P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

Dodd considered an explanation and decided against it. “No sir.” Carey patted a foreleg and lifted the foot to inspect the sturdy, well-grown hoof. He smiled quizzically and Dodd relented a little. “Not hobbies, sir.”

“I like a sure-footed horse myself,” said Carey agreeably and mounted.

As Carlisle’s stolid red walls and rabble of huts dropped behind them Carey seemed for some reason to be quite happy. Dodd failed to see why: the vicious wind was harrying clouds across the blue like a defeated army and the land was soused with the rain of the previous days. This was June, for Heaven’s sake, and it felt like February. Dodd began to run through his normal tally of worries: lack of money, the hay harvest likely to fail, lack of money, the barley crop poor, the rye and oats only middling and the wheat gone to the Devil, lack of money, pasturage poor and sour and Mildred, one of Janet’s work-horses, mysteriously off her feed, Janet in general, lack of money, the dead Graham…

Dodd glanced sideways at the present occupant of the Queen Mary Tower. He was riding loosely along, looking all about him, whistling slightly and half-smiling and when his hobby tried an exaggerated shy at a limp dandelion, he rode the hopping good-humouredly and hardly used the whip. He did not look like a man whose sleep had been upset by a corpse in his bed. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? And if his servants had dealt with the body, what in God’s name had they done with it?

Privately deciding to send Red Sandy out to Gilsland to warn Janet of a possible raid by Jock of the Peartree if he hadn’t found the dead man by the evening, Dodd cleared his throat.

“Different from London I doubt, sir.”

Carey was deep in thought. “Hm? London? Yes. Have you ever been there?”

“No sir. I’ve been to Edinburgh though, carrying messages.”

“What did you think of the place?”

Dodd tried to be just. “It had some fair houses. Too many…”

“Scots?”

“Er…people.”

Carey grinned. “You wouldn’t believe how many people there are in London. And every man jack of them with some complaint to bring as a petition to Her Majesty.”

“You’ve been at Court, sir?”

“Too much. However, the Queen likes me, so I do the best I can.”

Dodd struggled for a moment, then gave in. “What’s she like, the Queen?”

Carey raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said consideringly, “a scurvy Scotsman might say she is a wild old bat who knows more of governorship and statecraft than the Privy Councils of both realms put together, but I say she is like Aurora in her beauty, her hair puts the sun in splendour to shame, her face holds the heavens within its compass and her glance is like the falling dew.”

“You say that do you, sir?”

“Certainly I do, frequently, and she laughs at me, tells me that I am her Robin Redbreast and I’m a naughty boy and too plainspoken for the Court.”

“Christ.”

“And then I kiss her hand and she bids me rise and tells me that my brother is being tedious again and my father should get up to Berwick and birch him well, and that poor fool of a boy Thomas Scrope apparently wants me for a deputy in the West March, which shows he has at least enough sense to cover his little fingernail, which surprised her, and what would I say to wasting my life on the windswept Borders chasing cattle-thieves.”

“What did you say, sir?” Dodd asked, fascinated. Carey’s eyes danced.

“I groaned, covered my face, fell to my knees and besought her not to send me so far from her glorious countenance, although if it were not for the sorrow of leaving her august presence, I would rejoice in wind, borders and cattle-thieves, and if she be so hard of heart as to drive me away from the fountain of her delight, then I shall go and serve her with all my heart and soul and try and keep Scrope out of trouble.

Despite himself, Dodd cracked a laugh. “Is that how they speak at the Court?”

“If they want to keep out of the Tower, they do. I’m good at it and she likes my looks, so we get on well enough. And here I am, thank God.”

He looked around with the air of a man escaped from jail, before some memory, no doubt of Lowther, clouded him over.

“For the moment anyway. Burghley may convince her she wants me back at Court.”

Dodd grunted as they turned from the main trail, heading north, taking a wide sweep around the town, and passing the steady stream of folk going out from the city to work in their farms and market gardens.

They were almost back at the south gate when Carey said, “Longtown would be a little far to go now, no doubt.”

Here it comes, thought Dodd, bracing himself. “I could take you with some men.”

“I thought things were calmer in summer with the men up at the shielings.”

“Well they are, sir, but ’tisn’t seemly for the Warden’s Deputy to be out with no attendant but the Sergeant of the Guard.”

“Much going on near the Sark, at the moment? My lord Scrope said you were there yesterday.”

Was the man taunting him? “I came on Jock of the Peartree at the Esk ford…”

“I know. Any of them get shot in the back?”

In a way it was better to have it out in the open, at least he would know the worst. As often happened to Dodd his mind came up with three dozen things to say, all of which sounded inside him full of the ring of excuses and blame-passing, and in the end he said nothing save a stolid “No sir”.

Carey sighed. “All right, Sergeant,” he said, “I give in. Let’s call vada and I’ll see your prime. Tell me about my would-be bedfellow of last night.”

“I only put him there for lack of any other place…”

“Is there no undertaker in Carlisle?”

“Three,” said Dodd, “but they would know him and…”

“Who is he…was he?”

Dodd told him. It seemed Carey had heard something of Jock Graham’s reputation, for he was thoughtful.

“When’s the inquest?”

Dodd sighed at the reminder of things he hadn’t done yet. “I’ll try and fix it for tomorrow: there’s no question of the verdict.”

“Any hint of the murderer?”

Dodd shrugged. “Jock of the Peartree could likely tell you more about that. Who knows? Who cares?”

Carey gave him an odd look. “I think murder is still against the law, isn’t it?”

“Sweetmilk? He’s already had three bills fouled against him in his absence for murder in Scotland and he was just gone eighteen. Only the Jedburgh hangman will be sorry he’s dead.”

“And Jock of the Peartree, no doubt.”

“Oh the Grahams will be riding once they know who did it. We’ve no need to trouble ourselves about Sweetmilk’s killer once the inquest’s finished and Jock’s got the body.”

“Why didn’t you give him to Jock when you met yesterday?”

Dodd blinked. “Well sir, I wanted the fee and I didnae want to be facing a grieving Jock and fifteen Grahams with only six of my own behind me.”

“Fair enough, Sergeant. I want a look at the place where you found the body-can you show me this afternoon?”

“Ay sir, but…”

“Excellent.” Carey urged his hobby up the cobbles to the castle gate and Dodd had to raise a canter to catch up with him again.

“Sir…”

“Yes, Sergeant. Oh I shall want to inspect the men at two hours before midday.”

“Inspect the men?”

“Yes. You and your six patrolmen. And I’d be grateful if you could put your heads together and make a list for me of any defensible men within ten miles of Carlisle who dislike Lowther and might come out to support me in a fight.”

“But sir…”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Sir, where’s Sweetmilk’s body?”

“You’ll find him, Sergeant.”