A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm Read Free Book Online Page B

brown stain on his jack happened to be.
    “Armstrong blood, sir.”
    “How old?”
    Archie’s talents were not in his brain. “Sir?’
    “How old is the blood?”
    Archie mumbled. “I killed him in April.”
    The snotty git, thought Dodd, to pick on poor Archie. Carey nodded for Archie to go back to his position in the line. He then stood with his left hand on his rapier hilt and his right fist on his hip and looked at them thoughtfully.
    “Gentlemen,” said Carey at length, “I have served in France with the Huguenots, and under Lord Howard of Effingham against the Spanish Armada. I have served at several sieges, I have fought in a number of battles, though I admit most of them were against foreigners and Frenchmen and suchlike rabble. I have commanded men on divers occasions over the past five years and I swear by Almighty God that I have never seen such a pitiful sight as you.” He paused to let the insult sink in.
    “I was born in London but bred in Berwick,” he continued in tones of reproach. “When I took horse to come north, a southerner friend of mine laughed and said I should find your lances would be rotten, your swords rusted, your guns better used as clubs and your armour filthy. And I told him I would fight him if he insulted Borderers again, that I was as sure of finding right fighting men here as any place in England—no, surer—and I come and what do I find?” He took a deep breath and blew it out again, shook his head, mounted his horse without touching the stirrups and rode over to where Dodd sat slumped in his saddle, wishing he was in the Netherlands.
    “Sergeant, sit up,” said Carey very quietly. “I find your men are a bloody disgrace which is less their fault than yours. You shall mend it, Sergeant, by this time tomorrow.”
    He rode away, while Dodd wondered if it was worth thirty pounds to him to put his lance up Carey’s arse. He had still not found Graham’s body.
    Carey came by while they were waiting for the blacksmith to get his fire hot enough for riveting and beckoned Dodd over.
    “Who’s in charge of the armoury?”
    “Sir Richard Lowther…”
    “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