A Famine of Horses (5 page)

“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.

Sunday, 18th June, night

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.

“Every time I see you,” Goodwife Biltock snuffled, scrubbing at her eyes, “every time, silly old cow…”

Carey was pouring her wine from the flagon on the plate chest, since women’s tears had always had him come out in a sweat. He brought it to her and squatted down beside her.

“So it’s true Scrope offered you the deputyship,” she said at last. “I never thought…”

“…I could drag myself away from London?” Carey made a wry face. “Nothing easier when I could feast my eyes on you Goodwife…”

“Pfff, get away, Robin, your tongue’s been worn too smooth at Court. Well you’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake and I see you can find a clean hankerchief now which is more than I could say for you once. Will you stay do you think?”

Carey coughed. “I don’t know, Goodwife, it depends.”

“You take care for that Lowther fellow…”

“Nurse…” warned Philadelphia.

“I speak as I find, I’m sure. Where are you lying, Robin, is it warm and dry?”

“Nowhere better in the castle, it’s in the Queen Mary Tower.”

“Hah, warm and dry, I doubt. They use the place as a store room…”

“Do they?” said Carey, straightfaced.

“Oh they do, flour mostly, and I’ll be struck dumb with amazement if the lummocks even thought to air the place, let alone light a fire, I’ll go and…”

“No need, Nurse,” said Carey, “I’ve a man in there already, and my own body servant will be seeing after making it comfortable, you’re not to trouble yourself.”

“Well, have you eaten?”

“I had a bit with the men in the…”

“Oh in the Lord’s name, old bread and last year’s cheese, and the beer brewed by idiots, I’ll go and fetch something out of my lord’s kitchen, you stay there, Robin, and dry your hose…”

“Would you have it sent up to my chamber, Nurse. I’ll be going to bed soon.”

Goodwife Biltock opened her mouth to argue, then smiled. “There’ll be enough for your servants too,” she said. “Be sure you eat your share, I know you. Good night, Robin.” She reached over and ruffled his hair, heaved herself up and bustled out, rump swinging beneath a let out gown of Philadelphia’s. She looked very fine in green velvet, though worn and of an old style. But then the Goodwife had always liked to look well, even when she was nursing Carey babies.

“Didn’t you tell her?” Carey asked as he took her place on the stool.

“No one was sure you were coming until your messenger arrived this morning while we were all in church. I made Scrope send Carleton out. And I didn’t want to disappoint her in case the Queen called you back before you got here.”

Philadelphia brought up the other stool and settled down facing him.

“Be very careful of Lowther, Robin, he’s the reason…”

“…why I’m here. So I gathered.”

“I wish you had fought him, right there and then,” whispered Philadelphia, screwing up her fists on her apron and causing it to crumple.

“Philly…” Carey saw she meant it and changed what he had to say. “It might have been a little messy. Have you ever seen a real sword fight?”

“No, but I’ve nursed enough sword cuts. I’d nurse Lowther too, I would, nurse him good and proper.”

Carey looked away from her vehemence. “What was it you couldn’t tell me in your letter?”

“Only that he has this March closed up tight in his fist. He has most of the lucrative offices and he takes the tenths of recovered cattle, not the Warden.”

Carey’s lips moved in a soundless whistle.

“What’s left? Just the thirds from fines.”

“What there are of them, we’ve had no justice out of Liddesdale for fourteen years. Sir John Carmichael…”

“He’s still the Scots West March Warden?”

“For the moment, but the rumours are he wants to resign.”

“Wise man.”

“He’s well enough, he’s an honest decent gentleman, too good for this country. Did you ever meet him?”

“I think I did. Last time I was at King James’s Court he was there, I remember.”

“He does his best, but the Maxwells and the Johnstones ignore him and the Armstrongs and Grahams…”

“Who will bind the wind?”

“Exactly. Old Lord Scrope held it together because towards the end he simply did what Lowther told him and let the rest go hang and Lowther kept the peace as far as it suited him.”

“Not far?”

“Well, it’s remarkable how often people who offend him get raided and their houses burned.”

“Who by?”

“Grahams or Elliots mostly, but Nixons and Crosers too.”

Carey rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. “This is no restful sinecure I think,” he said.

“Did you think it would be?”

Carey laughed. “Christ, no, or I’d never have come.”

“Don’t swear, Robin, you’re getting worse than father.”

“He warned me that things were rotten here, but he didn’t know the details.”

“How would he, staying warm in London with the Queen and messing about with players.”

“Why Philly, you sound bitter.”

She put her face in her hands.

“John does his best in the East March but…”

“He makes an ass of himself from time to time and the Berwick townsmen can’t stand him, I know.”

“We need father to run a good strong Warden’s Raid,” said his sister ferociously, “burn all their towers down for them. Then they’d behave.”

Carey put his arm round her shoulders and held her tight.

“You don’t need father, you’ve got me, Philly my dear,” he said. “Don’t worry.”