they’re shooting at us with is Carlisle’s finest.”

Jock grunted. “It’s no’ very good quality,” he complained, “and he charges something shocking for it. What theory?”

Carey sat down facing Jock, with his knees drawn up, examined the skinned knuckles on his right hand and flexed them. He hated punching people in the face, it always hurt your hand so much.

“Did you ever hear of a man called Sir Francis Walsingham, Jock?”

Jock nodded. “Ay, the Queen’s Secretary. Sir John Forster in the Middle March did him a good turn, oh, ten, twelve years ago.”

“I know. He’s dead now, but I was on an embassy with him to Scotland in the summer of ’83, it was the first time I went to King James’s Court.”

“What did you think of it?”

“It was well enough so long as I kept my arse to the wall and a table between me and the King.”

Jock laughed. “Took a fancy to ye, did he?”

Carey coughed and looked down. “You could say that.”

“Jesus, man, what are ye doing here? Your fortune’s made.”

Carey shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. In fact I damn near puked in his lap when I finally worked out what it was he wanted.”

Jock found that very funny. “What did Sir Francis think of it?”

“He was a strange man, you know, Jock. I’ve met my fair share of puritans, and most of them are hypocrites, but he was not. He was an utterly upright man. He worked night and day to keep the Queen safe, though he hated the thought of obeying a woman…”

“Small blame to him,” said Jock, “it’s unnatural.”

Carey thought of the iron grip most border women seemed to have on their menfolk, but didn’t say anything. He peered over the parapet and saw Bothwell and Wattie and the other men gathered together talking, while Old Wat of Harden walked up and down. To keep them on their toes he shot a couple of arrows at them. They scattered and dived for cover satisfactorily.