At the end of the hallway stood a middle-aged slightly built merchant in rich black brocade, trimmed with citron velvet and green braid, clasping his hands nervously.
“Lady Widdrington, Lady Widdrington, what is the meaning of this…”
Henry set his face in an ugly scowl and advanced on the man with his sword. Occasionally he was grateful for the spots and pockmarks that ruined his face for the girls, because they made him look so much more unsavoury than he knew he really was.
“Thomas Hetherington,” said Elizabeth in tones that would have skewered a wild boar, “you will tell me what you know about the killing of Sweetmilk Graham and what happened to his horse and you will do it this instant! Sit down.”
“How dare you come breaking into my house and threatening my servants, I have never been so slighted…”
“Then it’s about time you were,” said Elizabeth. “By God, I have had enough of your patronage and your shilly-shallying and this time you shall tell me what I ask and you shall tell the truth or I will destroy you and everything you own.”
Thomas the Merchant’s face went putty-coloured. “This is unseemly,” he said, and Henry had to give him credit for courage. “Madam, I must ask you to leave or I shall call…”
“Oh?” asked Elizabeth, “and whom, pray, shall you call? The Warden? He’s in bed. The Grahams? They’re busy. However, I am here and I will have no arguments, do you understand?”
“I’ll sue, I’ll…”
Elizabeth smiled very unpleasantly. “Nothing would please me more than to meet you in Westminster Hall. In the meantime, tell me what I ask, God damn you, or I’LL LOSE MY TEMPER.”
Henry thought it was wonderful how his God-fearing stepmother could swear when she was angry, but he kept his face straight and his sword ready. She had another advantage, in that she was tall and when she shouted her voice deepened, rather than becoming shrill. Personally, he would have told her everything he knew, down to the place he’d buried his gold, if he was Thomas.
Thomas the Merchant had the sense to sit down. Elizabeth pulled up a heavy chair and sat down opposite him.
“I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman,” she said, quoting the Queen whom she greatly admired, “but I have the heart and stomach of a lord, by God, and I’ll have your heart and stomach out in the light of day if I must, Thomas the Merchant, and swear you tried to rape me. So. Tell me about Sweetmilk.”
Friday, 23rd June, morning
With a couple of hundred stolen horse gathered at Netherby alone-never mind the others being kept further up Liddesdale-there was a stunning amount of work to do. Carey was at the bottom of the heap as far as importance and the backing of a surname was concerned, and so inevitably he found himself lumbered with most of it. He trotted about the churned up paddock, carrying buckets of water and bales of hay while his stomach groaned and rumbled. It was empty because his conversation with Mary Graham had meant he was late for breakfast and all that was left of the porridge was the grey scrapings at the bottom of the pot.
The man in charge of caring for the horses was called Jock Hepburn, a by-blow cousin of Bothwell’s, who claimed to have Mary Queen of Scot’s second husband the fourth Earl of Bothwell for his father. He explained this to Carey and the sixteen other men who had been set to do the work, told them to call him ‘sir’ or ‘your honour’ since he was noble and they weren’t, and then sat on the paddock fence, played with the rings on his long noble fingers and shouted orders all morning.
Some surname men were in the paddock too, seeing after favourite animals, but since most of the horses were stolen, the work fell to Carey and his fellows. At least it gave him the chance to mark out Dodd’s horses, which he did by the brands. They were standing together, heads down, as horses often did when they were miserable.
Once the feed and water had been brought in, Hepburn took it into his head that the horses needed grooming, since most of them still had mud caked in their coats from when they were reived. In fact, Carey thought, as he worked away with a straw wisp and a brush at the warm rough coat in front of him, Hepburn was perfectly right, but he could have called in some of the idlers playing football in the next field to help: at this rate they’d be at it all day. He was getting a headache and his arms were tiring from unaccustomed work. If Dodd could see me now, he’d surely die laughing, thought Carey grimly as he scrubbed at the hobby’s legs, and there’s still been no word from Bothwell where we’re supposed to be going.
The next horse he went to seemed very skittish, prancing with his front hooves, away from Carey. Carey chucked and gentled the animal, saw a tremor when he put his hoof to the ground. After much backing and shying, he’d calmed the horse enough so he could lift up his leg. What he saw there was thoroughly nasty: white growths and an inflamed reddened frog, and the other forehoof was quite as bad.
Without even thinking, Carey led the horse gently to the side of the paddock, took a halter off the fence and slipped it over the twitching nervous head.
“There now, there now.” he murmured, “We’ll have it sorted, there now, poor fellow…”
Somebody thumped him between the shoulder blades, hard enough to knock him down. Carey rolled over in the mud, came to his feet with his hand clutching the void at his left hip where his sword should have been.
Jock Hepburn was standing there, flushed and angry.
“Where do ye think ye’re going with that horse?”
“He’s got footrot and he needs to see a farrier,” said Carey, in no mood for an argument.
Jock Hepburn stepped up close and slapped him backhanded. “Sir,” he said. “Ye call me sir, ye insolent bastard.”
Carey hadn’t taken a blow like that since he was a boy. He started forwards with his fists bunched, saw Hepburn back up hurriedly and reach for his sword. He stopped. Rage was making a roaring in his ears and his breath come short, he was about to call the man out there and then, when he caught sight of the Earl of Bothwell hurrying over from his football game and remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.
“What’s going on?” demanded the Earl.
“This man was trying to steal a horse.”
Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. “I said I’d hang anyone that tried to reive one of our horses and I meant it.” He paused impressively. “What d’ye have to say for yourself?”
Carey took a deep breath and relaxed his fists. His face was stinging, one of Hepburn’s rings had cut his cheek, and his headache was settling in properly.
“Only I’d steal a horse that could run if I was going to,” he said, his throat so tight with the effort not to shout he could barely whisper. Bothwell’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “My lord,” he managed to say, adding, “This one couldna go two miles, his footrot’s that bad.”
The Earl lifted one of the horse’s feet, prodded the sore frog hard enough to make the beast dance and snort.
“Ay,” he said at last, “it’s true enough. Take the nag up to the tower and ask Jock of the Peartree if he’ll take a look. With a good scouring he might be well enough for a pack tomorrow night.”
“Ay sir.” said Carey, taking hold of the bridle. The Earl stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Ye’ve too high a stomach on ye for a peddler, Daniel,” said Bothwell shrewdly. “What was ye before, at Berwick?”
For a moment Carey couldn’t think what to say.
“I’ve no objection to outlaws, ye know,” said Bothwell, and smiled, “I am one myself, after all.”
Carey’s mind was working furiously. He managed a sheepish grin. “Ah, it wasnae the fighting, sir,” he said, “it was the women.”