A Famine of Horses (7 page)

“Who’s the armoury clerk?”

“Jemmy Atkinson.”

“Is he here?”

Dodd laughed shortly and Carey looked grim. “As soon as you’ve finished, I want to roust out the armoury and see what sins we can find there.”

Dodd’s mouth fell open. Sins? Sodom and Gomorrah came to mind, if he was talking about peculation in the armoury. “We’ll not have finished with your orders until this evening, sir,” he protested feebly.

“I want to see if your longbows are as mildewed as the rest of your weapons, assuming you have any longbows. The rest can wait.”

“But sir…”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“It’s locked.”

“So it is, Sergeant.”

The Lord Warden was there when they went to the armoury in a group, a little before dinnertime, walking up and down, winding his hands together and blinking worriedly at the Captain’s Gate.

“Do you really think this is necessary…?” he began as Carey strode over with a crowbar under his arm, followed by his little London servant who was struggling with an odd-looking wooden frame.

“Yes my lord,” said Carey briskly, inserting the crowbar in the lock.

“But Sir Richard…”

There was a cracking ugly noise as the lock broke and the door creaked open. Everyone peered inside.

Carey was the first to move. He went straight to the racks of calivers and arquebuses. Those near the door were rusted solid. Those further from the door…Dodd winced as Carey pulled one down and threw it out into the bright sunlight.

Bangtail whistled.

“Well, Atkinson’s found a good woodcarver, that’s sure,” he said.

More dummy weapons crashed onto the straw-covered cobbles, until there was a pile of them. They were beautifully made, carefully coloured with salts of iron and galls to look like metal. Occasionally Carey would grunt as he found another real weapon and put it on the rack nearest the door. Then he went to the gunpowder kegs and opened them, filled a pouch from each, and brought out the least filthy arquebus.

“Please note, gentlemen,” he said taking a satchel from his perspiring servant, “this is the right way to clean an arquebus so it may be fired.”

By the time he had done scraping and brushing and oiling, there was an audience gathered round of most of the men of the garrison. Behind him the Carlisle locksmith was working to replace the lock he had broken.

Carey made neat little piles of gunpowder on the ground and called for slowmatch. The boy he had brought with him came running up with a lighted coil. He blew on it and put it to the first pile, which burned sullenly.

“Sawdust,” said Carey.

In silence he went down the row of little mounds with his slowmatch. Lord Scrope had his hand over his mouth and was staring like a man at a nest of vipers in his bed. The last pile of gunpowder sputtered and popped grudgingly.

“Hm. Sloppy,” said Carey sarcastically, “they must have missed this barrel.”

He loaded the arquebus with a half-charge, tamped down a paper wad and used his own fine-grain powder to put in the pan. He then fastened the arquebus carefully on the frame his servant had brought, aimed at the sky, and stepped back.

“Why…?” began Scrope.

“In Berwick my brother had two men with their hands and faces blown to rags after their guns exploded,” said Carey. The audience immediately moved out of range.

He leaned over to put the fire to the pan, jumped away. The good powder in the pan fizzed and the arquebus fired after a fashion. It did not exactly explode; only the barrel cracked. There was a sigh from the audience.

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.

Carey folded his arms and waited as Lowther shouldered his way through, red-faced.

“How dare you, sir, how dare you interfere with my…”

His voice died away as he saw the pile of dummy weapons and the still feebly smouldering mounds of black powder.

“
Your
armoury?” enquired Carey politely.

Lowther looked from him to the Lord Warden who was glaring back at him.

“There is not one single defensible weapon in the place.” said Lord Scrope reproachfully, “Not one.’

“Who gave him authority to…”

“I did,” said Scrope. “He wanted to check on his men’s longbows as part of the preparations for my father’s funeral.”

“I see no longbows.”

“That’s because there are none,” put in Carey. “There’s some rotten firewood at the back, but the rest have been sold, no doubt.”

Lowther looked about him. Most of the men in the crowd were grinning; Dodd himself was hard put to it to stay stony-faced and the women at the back were whispering and giggling.

“Where’s Mr Atkinson?” he asked at last.

“I’ve no idea,” said Carey, “I was hoping you could enlighten us.”

Lowther said nothing and Carey turned away to speak to the locksmith.

“Finished?”

“Ay sir,” said the Locksmith with pride, “I did it just like yer honour said.”

Ceremoniously Carey paid him, shut the door to the armoury and locked it, put the key on his belt and gave the other to Scrope.

“Where’s mine?” demanded Lowther.

The Carey eyebrows would have driven Dodd wild if he’d been Lowther, they were so expressive.

“The Deputy Warden keeps the key to the armoury,” he said blandly, “along with the Warden. Though it hardly seems necessary to lock the place, seeing as there’s nothing left to steal.”

Lowther turned on his heel and marched away. Most of the crowd heard the rumbling in their bellies and followed. Bangtail Graham and Red Sandy were talking together and Dodd joined them as Carey came towards him.

“How far is it to where you found the body?” Carey asked.

Dodd thought for a moment. “About six miles to the Esk and then another two, maybe.”

“That’s Solway field, isn’t it, where the battle was?”

“You come on old skulls and helmets now and then,” Dodd allowed. “It’s aye rough ground.”

“We’ll go tomorrow then, when we’re more respectable, after the inquest.”

“Ay sir.”

“And now, while we’re at the whited sepulchres, shall we have a look at the stables and the barracks?”

God, did the man never stop? Dodd’s belly was growling heroically.

“Ay sir,” he said sullenly.

Carey smiled. “After dinner.”

At least the stables were clean, which was a mercy because Carey poked about in a way that Lowther never had, digging deep into feed bins, lifting hooves for signs of footrot, tutting at the miserable stocks of hay and oats which was all they had left and agreeing that the harness was old but in reasonably good condition.

The barracks Carey pronounced as no worse than many he had seen and better than some. Even so, he had two of Scrope’s women servants come in with brooms to sweep the ancient rushes from Dodd’s section out into the courtyard so the jacks could be sponged and dried and oiled.

When Dodd asked him why on earth he cared about the huswifery of the barracks he told a long story about the Netherlands, how the Dutch seldom got the plague and that he was convinced it was because they kept foul airs out of their houses by cleaning them. Dodd had never heard such a ridiculous story, since everyone knew that plague was the sword of God’s wrath, but he decided he could humour a man who would face down Richard Lowther so entertainingly.

The wind helped them to dry off the cleaned jacks and weaponry, and they worked on through the long evening and by torchlight after sunset, while Carey wandered by occasionally, making helpful suggestions and supplying harness oil. He also went down to Carlisle town and bought six longbows and quivers of arrows with his own money, which he announced he would see tried the next day.

At last, dog-tired, with sore hands, worrying over the Graham corpse which had not yet turned up, and beginning to hate Carey, Dodd went to his bed in the tiny chamber that was one of his perks as Sergeant. He would have to be up out of it again in about five hours, he knew.

When he pulled back the curtain, he stopped. A less dour man would have howled at the waxy face with the star-shaped peck in the right cheek that glared up at him from his pillow, but Dodd had no more indignation left in him. He was simply glad to have found the damned thing, rolled it off onto the floor and was asleep three minutes later. At least the bastard Courtier had wrapped it in its cloak again.

Monday, 19th June, evening

Barnabus Cooke had seen his master in action in a new command before and so knew what to expect. By dint of making up to Goodwife Biltock, the only other southerner in the place, he had found an ancient desk in one of the storerooms, and acquired it. After cleaning and polishing and eviction of mice it went into Carey’s second chamber in the Queen Mary Tower, followed by a high stool and a rickety little table. Richard Bell, Scrope’s nervous elderly clerk, was astonished when he was asked for paper, pens and ink and had none to spare. In the end they made an expedition to the one stationer in town, where they bought paper and ink and some uncut goose feathers on credit.

By evening the pens had been cured in sandbaths and cut by Bell the way Carey liked them, the floor of his bedroom had been swept again and was newly strewn with fresh rushes. They had decided to sell the mildewed bedcurtains and stained counterpane. Goodwife Biltock brought wormwood and rue to try and clear the place of fleas, but she said there was nothing really to be done about them, other than burning the place out and putting new woodwork in. She brought a large quilt and some of Scrope’s hangings to replace the old curtains and announced that Lady Scrope had begun work on a completely new set for her brother. Next on Barnabus’s mental list was a fresh palliasse for him and Simon and an uncracked jordan to go under the bed, but that could wait.

Barnabus had lit the rushlights and the fire and was just unpacking the second chest they had brought when Carey walked in and stopped. His face lit up.

“Barnabus, this is splendid. Thank God I can trust at least one of my men.”

Barnabus snorted and elaborately examined a shoulder seam that seemed on the point of parting. Carey got the message.

“How can I thank you?” he asked warily.

“You can pay me my back wages, sir.”

“God’s blood, Barnabus, you know what…”

“I know the third chest is heavy, sir,” said Barnabus. “And I know you had an argument with my Lord Hunsdon before you left London.”

“Aren’t you afraid your savings might be stolen in this nest of thieves?”

“If I had any, I might be, sir. But there’s a goldsmith in the town will give me a good rate on it and I know what you plan for tomorrow so if I might make so bold and strike while the iron’s hot, as it were, I’d rather have what I’m owed now than wait another year…”

Carey winced. “I still owe the tailors…”

“…far more money than you can pay, sir,” said Barnabus, putting down the cramoisie doublet and picking up the new black velvet one. “However they’re in London and…”

“…and you’re here and can make my life miserable.”

“Yes sir,” said Barnabus blandly. “That’s about the size of it.”

Carey made a face, took his sword off, leaned it against the wall and went to the third chest. He opened it, scattered shirts and hose until it was empty, and then released the false bottom. Barnabus stared at the money with the blood draining from his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-eight pounds, ten shillings and fourpence, including the money I lent you last month,” Barnabus answered mechanically, still hypnotised by the gold and silver in front of him.

Carey counted the cash out, and handed it over.

“Wh…where did you get it all from, sir?”

“I robbed a goldsmith on Cheapside.”

Although he was fully capable of it, if necessary, Barnabus didn’t find this funny. “Lord Hunsdon…”

“My father gave me some but the Queen gave me the rest and if I lose it, she’ll put me in the Tower. It’s a loan, anyway,” said Carey sadly, ‘and it took an hour of flattery to stop her charging me interest. So for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut, Barnabus. If somebody robs me before I can use it and I go into the Tower, you’re going into Little Ease and staying there.”

“Never, sir,” said Barnabus, recovering a bit now Carey had put the false bottom back in the chest. “I’d be in Scotland, you know that.”

Carey said “Ha!”, went back to the desk and sat down. “They’d rob you blind and send you back naked, that’s what I know. Now then, my lord Scrope will be here in a little while when he’s had supper with some of the arrangements for the old Lord’s funeral which he wants me to organise. Any chance of a bite…”

As luck would have it, Simon came in at that moment with part of a raised pie, mutton collops, good bread from Scrope’s kitchen and some cheese Lady Scrope herself had made, according to Goodwife Biltock, and some raspberry fool.

Scrope arrived just as Carey was finishing, which was unfortunate because he polished off the fool that Barnabus had had his eye on, leaving him and Simon with the choice of what was left of the pie and bread or a trip into the Keep’s hall for whatever Scrope’s servants were eating. Scrope sent Simon out for wine, so Barnabus told him to eat in the hall and himself quietly finished what was left of his master’s meal. Then he went into the corner where he kept his own chest, found an old shirt and began tying up each coin separately into a band to put round his waist until he could get to the goldsmith’s the next day. Proximity to so much money was making him as nervous as a cat at a witchburning.