1 A Famine of Horses Read online

  There were eight lancers, to be precise.

  Sir Robert was riding alongside him now.

  “Have Simon come up behind me,” he said in a low voice. “Where’s your gun?”

  Barnabus collected his scattered wits. “In the…er…in the case, sir.”

  “I told you to have it ready.”

  “Well, but…it’s raining, sir”

  “Is it loaded?”

  Barnabus was offended. “Of course.” He saw that Sir Robert already had his own dag out under his cloak, and was winding the lock with a little square key he carried on his belt. Suddenly Sir Robert’s insistence on expensive modern wheel-lock guns without powderpans made sense—who could keep a powderpan dry in this weather?

  “Sir,” ventured Barnabus, beginning to think, “if it’s footpads, I’ve my daggers.”

  Sir Robert nodded. “Good man,” he said. “Go to the rear with Robson. If there are eight on the hill, there’s another four behind us, somewhere. If they come up fast, kill them.”

  “What, all four, sir?”

  “As many as you can, Barnabus.”

  “Right sir.”

  Sir Robert turned his horse to go to the front, stopped.

  “Aim for the faces, they’ll be wearing padded jacks.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Heart thudding under his wrecked doublet, Barnabus slowed his horse until he was level with Simon, sent the boy up ahead and then nodded to the Berwick man who joined him.

  “Spot of bother coming then, eh?” he said brightly, hoping the rain would disguise the fact that he was sweating.

  The Berwick man frowned at him, shook his head. “Ah wouldna like tae ride for Carlisle at this distance.”

  “No,” said Barnabus with feeling, “Nor me.”

  “It’s aye the packs they’ll be after.”

  Barnabus made a face. The three pack ponies were trudging along under a remarkable quantity of clothes and gear, including, Barnabus was sure from the weight, a certain amount of weaponry.

  “Why didn’t Sir John send more men?” asked Barnabus, “Seeing it’s his brother.”

  There was a cold stare from the Berwick man.

  “He didnae have more men to send.”

  “Well,” said Barnabus desperately, “we’re still in England, ain’t we? They can’t be Scots, surely?”

  The Berwick man rolled his eyes and did not deign to answer.

  They rode along and the men with the lances paced with them. Sir Robert was casting increasingly anxious glances to the rear. At last, one of the broader of the strangers detached from the group and rode down through the scrub to stop beside a flowing pothole. Sir Robert held up his hand to stop his own procession and trotted forwards, smiling blithely. That was a thing the Court taught you, reflected Barnabus, drying his hands on his padded breeches and taking out one of his daggers covertly under his cloak. To paste a smile on your face and keep it there, no matter what.

  The two men talked while Barnabus tried to see in two directions at once. Was that a movement behind a rock there, in the rain? The sticky squelching was only the rearmost pony shifting his feet, and that…no, it was a rabbit.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sir Robert laugh, lean forward and…thank God, shake the man’s hand. Barnabus let his breath puff out once more, and resheathed his dagger with fingers that were trembling so much it took him three tries.

  Sir Robert waved them on towards him, while the broad northerner did the same with his men. Snorting protestingly the pack ponies let themselves be led forward to pick between the pools and ridges, while the strangers came down from their hillock. Four more materialised from the south, but walking not galloping.

  “My brother-in-law Lord Scrope,” said Sir Robert loudly, “has very kindly sent Mr Thomas Carleton, Captain of Bewcastle, to escort us the last few miles into Carlisle, the country being somewhat unsettled since the death of his father.”

  The Berwick men grunted and relaxed a little. Barnabus suddenly felt his gut congeal as he puzzled out the implications. Footpads were one thing, highwaymen were another thing, but a country where the Lord Warden of the West March had to send an escort for the area around his own city…What in God’s name was Carey doing here?

  “Welcome to Carlisle,” said the Captain of Bewcastle, looking like a beer barrel but sitting his horse as if he were born on it and ignoring the little rivers running down the curves of his helmet. “I see the weather’s kept nice for you.”

  Sunday, 18th June 1592, afternoon

  Bangtail Graham had gone into the gorse to help young Storey and after a while and a great deal more profanity, the two of them came struggling out with the dripping corpse between them. It was well stiff, but in a bent position, as if the lad had been frozen while making a bow for the first time in his life. Dodd gestured for them to lay it down on its side, and dismounted to take a closer look.

  He’d been shot from behind, that was clear enough. There was a gaping hole in the chest and white ribs visible in the mess of red, mixed with tatters of shirt, doublet and leather jack with the padding quilted in the Graham pattern. The crows had not had time to wreck his face completely: there was no mistaking the long jaw and sallow skin of a Graham. No doubt the eyes would have been grey.

  Red Sandy had ridden up behind Dodd to peer at the body.

  “Devil take it,” he said. “Is that…?”

  “Ay,” said Bangtail, wiping his hands on the seat of his horse, looking upset and disgusted, “it’s Sweetmilk Geordie.”

  “Oh Christ,” said somebody.

  “Jock of the Peartree’s youngest boy,” said Dodd heavily.

  Bangtail nodded. “He’ll not be happy.”

  Dodd blinked through the thinning rain at the grubby sky and wondered briefly what particular thing he had done was warranting this, in God’s ineffable judgment. Storey was openly worried, while the other men were gathering closer and looking over their shoulders as if they were expecting a feud to explode immediately like a siege bomb. Which it would, of course, but in due time. Dodd coughed and shook his head at Archie Give-it-Them who had his hand on his swordhilt.

  “Sim’s Will Croser, I want your horse.”

  Sim’s Will was the next youngest to Storey and slid from his mount resignedly, grabbing his steel bonnet from the pommel and putting it on. As if he had shouted an order, the others all put on their own helmets. Dodd thought about it and decided to stay with his squelching cap. Why deliberately look more martial than you were?

  Croser was taking his own cloak off, but Storey said, “His cloak’s in the gorse still.”

  Sim’s Will crashed into the gorse to fetch it, while Dodd walked all around the corpse and toed him. Dead and gone since yesterday, no doubt of it. The pale leather of the jack was stained black around the small hole in the back where the bullet went in.

  Croser had returned and was laying the cloth on the ground. Storey and Bangtail moved the corpse onto it and bundled it up, a makeshift shroud. Bangtail tried to cross Sweetmilk’s arms on what was left of his chest. The corpse was not co-operative so he made the Sign of the Cross on his own. Croser covered his horse’s eyes and led him forwards, while Story and Bangtail huffed and heaved to get Sweetmilk slung over the animal’s back before he knew what was happening. Sweetmilk fitted nicely, which helped. By the time the hobby’s small but sharp brain had taken note of the blood and the weight and it had begun to hop and kick, Croser had wrapped his stirrup leathers round Sweetmilk Graham’s wrists and ankles and after a couple of protesting whinnies, it quieted and stood looking offended at Croser.

  “Lead your horse, Sim’s Will,” said Dodd. “Archie and Bangtail to the front, Archie goes ahead a way, Bessie’s Andrew and myself with you, Red Sandy and Long George at the back. Anyone asks, it was a Bell we found.”

  They paced on towards the ford of the Esk at Longtown, hoping they would meet no Grahams.

  Longtown was quiet and the ford seemed clear of danger, though the wat
er was higher than usual. Archie Give-it-Them splashed across, scrambled up the bank, and cantered on down the path. Dodd waited a minute, then gestured for the rest of them to go on. Then just as they were in the middle of the ford, Archie came galloping back on the opposite bank, with five fingers raised, and then a thumb pointing down, meaning he’d seen ten men ahead, and as Dodd made to draw his sword, five more came out of the bushes on foot. Bugger, thought Dodd.

  “I’m the Sergeant of the Carlisle Guard,” he shouted. “We’re on Warden’s business.”

  Bangtail’s horse was already out on the bank, but Sim’s Will, Bessie’s Andrew and Dodd were still in mid-stream because Sim’s Will was having trouble leading his hobby through the high water. Bessie’s Andrew stared open-mouthed at the lances surrounding them, stock still. Dodd swung about and brought his crop down on the laden animal’s rump. It whinnied, pranced sideways and at last Croser hauled the snorting animal up the other bank. Dodd and Andrew Storey followed.

  “Surely they wouldna dare…” stuttered Bessie’s Andrew.

  Well, at least, Dodd thought, feeling his pulse in his temples and wishing he’d put his helmet on while he had the chance, if they were planning to dare, they would have done it while we were still sloshing about in the Esk.

  A long-faced, grey-eyed, grey-haired ruffian in a patched and mended jack and a dull blued steel helmet trotted forward, his two younger sons behind him. The third they had across Croser’s hobby, of course. Surely nothing he’d done recently deserved this much trouble, Dodd though protestingly. Just in time he saw that the idiot lad Storey was reaching for his sword, and he spurred his horse up behind and cuffed the boy out of the saddle.

  “If you want a fight, you can fight them alone,” he said.

  Jock of the Peartree smiled. He had four teeth missing and one chipped and a nose that had been broken at least three times. Storey picked himself up out of the mud resentfully.

  “Now then, Jock Graham,” said Dodd civilly.

  “Is that one of mine ye have there, Sergeant Dodd?

  Dodd did not look at the corpse. “It’s one of the Bells, I think,” he said. “We’re taking him to Carlisle…”

  “I’ll have him.”

  Dodd sucked his teeth and thought. He liked silence, and the little jinks of harness and the creaking noise made by men in leather jacks leaning forward with their spears only confirmed the blessedness of it. Behind them the Esk was purling its way to the marshes about Rockcliffe castle and thence to the sea. There were hardly any men in the fields with the wet, most of them at the summerings anyway, a few women peering out of their huts further down the road. Jock folded his arms and narrowed his eyes impatiently. Dodd could see no reason for hurry, the man was dead after all.

  “Well Jock,” he said at last, “I’d need to ask the Warden’s permission…”

  “Now.”

  Dodd sighed, his gloomy face lengthening with weariness.

  “What makes you so interested in a Bell?”

  “I’m nae interested in any dead Bell, nor you neither Sergeant, and ye know it. I think he’s a Graham,” said Jock. “That’s good enough for me. I’ve five men out…”

  “On a raid?”

  “They were in Carlisle to buy horses.”

  “Ah,” said Dodd agreeably, “I see. Well, Jock, as you know, I’d like to oblige you, but I canna. If you had found him, that would be one thing. But we found him and that makes him Warden business for the moment.”

  “If ye drop him accidental off the horse, and I come upon him, then I’ve found him, eh?” suggested Jock.

  Dodd looked at his men. “If it was myself and none other, then I’d oblige you, Jock.” He glared at Bangtail who seemed dangerously close to opening his mouth. If Jock of the Peartree knew for sure that his favourite son was dead, there was no telling what he might do…God help the man that killed Sweetmilk, Dodd thought, for nobody else will dare.

  He leaned on the crupper again, calculating ways and means. They were about five miles from Carlisle which was over-far for a race as far as he was concerned, if he could avoid it, and nobody in their right senses wanted to mix it with the Graham surname. Storey might, but then Storey had family reasons.

  Jock of the Peartree was speaking. “What use d’ye have for a corpse in Carlisle?” he demanded. “There’s a man that’ll foul no more bills and it’s late to think of stretching a rope wi’ him.”

  “It’s the law, Jock,” Sergeant Dodd explained, all sweet reason, with a trickle of either rain or sweat itching his back under his shirt. On the other hand they were at least talking, and it was probable even the Grahams might think twice about killing the Sergeant of the Carlisle Guard and his men. Possible at any rate. “The law says there should be an inquest for him and an inquest there will be. If he’s yours, ye can have him to bury in two days.”

  As if that closed the conversation, Dodd clucked at his horse, waved the men on, and rode slowly past the Grahams. Collectively holding their breath and praying that the Grahams were not in a mood for a fight, the patrolmen followed after, with Croser’s mare pecking irritably at the leading rein as she bore her cloak-wrapped burden. The prickling down Dodd’s spine continued until he heard Jock of the Peartree shout,

  “Two days, Henry Dodd, or I’ll burn your wife from your land.”

  Red Sandy winced, but Dodd merely looked back once and then continued. Bangtail Graham, who was Jock’s nephew by marriage, had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “It’s his way of talking, sir…”

  Dodd’s face cracked open a little.

  “God help your uncle if he goes up against my wife and her kin, Bangtail,” he said, before slouching deep into the saddle and seeming to fall asleep.

  Sunday, 18th June 1592, evening

  They reached Carlisle as the rain slackened off a little and the day slumped towards evening. The cobbles were slippery and treacherous and none of the townsfolk were impressed by Dodd or his men, making way with very ill grace.

  “What will we do with him?” asked Red Sandy as they passed through the gate by the uneven towers of the Citadel. “We canna take him to Fenwick or any other undertaker, Jock will hear ye lied to him by morning.”

  Most of the shopkeepers on English street were too busy shutting up their shops to pay much attention to them.

  “I never lied to him.” said Dodd, “I said I thought it was a Bell. I canna help it if I made a mistake.”

  Red Sandy grinned and waited.

  “We’ll take him to the castle and find a storeroom to put him in until the inquest.”

  Once past the Captain’s Tower into Carlisle keep, they found the courtyard and its rabble of huts full of disorderly folk. Lowther was back from an inspection of the Bewcastle waste, and the castle guard was being changed. Carleton and his men were in town as well. Dodd and his men threaded quietly through the confusion to the Queen Mary Tower, where he, Bessie’s Andrew and Red Sandy hauled Sweetmilk awkwardly up the stairs and into one of the empty chambers that unexpectedly had tallow dips lit around the walls. They rolled the corpse onto the bed and covered it up with the counterpane.

  “He’ll ruin the bedcover…” muttered Bessie’s Andrew, whose mother gave him a hard life.

  “Aw shut your worriting, Andrew,” said Red Sandy. “Any fool knows a corpse that cold doesna bleed and, besides, that counterpane’s older than you are, or it should be, the state it’s in.”

  When they clattered down the stairs and out under the rusted portcullis, they found Bangtail and Long George waiting for them in great excitement.

  “Ten new horses in the stables?” Not even Dodd could hide his blazing curiosity which he showed by rubbing his cheek with his knuckles. They hurried to the stables by the New Barracks to look at the beasts.

  Four of them were easy enough, being long-coated hobbies with Berwick garrison brands on them; the other six were puzzles, no doubt about it, great tall animals that stood with their heads hanging down in weariness as th
ey munched at their fodder and steam still coming off them, though they had been unsaddled and rubbed down already. One in particular was a large-boned handsome warhorse that looked almost a different kind of animal from the ugly little hobbies he was sharing stables with. Nobody in the entire West March owned a horse like that. Nor did anyone recognise the brands but there were no strange grooms about to question and so they all went back to the barracks in search of vittles.

  As expected, Lowther’s men had made free with their rations and the ale had succumbed to the usual vinegar fly, so they went back through the Captain’s Gate to the outer ward where Bessie Storey had her strictly illegal but long-tolerated alehouse hard by the crosswall.

  An hour later, Dodd’s belly was gratefully full of Bessie’s incomparable stew and ale, and he was already hoarse with argument over the likely stamina of the six new horses and how a cross with one of his hobbies might turn out.

  “See, you’d get the southern speed and a bit of extra bone…” Red Sandy was explaining when he noticed Dodd had gone silent and was trying to become invisible in the back of the booth. Red Sandy looked at the door and saw a boy in Scrope’s livery craning his neck.

  “Sergeant Dodd, Sergeant Dodd…” called the boy.

  “He’s here,” said Bessie’s Andrew, waving, no doubt getting his revenge for the gorse bush.

  The boy came barging over through the press, neat work with his elbows.

  “Sergeant Dodd,” he squeaked, stopped and managed to drop his voice. “The Warden wants you, he wants you in the Keep, sir.”

  “Now?” asked Dodd, wondering why he had paid good cash to be Sergeant of the Warden’s Guard and whether he could find some fool to sell the office to and recover his money.

  “He wants you to meet his new Deputy.”

  “I already know Richard Lowther.”

  “No sir.” The boy’s face was alight with pleasure at knowing something Dodd didn’t. The conversations round about them suddenly sputtered and died. “It’s not him.”

  “What?” demanded Dodd, who had been straining himself to be pleasant to Lowther in anticipation of his confirmation in the Deputyship.