Read Online A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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least they were lined up quickly since turning out fully armed in the middle of the night was something they did regularly, even if nothing much generally came of it. Lowther had always liked to make a bit of a show of a hot trod.
Once they were there, Carey nodded.
“Not bad,” he allowed, “I know the Earl of Essex’s soldiers would still be scratching their backsides and wondering where their boots were. Now then.”
There followed a full hour of meticulous individual examination followed by shooting practice with the new longbows at the butts on the town racecourse. At the end of it Carey brought them back to the castle, stood in front of them and said simply,
“I find you satisfactory, gentlemen.”
The heavy-eyed men brightened considerably. Carey called out Archie and Long George and went into the now busy Keep with them. They returned a few minutes later with a folding card table and stool, Carey carrying a sheaf of papers and what looked like an account book. When the table was set up, he put them down, and nodded at his servant, Barnabus, who led Archie and Long George self-importantly into the Queen Mary Tower and out again a few minutes later, carrying a small but heavy box.
Bangtail and Sandy were talking to each other, covertly watching Dodd, who had his mouth open as his brain caught up with what he saw.
Carey opened up the account book and squinted at the figures. He blinked, his lips moved as he calculated and his face took on an irritated cynical expression. Just then a short figure erupted from the Keep and ran across the yard, comically dressed in shirt, hose, pattens and a flying taffeta gown. He was already gabbling in a high-pitched squeak that it would be quite impossible for anyone without the right training in accounts and mathematics to understand the very precise and detailed figures it was his job to…
Carey shut the book and smiled down at him.
“What did you pay for your paymaster’s job, Mr Atkinson?” he asked.
“Sir Richard had fifty pounds from me, sir,” said Atkinson, surprised into honesty.
“For the two offices, the Armoury and the Paymaster?”
“N– no, sir. Just the Paymaster clerkship.”
“And how long have you held this particular lucrative office?”
“Er…only four years and…”
“Then you have made back your investment at least tenfold and will suffer no loss if you lose it.”
“I…”
“You have lost it, Atkinson. Get out.”
There was a murmur of interest from the men, craning forward to hear this exchange.
“Silence in the ranks,” snapped Carey as he seated himself at the table and re-opened the account books. “Sergeant Dodd, you may call your men to muster for their pay.”
Goddamn him, Dodd thought, as the men cheered, and Red Sandy looked with morbid curiosity at him. On muster days it was Red Sandy’s job to bring in three of their cousins to take the place of the patrolmen who had died and whose pay Dodd kept.
Blandly Carey began to call through the men’s names and pay out as each stepped up in front of him. They didn’t get all of their backpay, naturally, but they got six months’ worth each which was better than they had ever done under old Scrope. Dodd was called last.
“Your pay, Sergeant,” said Carey, handing it over. Dodd took the money in silence and turned to go. “Sergeant.”
He turned, waited for the axe to fall.
Carey pointed at the dead men’s names. “Faggots, I take it.”
Dodd’s mind reverberated with excuses, sickness, wounds, dilatoriness. In the end he said, “Yes sir.”
“Have you a reason for defrauding the Queen?”
Outrage almost made Dodd splutter. It was traditional for the sergeant to take the pay of men who died, how else could he live?
“Yes sir,” he said stonily.
“What’s that?”
“Poverty.”
Carey smiled. “I’m the youngest of seven sons, and the last time I was out of debt was in ’89, the year I walked from London to Berwick in twelve days for a bet of
Once they were there, Carey nodded.
“Not bad,” he allowed, “I know the Earl of Essex’s soldiers would still be scratching their backsides and wondering where their boots were. Now then.”
There followed a full hour of meticulous individual examination followed by shooting practice with the new longbows at the butts on the town racecourse. At the end of it Carey brought them back to the castle, stood in front of them and said simply,
“I find you satisfactory, gentlemen.”
The heavy-eyed men brightened considerably. Carey called out Archie and Long George and went into the now busy Keep with them. They returned a few minutes later with a folding card table and stool, Carey carrying a sheaf of papers and what looked like an account book. When the table was set up, he put them down, and nodded at his servant, Barnabus, who led Archie and Long George self-importantly into the Queen Mary Tower and out again a few minutes later, carrying a small but heavy box.
Bangtail and Sandy were talking to each other, covertly watching Dodd, who had his mouth open as his brain caught up with what he saw.
Carey opened up the account book and squinted at the figures. He blinked, his lips moved as he calculated and his face took on an irritated cynical expression. Just then a short figure erupted from the Keep and ran across the yard, comically dressed in shirt, hose, pattens and a flying taffeta gown. He was already gabbling in a high-pitched squeak that it would be quite impossible for anyone without the right training in accounts and mathematics to understand the very precise and detailed figures it was his job to…
Carey shut the book and smiled down at him.
“What did you pay for your paymaster’s job, Mr Atkinson?” he asked.
“Sir Richard had fifty pounds from me, sir,” said Atkinson, surprised into honesty.
“For the two offices, the Armoury and the Paymaster?”
“N– no, sir. Just the Paymaster clerkship.”
“And how long have you held this particular lucrative office?”
“Er…only four years and…”
“Then you have made back your investment at least tenfold and will suffer no loss if you lose it.”
“I…”
“You have lost it, Atkinson. Get out.”
There was a murmur of interest from the men, craning forward to hear this exchange.
“Silence in the ranks,” snapped Carey as he seated himself at the table and re-opened the account books. “Sergeant Dodd, you may call your men to muster for their pay.”
Goddamn him, Dodd thought, as the men cheered, and Red Sandy looked with morbid curiosity at him. On muster days it was Red Sandy’s job to bring in three of their cousins to take the place of the patrolmen who had died and whose pay Dodd kept.
Blandly Carey began to call through the men’s names and pay out as each stepped up in front of him. They didn’t get all of their backpay, naturally, but they got six months’ worth each which was better than they had ever done under old Scrope. Dodd was called last.
“Your pay, Sergeant,” said Carey, handing it over. Dodd took the money in silence and turned to go. “Sergeant.”
He turned, waited for the axe to fall.
Carey pointed at the dead men’s names. “Faggots, I take it.”
Dodd’s mind reverberated with excuses, sickness, wounds, dilatoriness. In the end he said, “Yes sir.”
“Have you a reason for defrauding the Queen?”
Outrage almost made Dodd splutter. It was traditional for the sergeant to take the pay of men who died, how else could he live?
“Yes sir,” he said stonily.
“What’s that?”
“Poverty.”
Carey smiled. “I’m the youngest of seven sons, and the last time I was out of debt was in ’89, the year I walked from London to Berwick in twelve days for a bet of
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