P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“Well…”

“Not yet,” said Philadelphia, raising her eyebrows exactly like her brother. “There hasn’t been time since the old lord died. It was less than a week ago, remember. He isn’t even buried yet, he’s still in the chapel, poor old soul.”

“No warrant?”

“I’m only Warden during pleasure anyway,” said Scrope. “What would Burghley do…”

Being a man who often edited what he wanted to say, Dodd recognised the symptoms in someone else.

“Well, my lord,” said Carey after a deep breath, “if you remember, it was the Earl of Essex who gave me my knighthood. He and Burghley…er…hate each other.”

“Oh,” said Scrope, beginning to understand, “Court factions.”

“Of course, Robin is the Queen’s favourite…” began Philadelphia.

“Heaven preserve me from that,” said Carey feelingly. “No, she likes me, but Essex has the…er…honour at the moment. Even so, she would prefer me back at Court under her eye. This needs to be handled with care, my lord.”

“Surely I can appoint my own deputy,” said Scrope.

Carey and his sister exchanged glances. “Of course. One thing I must have settled tonight, my lord,” he said, “is the question of men. The garrison men my brother lent me must go back to Berwick tomorrow, he’s short-handed enough as it is. I need my own men here, appointed to me, paid by me and loyal to me.”

Too late Dodd realised that he should have left with Lowther, no matter how fascinated he was. He tried melting into the tapestry, but Carleton did for him, damn his guts.

“Sergeant Dodd here is the loyalest man I know,” boomed Carleton with an evil grin.

“Oh Ah could niver…”

“Rubbish, man, no deputy could wish for a better guard than you and your soldiers.”

“Excellent idea, Captain,” drivelled Scrope. “Yes. Sergeant Dodd, you can transfer to Sir Robert’s service until he releases you.”

Carey had spotted his reaction too, alas. Dodd coughed and did his best to look honest but thick.

“Ay sir,” he said, wondering how he could explain it to Janet that he was now in the service of some damned Court sprig, not even securely appointed Deputy Warden. Ah well, no doubt Carey would be heading south in a month or two, with his tail between his legs.

And then how would Dodd deal with Richard Lowther’s wrath? It was too much to cope with on top of Sweetmilk Graham’s killing.

“Sir,” he said to Carey. “I’d best get back to my men and explain to them.”

“Of course, Sergeant,” said Carey. “How many of them are there?”

“Six, sir.”

“Six. Good.” Carey coughed a little. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, Sergeant. Good night.”

Dodd clumped down the stairs, shaking his head and hoping he wouldn’t need to do any more thinking that night. Then Lowther stopped him in the lower room, looming by the fire, his broad handsome face like a rock carving on a tomb.

“Well, Sergeant?”

“Ay sir.”

“What did they say after I left?”

“Say, sir?”

Lowther’s grey eyes narrowed.

“Of what did they speak when I was gone?” The words sprang out half-bitten.

Dodd thought for a while.

“Scrope turned me over to the new…to Sir Robert as sergeant of his guard, me and my men together.”

Lowther humphed to himself.

“You’ll not forget where your true interests lie, Sergeant.” he said with heavy meaning.

Christ man, thought Dodd to himself, if you’re here demanding blackrent off me, say so out clear, ye’ve not the talent for subtle hinting.

Aloud he said stolidly, “No sir.”

“So what did they say?”

Dodd thought again. “It was some chatter about Court factions and Carey said he wasna the Queen’s favourite, the Earl of Essex was, and they’d need to be careful of you.”

Lowther humphed again. “Was that all?”

Inspiration struck Dodd. “All I understood, sir, seeing they were talking foreign.”

“What, southern English.”

“No, I can make that out usually: foreign, French maybe or Latin even. I don’t know.”

Lowther looked sideways at him under his flourishing grey brows and Dodd stared into space. Lowther snapped his fingers at John Ogle who bristled, but came towards them.

“Find me and the sergeant some beer,” he said, stepping over a snoring pile of sleuthdogs and sitting on one of the benches. At his gesture Dodd sat down next to him, itching to get back to the barracks and find out what his men had done with Sweetmilk. He gulped the beer when it came, from Scrope’s brewhouse, not the garrison’s, and not half bad.

“Scrope’s mad,” said Lowther dourly. “A bloody courtier, what does he know about the Border?”

He knew enough to identify immediately where most of Dodd’s surname lived and that Gilsland was full of Armstrongs, Dodd thought, but said nothing and nodded.

“Still, that might not be so ill a thing…” muttered Lowther, thinking aloud. “What do you make of him, Sergeant?”

Dodd forebore to point out that he had exchanged perhaps three sentences with the man, and shrugged.

“He’s got very polished manners.”

“He might not be here long,” said Lowther pointedly. Dodd didn’t reply because in his present mood he might have said something he would regret later. And Janet would have his guts if he lost his place before he had his investment back. Which on current showing might be well into the next century, assuming he lived that long.

“Keep an eye on him for me, will you Henry?” Lowther said, the firelight catching his pale prominent eyes and the broken veins on his cheeks and nose. To complete the effect, he made a face which might, if practised, have counted for a smile one day.

“Ay sir,” said Dodd woodenly.

“Good lad.” Lowther clapped him on the shoulder and headed purposefully across the room to the fire, threading between benches and trestle tables.

Dodd hurried out the door. At the dark foot of the stairs outside, he looked about him impatiently.

“Hey Sergeant,” came a voice from the door of the new barracks and Dodd changed direction to find four of his men sheltering there, Red Sandy fiddling with a lantern that had almost no wick left.

“Where have you put it then?” Dodd asked, thinking longingly of his bed.

Archie Give-it-Them coughed and the others looked sheepishly at each other. Dodd sighed again.

“Well?” he said.

“We tried, Sergeant,” said Bangtail Graham, “but the new Deputy had a man on the door already and he wouldna let us in, but.”

There was a long moment of silence. Dodd thought of the thirty good English pounds he had given for the sergeant’s post, which was a loan from Janet’s father as an investment, and decided that if he lost his place he would ride to Berwick and take ship for the Low Countries.

“Good night,” he said, turned on his heel and walked off to the stables to think.

Carey saw his sister up the stairs to the Warden’s bedchamber, and she leant on his arm smiling and chattering so happily that he knew how hard it had been for her. Goodwife Biltock was pulling a warming pan out of the great bed.

“God’s sake, this weather, June, who could believe it…” she was muttering as she turned and saw him. “Oh now,” she flustered, dropping a curtsey, “well, Robin, what a sight…”

Carey crossed the floor in three strides and picked her up to give her a smacking kiss on the cheek. She cuffed his ear.

“Put me down, bad child, put me…”

Carey put her down and handed her his hankerchief, while Philadelphia smiled and brought her to the stool by the fire until she could collect herself.