P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“I mean all the horses in the God damned paddock,” shouted Bothwell, “or I’ll send him out to you in pieces.”

“Och, my lord,” said Will the Tod, enjoying himself hugely, “we’re only discussing it, there’s nae need to be offensive.”

Dodd rolled his eyes.

Jock of the Peartree leaned over the barnekin wall.

“We’ll let ye keep the Dodd horses I took and that’s all.”

Will the Tod turned to Dodd. “Do ye like the terms, Henry?”

“Get on with it.”

“Ts. Young men have nae patience. Your Courtier’s got Jock on his side, he’ll do well enough.”

“He’s what?”

“Ay,” shouted Will the Tod, “that’s good enough for us. We’ll gi’ ye back all the horses bar the ones that belong to Sergeant Dodd here and we’ll go home when we’ve got our man and we’ll no’ fight ye unless ye come after us.”

Geordie brought back the huge herd of horses from the eaves of Cleughfoot wood, separated out those with Dodd brands, and put the rest back in the paddock. The captured Grahams they left tied to the paddock fence.

They waited. At last the gate opened and Carey was shoved through on foot, limping, weaponless, black with smoke, the left side of his face swollen up, his back straight and his expression unreadable.

Understanding perfectly from the way he walked that somebody-Jock, no doubt-must have been using the Deputy’s privates for football practice, Dodd led up a nice quiet softpaced mare, and held her while Carey set himself, fastened his teeth on his lip, and mounted up very very carefully.

“Can ye ride, sir?” Dodd asked solicitously.

Carey lowered himself down in the saddle like a maiden sitting for the first time on her wedding morning, took a deep breath, held it and nodded. Dodd was sorry to see that the bounce seemed to have quite gone out of him.

He was still every inch the Courtier: once the group of them were out of sight of Netherby, it was very touching the way he took the trouble to thank all of Dodd’s surname and Janet’s relatives too, Armstrongs though they were. Dodd stayed at his back, feeling a bit as he did when one of his younger brothers had got himself a belting when they were lads: privately, he thought it was funny, but he saw no reason why anybody should add to the man’s discomfort by smirking or commenting. So he glowered over Carey’s torn and battered shoulder, and not one of his kin disgraced him by cracking a smile.

To keep Carey’s mind off things as they rode back to Carlisle, Dodd told him the epic tale of his own arrest, escape from jail and journey through the secret passage, followed by his run to Brampton, very generously only slightly editing the ladies’ part in the story. At least Carey was impressed.

“You did it in a jack and helmet, too?” he said, his voice still hoarse with the smoke. “I doubt there’s a man in the south that could do the like.”

Dodd’s long face continued to look as mournful as a hound with the bellyache, but inwardly he was reluctantly flattered. He said, on a friendly impulse, “I’m sorry your plan went awry, Cour…sir. It might have worked wi’out Lowther to spike yer guns for ye.”

“Oh but, Sergeant,” said Carey, wincing and closing his eyes as the horse he was riding pecked at a pothole, “it did work, it worked beautifully. It only went wrong at the very last minute. You watch, you’ll see how it all worked out.”

He’s still mad, thought Dodd dourly, no longer sorry for him.

Barnabus Cooke was waiting in the Carlisle courtyard when Dodd brought Carey home. Clearly, Lowther had heard what had happened and seemed to think it a good idea to be present, which Barnabus thought was probably a serious mistake. The Lord Warden himself seemed embarrassed at his inaction and he was wandering about in the courtyard too. With the women also there, it was a regular little welcoming party and Barnabus rather thought Carey would have preferred not to see any of them.

However he smiled wanly as he came in, dismounted slowly and carefully, and then held onto the saddle to steady himself.

“Are you wounded anywhere, sir?” Barnabus asked, clicking his fingers imperiously at Hutchin Graham to lead the horses away. Carey shook his head. Dodd came up behind Carey looking as miserable as if he had not just rescued his Deputy Warden. Then Carey spotted Lowther, standing by the barracks door with his arms folded and a look of deep satisfaction all over his face at Carey’s condition. The Deputy Warden was in a lamentable state: Daniel Swanders’ jerkin and shirt were in tatters and blackened with soot, and Carey couldn’t even see out of his left eye which was on the side of his face that was puffed out like a cushion.

The other eye narrowed and its eyebrow went up. This will be interesting, thought Barnabus, and settled back a little to watch the fireworks.

“How are you, Robin?” asked Scrope, breaking the tension between them. “What happened, why did you do it? It was very…”

Carey took a deep breath and put his fingers up to rub between his eyebrows. “Thank you, my lord, I’m a lot better than I expect you think I deserve to be.”

Scrope coloured. He couldn’t seem to look at Carey straight.

“Well, it might have worked…” began Scrope generously.

“Ha!” said Lowther.

Carey ignored him elaborately. “Of course it might if you didn’t have a traitor claiming to be your Deputy,” he said smoothly. “Very unfortunate that he chose to let out the Grahams who could identify me just when I happened to be at Netherby. But I expect he thought he was doing the best he could for his employer.”

Scrope looked puzzled and Carey didn’t bother to enlighten him. He turned to go to his chambers in the Queen Mary Tower and found his path blocked by Lowther.

“Are ye calling me a traitor?”

Carey blinked at him and smiled his most superior and supercilious smile. It wasn’t quite as effective as usual in driving men wild, because only half his face was working properly, but the veins on Lowther’s nose throbbed all the same.

“Yes, I am, Lowther,” he said, “March traitor, in that you bring in raiders, and traitor to your Queen in that you failed to inform her of important information in your possession. Why, surely you don’t mind, do you?”

“We’ll see what Burghley has to say about this escapade,” huffed Lowther, still not ready to call Carey out to his face.

Carey smiled even more, which must have hurt. “That’s right,” he said softly, “you dig your own grave and lie in it, Sir Richard. Didn’t you know that Burghley and his son support King James’s succession to the throne after her Majesty dies? I’m sure my lord Burghley will be fascinated to hear how you tried to stop me discovering Bothwell’s plans to raid Falkland Palace and capture the King of Scotland. So will King James. Please save me the trouble and do it yourself.”

Lowther’s mouth was open. Carey very gently put out a finger and pushed past him. “Now, I’ve had a long hard day and I’m tired. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. Good night ladies, good night my lord.”

Lovely, Barnabus thought trotting after his master, that’ll puzzle him, and you kept your temper as well, you’re learning fast, ain’t you?

Upstairs in Carey’s bedchamber, Barnabus helped him strip off all Swanders’ filthy lousy rags and drop them in the corner. Knowing better than to say anything at all, he silently handed Carey cloths and a basin of hot water so he could clean off the soot and tend to the bruises and grazes he could reach. Barnabus dealt with the rest. Somebody knocked on the door just as he finished.

“Oh bloody hell,” said Carey, pulling on his night shirt and dressing gown, and sitting down on the side of the bed.