Read Online A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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The talk of the funeral took twice as long as it needed to because Scrope would not keep to the point. Carey dealt with him patiently, sitting at his desk, writing lists and making notes like a clerk, until the question of horses came up.
“What do you mean, my lord, there are no horses? You mean, no black horses?”
Scrope was up off the chair that Biltock claimed Queen Mary had sat on and was pacing up and down the room, the flapping false sleeves on his gown guttering the rushlights.
“I mean, no horses, black, white or piebald. We’ve what there are in stables but the garrison will need them to form an honour guard, but apart from the six you brought, the horse merchants say they’ve never known mounts to be so hard to find and the price in Scotland is astonishing, sixty or seventy shillings for a poor scrawny nag, I heard, and whether it’s Bothwell being in Lochmaben at the moment or what, I don’t know, but horses there are none…”
“How many do we need?”
“Six heavy draught horses at least to pull the hearse and fifty more mounts for the procession and we can’t use packponies so…”
“Where have they gone?”
“Scotland, I expect. I was hoping for black horses, of course, but any beasts not actually grey or piebald will do well enough, we could dye the coats…”
“What’ the need for horses in Scotland, at the moment?”
Scrope blinked at him. “I don’t know. Probably the Maxwells are planning another strike at the Johnstones or the King is planning a Warden Raid at Jedburgh or Bothwell’s planning something…”
“Bothwell?”
“He took Lochmaben last week, didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet him at King James’s Court?”
“I did,” said Carey feelingly. “Once. No, twice, the bastard fouled me at a football game in front of the King. What’s he up to?”
Again Scrope shrugged. “It’s some Court faction matter in Scotland. I’m hoping Sir John Carmichael will let me know when he knows what’s going on.”
“And the Earl of Bothwell’s taken Lochmaben, you say? How the devil did he do that?”
“Dressed as a woman, apparently, got inside the Keep and opened it up when his men arrived. The whole Border was laughing about it and Maxwell’s enraged but too afraid of Bothwell to do anything about it. They say he’s the King of the Witches, you know.”
“Nothing would surprise me about Bothwell. So he’s got all the horses in the north.”
“Well no, the surnames have their herds of course, but they won’t loan them out to us no matter what we offer and…”
“The surnames are refusing honest money? How much did you offer?”
“Twenty shillings a horse for the two days.”
Carey put his pen down. “Aren’t you worried about this, my lord?”
Lord Scrope flapped his bony hands. “Philadelphia keeps telling me to be careful, but what can I do? It’s all happening in Scotland and until my father’s buried and the Queen sends my warrant, my hands are tied.”
“With respect, my lord…”
“Anyway, we simply must get this funeral organised, I will not have my father dishonoured with a miserable poor funeral. Lowther says he might be able to get horses.”
Barnabus winced, knowing how much his master disliked clumsy manipulation, but Carey only took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And what about your man Dodd killing that Graham fellow?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“It’s all over the castle.”
Barnabus prepared to duck, but Carey spoke quite quietly, counting off on his fingers in an oddly clerkish way.
“Firstly, my man Dodd, as you put it, was not my man when he found the body; secondly, I doubt very much he did the killing since he’s not a fool and in any case the body was stone cold when it was found, and thirdly, the inquest is fixed for tomorrow and no doubt the Grahams will be coming to fetch the corpse afterwards. Those of them that aren’t
The talk of the funeral took twice as long as it needed to because Scrope would not keep to the point. Carey dealt with him patiently, sitting at his desk, writing lists and making notes like a clerk, until the question of horses came up.
“What do you mean, my lord, there are no horses? You mean, no black horses?”
Scrope was up off the chair that Biltock claimed Queen Mary had sat on and was pacing up and down the room, the flapping false sleeves on his gown guttering the rushlights.
“I mean, no horses, black, white or piebald. We’ve what there are in stables but the garrison will need them to form an honour guard, but apart from the six you brought, the horse merchants say they’ve never known mounts to be so hard to find and the price in Scotland is astonishing, sixty or seventy shillings for a poor scrawny nag, I heard, and whether it’s Bothwell being in Lochmaben at the moment or what, I don’t know, but horses there are none…”
“How many do we need?”
“Six heavy draught horses at least to pull the hearse and fifty more mounts for the procession and we can’t use packponies so…”
“Where have they gone?”
“Scotland, I expect. I was hoping for black horses, of course, but any beasts not actually grey or piebald will do well enough, we could dye the coats…”
“What’ the need for horses in Scotland, at the moment?”
Scrope blinked at him. “I don’t know. Probably the Maxwells are planning another strike at the Johnstones or the King is planning a Warden Raid at Jedburgh or Bothwell’s planning something…”
“Bothwell?”
“He took Lochmaben last week, didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet him at King James’s Court?”
“I did,” said Carey feelingly. “Once. No, twice, the bastard fouled me at a football game in front of the King. What’s he up to?”
Again Scrope shrugged. “It’s some Court faction matter in Scotland. I’m hoping Sir John Carmichael will let me know when he knows what’s going on.”
“And the Earl of Bothwell’s taken Lochmaben, you say? How the devil did he do that?”
“Dressed as a woman, apparently, got inside the Keep and opened it up when his men arrived. The whole Border was laughing about it and Maxwell’s enraged but too afraid of Bothwell to do anything about it. They say he’s the King of the Witches, you know.”
“Nothing would surprise me about Bothwell. So he’s got all the horses in the north.”
“Well no, the surnames have their herds of course, but they won’t loan them out to us no matter what we offer and…”
“The surnames are refusing honest money? How much did you offer?”
“Twenty shillings a horse for the two days.”
Carey put his pen down. “Aren’t you worried about this, my lord?”
Lord Scrope flapped his bony hands. “Philadelphia keeps telling me to be careful, but what can I do? It’s all happening in Scotland and until my father’s buried and the Queen sends my warrant, my hands are tied.”
“With respect, my lord…”
“Anyway, we simply must get this funeral organised, I will not have my father dishonoured with a miserable poor funeral. Lowther says he might be able to get horses.”
Barnabus winced, knowing how much his master disliked clumsy manipulation, but Carey only took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And what about your man Dodd killing that Graham fellow?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“It’s all over the castle.”
Barnabus prepared to duck, but Carey spoke quite quietly, counting off on his fingers in an oddly clerkish way.
“Firstly, my man Dodd, as you put it, was not my man when he found the body; secondly, I doubt very much he did the killing since he’s not a fool and in any case the body was stone cold when it was found, and thirdly, the inquest is fixed for tomorrow and no doubt the Grahams will be coming to fetch the corpse afterwards. Those of them that aren’t
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