P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

Lemons, Barnabus thought, lemons, the walnut juice stain comes off with lemons, no problem there, Barnabus, all you need to do is find some lemons. It appeared however, that there were none in Carlisle. The few lemons that had made the long journey from Spain and the south of France, to wind up in the market as slightly wizened specimens, had been snapped up by Lady Scrope the previous week to make syllabubs. Food prices had gone sky high all over Carlisle, what with the unreliable harvest weather, and the arrival of dozens of gentlemen and attendants from all over the March. Thomas the Merchant had bought up most of the spices in Carlisle the night Henry Lord Scrope died and had made a very hard bargain with Lady Scrope.

He’d tried Thomas the Merchant himself, to find Thomas regretful but completely unable to supply him. Nowhere else in Carlisle had any, nor even lemon juice. Mrs Croser, the apothecary and midwife, had told him she was still waiting for new supplies herself.

The gentlemen of the March had finished their final meeting before the funeral procession. They had done eating and drinking and boasting about twelve pointed harts they had brought down in Redesdale and departed, not too unsteadily, to their lodgings. Barnabus lined up the boys who had been serving. After searching them carefully and retrieving four spoons and two wine strainers, he paid them and dismissed them, telling them that any lad that brought him a lemon before evening would be paid sixpence for it.

The boys scattered, talking intently. Barnabus went to Carey’s chamber where he finished polishing Carey’s best boots and checked the starching and sewing of the new ruff his master was to wear at the funeral. The new black velvet suit was hanging up ready for wear and very fine Carey would look in it too, even if he wasn’t ever likely to pay for it. It was quite plain with only a little black braid over the seams and the panes of the hose decorated with brocade. Barnabus would have liked there to be a bit of slashing and a lining of tawny taffeta, but Carey had forbidden it and insisted on cramoisie red silk lining as being more suitable. Eight months in Paris as a youth of nineteen had given Carey very decided ideas about clothes, which ten years of service at Court had confirmed.

Barnabus was just about to make sure that his own best suit of fine dark blue wool was in a reasonable state, when there was a hammering on the door. He opened it to find Goodwife Biltock, bright red with heat and rage standing there, holding Young Hutchin Graham by his right arm twisted up behind his back and his left ear.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr Cooke?” she demanded, sweeping into the room past him.

“Er…”

“Why would this young scoundrel want to steal lemons from the kitchen, eh?”

Barnabus knew his mouth was opening and shutting. Goodwife Biltock shoved Young Hutchin into the corner, where he sat rubbing his ear and looking embarrassed. The Goodwife squared up to Barnabus, her broad face on a level with his chest and shook her finger under his nose.

“Sixpence a lemon,” she snapped, “I’ll sixpence a lemon you, you thieving clapperdudgeon…”

Barnabus backed away. “Goodwife, Goodwife…”

“Send boys out to steal from the kitchens would you…”

“Goodwife, I only said if they could find lemons, I would pay sixpence for them. It’s to take the walnut stain off Sir Robert’s face and hands, that’s all.”

As he’d hoped it would, that slowed her down.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, fair enough. I can’t spare you any lemons, but I can give you verjuice which has the same quality of sourness.” She turned to Hutchin Graham. “You, boy!” she barked, “I’ve got an errand for you, come with me.”

As she herded Hutchin out of the door ahead of her she glowered at Barnabus.

“Mind your manners, Mr Cooke,” she said, “I know you and where you’re from.” Barnabus could think of nothing to do except bow. If anything her frown became fiercer. “I’ll send this thief back to you with the verjuice. My advice is to beat him well.”

“Thank you Goodwife Biltock,” said Barnabus faintly.

When Hutchin got back with the little flask of verjuice, Carey had returned from inspecting his men along with Captain Carleton. Barnabus was serving them with what remained of the good wine they had brought north with them: Carleton had parked his bulk on Carey’s chair next to the fireplace and Carey was sitting on the bed telling the full tale of his adventures at Netherby. Carleton held his sides and bellowed with laughter when he heard how Carey had been foolish enough to free Jock of the Peartree on his word not to attack and Carey looked wry.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll know better next time, but it might have saved my life at that. Now then Young Hutchin, what have you got there?”

“Verjuice, sir. From Goodwife Biltock.”

“That was kind of her with all she has to do. Give her my thanks and best regards.”

Hutchin looked hesitant.

“I’m supposed to give him a beating, sir,” said Barnabus helpfully.

“Good lord, why? What’s he done?”

“Tried to steal some of the Goodwife’s lemons.”

There were volumes of the comprehension in Carey’s battered face, but all he said was, “Well, that was very devoted of you, Hutchin, but much more dangerous than simply lifting a few head of cattle. We’ll remit the beating for now because I want you to take part in the funeral procession tomorrow.”

Young Hutchin who had been looking sullen, stood up straighter.

“We need a groom to ride the lead horse pulling the funeral bier. You’ll have a mourning livery and it’ll be your job to be sure the horses are calm and go the right way. Can you do it?”

Hutchin was looking for the catch. “Is that all, sir?”

Carey nodded. “Your fee will be the livery: it’s a suit of fine black wool which I think will fit you well, and a new linen shirt. We can’t arrange for new boots but your own don’t look too bad if you give them a polish, and you’ll have a black velvet bonnet with a feather.”

Hutchin thought carefully.”

“Ay sir, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. Be here two hours before dawn and Barnabus will see you properly kitted out.”

Astonishingly, Hutchin smiled, took off his cap and made quite a presentable bow. He turned to go.

“Oh, and Hutchin.”

“Ay Sir?”

“Your Uncle Richard Graham of Brackenhill is coming, so he’ll be behind you in the procession.”

Hutchin smiled even wider before clattering off down the stairs. Carleton looked quizzically at Carey.

“That young devil is chief of the boys in Carlisle,” said Carey in answer to his unspoken question. “If they’re planning some bright trick for the funeral, he’ll either be in the thick of it or know who is and now he’ll see to it that they don’t do it.”

Carleton nodded. “Ay, there’s sense in that.”

“Which is also why I got Scrope to invite the Armstrong and Graham headmen.”

Carleton smiled. “Well, it’s worth a try, any road.”

Dodd arrived looking harassed, and Barnabus served him with the last of their wine. He sniffed suspiciously at it, then drank.

There was further tying up of endless loose ends to be done: petty details that somehow always slipped your notice until the last minute. It had invariably been like that when Carey was taking part in an Accession Day Tilt: you thought you’d got everything sorted out and then a hundred things suddenly rose up the night before and sneered at you.

It was getting on towards sunset and Barnabus could see that Carey was tired. However, it seemed he had one further important piece of business to transact.