P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“Why not?”

“Mary said she wouldn’t marry the father if he was the Earl himself, so I think he wasn’t. It’s not that Bothwell wouldn’t do it, but I don’t think he did on this occasion. So you’ve got three or four possible murderers to choose from.”

“I suppose it would be wasteful to shoot all of them and be done with it,” said Jock thoughtfully. “And it might be a little tickle to do at that. So, how do I find out which one to kill?”

“Who was at Netherby on the Saturday? Who did Sweetmilk ride out with? Who came back?”

“Ah,” said Jock, wriggling his shoulders against the wood. “Let me think.” If his arms were cramping him, he didn’t say anything about it, and Carey wouldn’t have risked untying him anyway. He was a grizzled old bastard and tough as doornails, he could suffer.

Carey’s belly started rumbling again. It was dinner time and nothing to eat but raw pigeon squabs from the little dovecote on the south western corner. Well, he wasn’t that hungry yet. Or perhaps he could light a little fire with the materials for the beacon and roast them.

There was a stealthy clatter on the other side of the roof. Jock didn’t seem to have heard, but Carey knew if he’d been a horse, his ears would have swivelled.

He picked up one of the long hardwood poles used for poking the beacon and crept round to the opposite parapet. When he peered over, he saw that the ladder they were trying to use was too short, but that the man climbing it had a caliver under his arm, with the slowmatch lit.

“Halfwits,” said Carey again, under his breath, “haven’t any of you heard of Pythagoras?”

Very carefully, while the man was still halfway up, he reached with his pole over the wall, hooked it into the top rung of the ladder and pushed. There was a scream, a bang from the caliver, a loud crash and clatter. Carey went back to where Jock was and offered him some water, which Jock drank. Neither of them commented on the ladder.

“Ye canna win,” said Jock, “ye canna hold out indefinitely. Sooner or later ye must sleep.”

“Oh, it’ll be quicker than that,” said Carey, “sooner or later they’ll work out how to do it.”

“And how’s that?” demanded Jock.

Carey shook his head. “Besieging’s a science, and I’m not going to give you lessons.”

“You mean they’ll burn ye out.”

“Us. They’ll burn us out. It’s probably only Wattie’s objections that’s stopping them now.”

Jock turned his face away. “What’s making ye so cheerful? It’s only a matter of time before you die.”

Carey couldn’t really explain it. He knew perfectly well he’d got himself into a ridiculous situation; that his scheme for finding out what was going on in Netherby had perhaps not been one of his best, and that while Elizabeth might be wondering where he’d got to, there was very little she could do for him. Somehow, with the sun shining down on him and the sight he had of Liddesdale valley glowering to the north, sitting talking to a trussed-up Jock of the Peartree was almost pleasant.

“Well,” he said after he’d wandered round the parapet looking for activity down below and seeing nothing, which would have worried him if he’d been a worrying man, “maybe we can narrow it down even more. Tell me what happened here on Saturday.”

“Now then. A couple of the women went down to Carlisle to buy oatmeal, but they were back by noon. That was when Mary fell and hurt her hand. And I’d sent Sweetmilk, and Bothwell sent two of his men, Jock Hepburn and Geordie Irwin of Bonshaw, to Carlisle to see if they could scout out who had horses and where they were, and buy a few if they saw some cheap. Sweetmilk was in a taking with something that morning, but he wouldna tell me what it was, so I thought it was some girl or other-it usually is, was,” Jock swallowed. “I said he should take Caspar, which the Earl of Bothwell had brought to me as a fee, in case Scrope was interested in buying him and also to…er…so people could admire him, ye know. So they’d send me their mares.”

Carey nodded, twanging his thumb gently on the bowstring. Something was niggling his mind, but he couldn’t think what it was.

Jock wriggled again. “That’s the last time I saw him alive.”

“So it’s Geordie Irwin of Bonshaw, or Jock Hepburn. Or the Earl.”

“Unless he met somebody at Carlisle, of course. I mind that the Affleck boy, not Robert, he’s dead, but his younger brother, Ian, he didn’t come here until early Sunday.”

“Well it couldn’t be him, could it, if I’m right about Mary.”

“Oh ay. So it’s Geordie Irwin or Jock Hepburn.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Which do you think it is?”

“Och, lad, it could be any of them, they’re a’ bastards. And I’m not convinced it wasna the Earl; he’s allus had an eye for women that one, and Mary’s a bonny little girl. He wasnae in Netherby on the Saturday either, and I dinna ken where he was.”

“What’s he got against King James?” asked Carey after a moment.

“The Earl?” Jock laughed shortly. “I think he had a similar problem wi’ the King to yours. Only he took it harder.”

“And what are his plans if he captures the King?”

“Och, I think it’s the Earl of Bothwell for Lord Chancellor and Chamberlain, and Chancellor Robert Melville and his brother for the block. After that…” Jock shrugged as far as he could. “I dinna think he knows himself.”

“Do you think he will-capture the King, I mean?”

Jock looked at him thoughtfully. “Why? What do ye care?”

“Curious. Come on now, I can hardly warn his perverted Majesty from here, can I?”

“I think he’s got a verra good chance of it, with us and with…” Jock shook his head, “…with his other advantages.”

An inside job, thought Carey instantly, there are men at the Scottish Court who will help the Earl. Lord above, what am I supposed to do about this? What can I do?

“And of course there are the horses,” said Carey, pursuing a line he had started earlier.

“Ay, ye mentioned them. What horses?”

“Falkland Palace is a hunting lodge. I’ve been there, the stables are enormous.”

“Oh ay?” Jock was pretending indifference, but Carey knew how passionate the Borderers were for horseflesh.

“The King keeps most of his horses there so they’re ready for him to ride when he takes a fancy to go hunting.”

“What are they like then?”

“Well,” said Carey consideringly, “Caspar wouldn’t stand out among them.”

“No?” Jock didn’t believe him.

Carey shook his head. “King James is very particular about his mounts and he has them brought in from France by sea. They’re the best horses in Scotland, and perhaps even England too.”

“Oh?” Jock was struggling with himself internally. Pride lost and curiosity won out. “How many are there?”

“About six hundred.”

“ What ?”

“It could be more.”

“What’s the King want with 600 horses?”

“Not all of them are his, a lot belong to the people at Court. But that’s the nearest number, I’d say.”

“Jesus,” said Jock, and Carey could almost see the thoughts whirling past each other in his brain. Clearly Bothwell had neglected to mention the living treasure trove at Falkland: far more valuable than gold to Borderers, because horses could run. Jock coughed and shifted his legs a little. “Would ye happen to know if they’re heavily guarded?”

“Not very heavily.”

Jock was suspicious again. “Why not? Are they hobbled?”

“No, they’re not hobbled. In fact, during the summer most of them are out in the horse paddocks round about the Palace.”