P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“Not inside a barnekin?”

“There’d be no room for a herd that size.”

“Why aren’t they guarded?”

“Jock,” said Carey sadly, “you wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain to you what a law-abiding country is like, so I won’t try. They’re not guarded because no one thereabouts is likely to steal them.”

Jock snorted disbelievingly.

“Does Bothwell know about these horses?”

“Of course he does, he’s been at Court, same as I have. I expect he didn’t want you distracted from King James.”

“No,” said Jock, a little uncertainly, “he’s nothing to worry about anyway. We’re going to reive the King out from under the noses of his bad counsellors.”

“Of course,” said Carey, “and I know you don’t care about a charge of High Treason…”

Jock’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” said Carey, “You live on the Scottish side of the line. If you go out in arms against the King, it’s High Treason.”

“We’re rescuing him from bad counsellors,” insisted Jock.

“He’s agreed to be rescued, has he? Rescued by Bothwell, I mean, whom he hates because he thinks the Earl’s King of the Scottish Witches. He knows all about this scheme, does he?”

“Are ye trying to turn me against the raid?”

Carey leaned forward. “Listen Jock,” he said, making sure he stayed out of head-butting distance, “I don’t give a turd what you do. If you want to make an enemy of the King-who has a very long memory, by the way, and has been kidnapped before-that’s entirely your affair. If the raid goes wrong somehow, and the King comes out to Jedburgh with blood in his eye and an army behind him to hunt down the Grahams and wipe them off the face of the earth, that’s nothing but good news to me, alive or dead. If you want to pass up the chance of reiving 600 of the best horses in Scotland in favour of Bothwell’s lunatic scheme, I’m not the one to stop you. I just hate to see a man put his head in a noose without knowing the full story.”

Jock grunted. There was silence from him, so Carey made another circuit of the parapet. Below he could see smoke and flames licking from near the door. He took the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow and waited. Sure enough, six men holding bucklers over their heads appeared from one of the sheds nearby with a battering ram between them, and charged at the door. He shot off four arrows, but they bounced off the shields and after two attempts there was a splintering crash and a chorus of cheers as the door finally gave way.

He went back to Jock, who was staring into space, looking very thoughtful.

“They’re into the tower,” said Carey. Jock said nothing. Thuds and bangs and a screech of metal below, feet pounding up the stairs, another outburst of clanging and crashing.

In his mind’s eye Carey could see the scene one floor below. They’d have released Alison Graham and yes, there was wailing and Wattie yelling threats up through the trapdoor.

He’d been calm before, talking to Jock to keep his mind off what was happening. Now his mouth was dry again and his stomach clenched into a knot. He was no longer hungry.

“Carey,” said Jock.

“Hm?” His eye had caught movement over on the hills to the east, a glitter of spears, movement of men. Had the Grahams brought in more of their men to help retake Netherby?

“Do ye think the Earl knew what happened with Sweetmilk?”

Carey shrugged. “I’ve no idea. He might, he might not. Whichever it is, he won’t have told you, you know that.”

Jock nodded.

“Would ye agree to be ransomed?”

“I thought you said there’d be no chance…”

“I’ll pledge for ye. Well?”

Carey laughed, a little desperately. “I’ve never been ransomed before, but yes.”

“He’ll likely chain ye up in the dungeon until your family’s paid up. It’s no’ a very nice place.”

Carey licked his lips. The whole thing was a disaster. Then he shrugged. “Better than hanging though.”

“Untie me then,” said Jock. Carey hesitated. “Come on, man, ye havena got all day.”

Men with bucklers over their head were trotting in and out of the tower carrying turves and faggots of wood.

Carey undid the ropes holding Jock to the beacon post, but left his hands strapped behind him. He drew his dagger and put it to Jock’s neck, then let Jock go over to the trapdoor.

“Bothwell,” yelled Jock. There was a pause in the activity below.

“Ye’re still alive,” said the Earl’s voice.

“Ay, of course I’m still alive, if I was dead, I wouldna be speaking to ye, now would I?” snarled Jock.

“What a diplomat,” muttered Carey.

“Shut up, ye. Bothwell .”

“What do you want, Jock?”

“The Deputy Warden will surrender himself to me if ye’ll ransom him after the raid and he’ll not talk about it after.” Jock glowered at Carey, daring him to disagree. Carey felt his shoulders sag, but nodded.

“How much?”

“A thousand pounds, English.”

“No.”

“And why the hell not?”

“I’ll have him in half an hour anyway, why should I negotiate? You’re getting soft, Jock.”

Jock made a face, shrugged his shoulders. Carey hadn’t really expected Bothwell to say yes, but his stomach squeezed itself up tighter under his breastbone. He tried to avoid wondering what Bothwell would do to him before he was hanged. Maybe not. Maybe the Earl would ransom him anyway.

“He’s worth more alive than dead, Bothwell,” said Jock.

“I’ll be rich enough after the raid,” said Bothwell, “and so will ye, if ye can live through the next hour.”

There were a couple of echoing cracks from below as Bothwell tried to shoot the trapdoor away.

“It’s nae good,” shouted Jock, “he’s put stones over the hole. Have ye got gunpowder?”

“Jock!” said Carey protestingly.

“My arms are killing me, Carey, let’s get this bloody farce over with.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

There was a sound of crackling and tendrils of smoke started coming up through the cracks around the trapdoor and the holes in the roof. There were more of them than he’d thought, Carey noted, and the smoke was thick and black. Bothwell was using damp turves on top of the dry wood.

“Eh, Wattie must be in a rare mood,” said Jock, “and Alison. She’d never let him burn us out if ye hadnae hit her.”

“I know,” said Carey.

Dodd had split his force into three to come at Netherby from the south west, the south east and the east. Will the Tod took the road north from Longtown that passed beside the river Esk, his son Geordie came in from Dodd’s tower at Gilsland with the Dodds but joined up with his own surname and went through Slackbraes wood and Cleughfoot wood. The Dodds went over Slealandsburn and Oakshaw Hill and also passed through the eastern part of the Cleughfoot Wood that cupped itself around Netherby. They rode well-spread out and caught four of the men that Bothwell had stationed to watch.

At Longtownmoor stone, Geordie, Will the Tod and Henry Dodd had agreed that as they didn’t know exactly how many men Bothwell had or where they were, their best plan was to hit hard and fast, drive off his horses, capture Bothwell himself if they could and if they couldn’t, to trap him in Netherby tower with as few of his men as possible and then negotiate.

The daylight made things difficult for them, experienced night raiders though they all were, since they would be visible further off and they had no torches to signal the onset with. After some argument, they agreed on horncalls when they were ready, which would warn Bothwell, but might confuse him as well, or so they hoped. It might make him think the Carlisle garrison had come out to rescue the Deputy Warden.