A Famine of Horses (33 page)

Dodd let them go, he was looking all about him. “Can ye see the Deputy?” he yelled, “Check the trees, where is he? Where’s Bothwell?”

“DODD!” came a happy roar that was unmistakably Carey’s voice—at least he could still shout. Where the devil was it coming from?

“DODD, I’M UP HERE ON THE ROOF.”

By God, so he was. Dodd squinted, shaded his eyes from the sun and saw a smutty wild figure waving his arms from the top of Netherby tower where the smoke was billowing in great black clouds. Some Graham down in the barnekin shot at him with a caliver at a hopeless range and he ducked down. In a moment he was up again.

“DODD, I’VE GOT JOCK OF THE PEARTREE AS MY HOSTAGE. TRY AND…” Somebody else tried with an arquebus, and the stone splintered two feet from Carey’s hand. “…Ah, go to hell you idiots, you’ll never hit me at that range…TRY AND NEGOTIATE, DODD, BOTHWELL’S INSIDE THE TOWER…”

Dodd sat back in the saddle and grinned.

“Och,” he said to Will the Tod who was beside him, “they’ve got him treed.”

“That him?” asked Will the Tod curiously. “Are ye sure?”

“Ay,” said Dodd, “he doesnae normally look like that, he’s generally a very smart man, almost a dandy. But ay, that’s him, and he’s given ‘em a run for their money, if I’m any judge.”

“Wattie Graham must be ay annoyed at having to burn his own tower.”

“And he’s got Jock of the Peartree.”

Will the Tod’s face was split in the broadest of grins. “Ay, it’s a grand thought, Jock made a hostage by the Deputy Warden of Carlisle. That’s worth the bother by itself. He’s his father’s son, true enough.”

“I thought ye didn’t take to Lord Hunsdon.”

“Oh, I wouldna say that, he never burned me and he did burn a few of my enemies when I pointed them out to him. I’ve got nothing against the Careys, me.”

“Good,” said Dodd, “but now we have to get the Deputy down from the tower.”

“It’s a tickle situation, Henry. What’s your plan?”

“Talk to Bothwell.”

“And if Bothwell willna talk?”

Dodd shrugged. “Avenge Carey and give him a decent burial.”

“It’d be a pity.”

“Ay.”

“So now. I’m the English Armstrong headman, Henry, so I think it’s fitting if I do the talking.”

Dodd opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it. He nodded. Will the Tod looked pleased with himself.

“Hey, BOTHWELL!” he roared. “Show your face, I want to talk to ye.”

Friday, 23rd June, afternoon

More quickly than seemed possible the smoke had got thicker and thicker until the top of the tower was crowned with a black hood of smoke, a little flurried by the breeze. The day was too still to blow it away, the first truly summer weather for weeks, Carey thought bitterly, when what he needed was a good solid downpour.

Jock coughed hackingly. “When will ye surrender?” he asked. Carey had hustled him back to the beacon post and tied him to it again. Hammering came from below—they must have brought in lances or long poles. Carey backed away from the trapdoor, behind the angle of the roof and his barricade of firewood. He counted out his arrows—he had five left—and laid them in a row in front of him, set his bow before him and waited. Counting the knives still in their scabbards on his wrist and at the back of his neck, he had seven shots at whoever poked his head through the trapdoor, before it was hand to hand.

“Why should I surrender if Bothwell won’t ransom me?”

“Och, I’ll protect ye, lad. Ye’ve talked me round wi’ that smooth courtier’s tongue of yours, I’ll not let Bothwell harm ye, nor Wattie. Ye’ve my word on it.”

“Well,” said Carey, tempted against his will. A drift of smoke caught him and he coughed.

“Ye’ll get us both killed. Ah can save ye, if ye let me lift up the trapdoor and talk to Bothwell. Ye can keep an arrow pointed at my back if ye like. There’s no need to die.”

That was when Carey and Jock both heard the sound of horns, of hoofbeats, shouting, fighting, the creak and double thud of the barnekin gate. Carey ran to the eastern parapet, peered over, batting furiously at the smoke, and there was Sergeant Dodd, filthy, armed and triumphant, with something like eighty men about him. Carey shouted, waved his arms, shouted again. He’d never have thought he could be so delighted to see that miserable sullen bastard of a Sergeant.

Jock of the Peartree brought him back to reality.

“So the garrison’s out,” he said dourly. “It makes nae odds to ye, ye bloody fool. Bothwell’s still going to have ye either by breaking in the trapdoor or he’ll wait until the smoke kills ye. Me, I’d wait.”

Carey was coughing again: the smoke reeked and was making his eyes stream. He fanned the air uselessly.

“Us, Jock, you too. Still,” he said between hacks, “we can negotiate a bit better because if he kills me, he’ll have to fight Dodd and I don’t think he wants to with his big raid due tomorrow. So why don’t you try talking to him again, Jock?”

“Nay, I tried my best, it’s a waste of breath now. Let Dodd and that fat Armstrong father-in-law of his do all the hard work.”

The smoke was gouting out of the holes in the roof now, and from round the trapdoor as the fire got a good grip down below on whatever filth they’d put into it. For all the shouting outside, Bothwell seemingly would not be drawn from what he was at.

Jock was choking hard now, wheezing and gasping for breath. Carey watched him, beset with indecision, knowing perfectly well that Jock would rather choke to death than beg to be let up again.

“Oh the hell with it,” he said, “Jock, will you swear not to play me false if I let you free?”

“Ay,” wheezed Jock, “I swear.”

Carey hesitated a moment longer, then went to him, cut the ropes that bound him and undid the belt still holding Jock’s arms behind him. Jock whined a little with the pain of returning circulation, brought his arms round very slowly and flexed them. He turned to Carey.

“That was kindly of ye, Courtier,” said Jock grudgingly. “Ah wouldnae have done that for ye in this situation.”

“No,” coughed Carey, “I’m too soft, that’s my problem. Get on the other side of the roof until it’s over.”

“Ay,” Jock muttered, moving away, “y’are soft an’ all.”

There was a heavy thump on the trapdoor. Carey watched through tears and coughing. They must have lit a fire right under it, they weren’t about to waste gunpowder when fire would work as well even if it was slower. Once the wood was burned through, the weight of the flagstones would…

Something hit him like a mallet in the stomach. It was a block of stone off the roof, shrewdly thrown by Jock, and it took every wisp of air out of him. He tottered, tried to keep his feet, tried to draw his dagger, but Jock moved in, caught him briskly, steadied him, and kneed him hard in the balls.

He landed bruisingly on the hot parapet, agony flaring white in his eyes and no breath even to mew with pain; he tried but failed to puke. Locked in a private battle with what felt like a black spear in his groin, lancing up to his chest, he dimly heard Jock pushing his feeble barricade of firewood aside. There was a scraping sound as Jock pulled the flagstones off the trapdoor, and cursing because the metal and wood were hot, shot the bolts.

Carey was beginning to be able to uncurl when Jock kicked him in the head, grabbed the back of his doublet and some hair and dragged him over the stones, behind the angle of the roof.

“Bothwell,” shouted Jock, busily tying Carey’s wrists behind him with the ropes that had just been cut off his own arms, “I’ve got him. D’ye hear me? The trapdoor’s open, ye can come up.”

“It could be a trick,” came Bothwell’s voice, “Carey, what are you up to?”

“He’s surrendering unconditionally,” said Jock. “In fact, I dinna think he can talk at the moment, he seems verra preoccupied.”

“What happened?”

“Och, he’s a courtier, wi’ notions of honour and such, he only went and untied me arms.”

There was a lot of unkind laughter down below. Carey would have felt betrayed, but as Jock was giving him a scientific kicking while he spoke, he found he couldn’t think of anything except how to roll up tighter. There were sounds of hissing as water was poured over the fire, cautious scraping sounds of a ladder being brought.

Jock took a fistful of Carey’s hair and hauled his head back. “This is for the good of your soul, Courtier. Ah’m teaching ye not to beat up your elders…”

Carey blinked away the water springing out of his eyes and, out of pure stupid temper, spat in Jock’s face.

“Och, Courtier, Courtier…” said Jock regretfully, “ye’re a hard man to teach.” He banged Carey’s face a couple of times on the stone and the ugly world and Jock’s ugly face went black.

Carey came to, still cross-eyed and dizzy, and tried to puke again. Jock had sauntered over to the parapet. He was peering out at the barnekin and horse paddock between fading drifts of smoke, still coughing. Carey must have made some sort of moaning noise, because Jock turned to him.

“Och, ye canna complain, ye’ve had nae worse than ye did to me.”

Privately Carey thought he’d had a great deal worse than Jock, but he couldn’t see any point in arguing and it was too much effort anyway.

“Thought so,” said Jock with satisfaction still gazing outwards at something he could see over the parapet, “Thank God Sergeant Dodd knows what he’s at.”

One of Carey’s eyes was swelling shut and he could do no more than dully wonder through his multifarious pains why Jock had picked up the bow and the remaining arrows and had nocked one on the string. He was still where Jock had hauled him, out of sight of the trapdoor, uncomfortably half-curled, half-sprawled on the roofstones, his head jammed against the parapet wall and his knees pulled up. His hands had already gone numb. A tentative movement of his shoulders to try and free his head got him kicked again, so he stayed where he was. Then the trapdoor moved, shifted, was hefted out of the way.

The head and shoulders that appeared through the hole were Bothwell’s, and he was holding a dag with the match ready lit. He and Jock looked at each other for a moment.

“Now,” said Jock, “ye’re going to talk to Sergeant Dodd, my lord Earl, and in exchange for the men he caught and all our horses which he’s rounded up and has started on their way back south and for him agreeing to take himself and his men off again, we’ll give him his precious Deputy Warden. Onless ye want to give up on yer raid altogether, because if ye dinna agree then I’m out of it and so are all my kin.”

“Why Jock? What do you care about one of Hunsdon’s boys? Has he got a knife at your back?”

Jock laughed. “Ye know me better than that, Bothwell. Nay, he’s down here on the floor by my feet, feeling right sorry for himself.” Carey had tried to wriggle out of range while Jock was busy, so Jock gave him another kick in the back, but the arrow pointed at Bothwell’s heart remained rock-steady. Bothwell blinked through the final wisps of smoke, finally spotted Carey, who had decided to play dead for the moment despite the heat of the stones, and laughed heartily.

“Untie him and let me shoot his right hand off, so he never troubles us again.”

Jock hesitated. “I’d let ye, my lord,” he said, “but he didna kill me when he had the chance and I said I wouldna let you harm him.”

“Ye’ve harmed him yerself, it looks like.”

“That’s different.”

“He wanted to use you as a hostage.”

“Nay, I’m no’ a good hostage and he knows it. He is, though,” grinned Jock. “Are ye fixed on fighting Sergeant Dodd and his men, Bothwell, or would ye rather save the powder for our raid?”

“What did you tell him about it?”

“Jesus, my lord, what do ye take me for, I told him nothing of it,” said Jock sincerely. “We’ve been talking of family matters. It’s been verra interesting, eh Courtier?” Jock kicked Carey in the ribs again and smiled blithely at Bothwell.

Friday, 23rd June, afternoon

At last Bothwell climbed up to the fighting platform behind the sharpened logs of the Netherby barnekin and shouted for Sergeant Dodd. Dodd had glimpsed activity at the top of the tower and was wondering irritably if Carey had managed to get himself killed at the last minute.

“I’m the headman…” began Will the Tod.

“Shh,” said Dodd, “he thinks I’ve brought the Carlisle garrison too.”

“But ye havna. Lowther…”

“Let him think it. Ay my lord,” yelled Dodd, “what d’ye want?”

“We’ve got your Deputy Warden prisoner, Sergeant,” said Bothwell.

“Is he still alive?”

Bothwell grinned. “Ay. He’s not very happy, but he’s still alive. Tell me why I shouldnae cut his throat and be done with it.”

“Prove he’s alive first,” said Dodd, his voice hard with suspicion, “I’ve nae interest in his corpse.”

Bothwell nodded, leaned down and gave some orders. Two men appeared behind the pointed logs: Dodd recognised a battered Jock of the Peartree with his knife at the neck of an even more battered Robert Carey.

Dodd relaxed a little. Why on earth hadn’t they killed him when they caught him? Ah well, who could fathom the way the mad Earl’s mind worked.