Sir Robert Carey Omnibus by P. F. Chisholm

Author:P. F. Chisholm
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery & Detective, MARKED, General, Historical, Fiction, Literature & Fiction
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Dodd had more sense than to dive into that lot, even if Carey had not given them strict orders on no account to get into any fights on their own. He blew the horn he had on his baldric, dodged somebody with a club and heard hoofbeats behind him. Carey was riding up with four of the men, leading a horse for Dodd which the Sergeant took gratefully and vaulted into the saddle.

“Reverse lances,” Carey called. “Don’t stick them.”

In the early moments of a fight they could push the combatants apart; once it had got to this stage, the only thing they could do was stop it from spreading by using their horses as barriers and try and push the fighters over and away from the main crowd. The shouting swirled and spread, more of the garrison horse came over, Carleton with his troop and the rest of their own. There were knives flashing now, ugly and bright, someone was puking his guts up by the fence and the horses were whinnying as they objected to being used as mobile fences. Then Sir Richard Lowther rode over with Mr Salkeld behind him and instead of joining the line of garrison men, he rode straight into the middle of the mêlée and began laying about him with the flat of his sword. Evidently, thought Dodd, he had gone mad. There he was, bellowing that as God was his witness, he would shoot one of them—ay, Ritchie’s Clem, you too—if the fighting didn’t stop.

Astonishingly, it did. Men who had been at each others’ throats let go of each other, the knives disappeared, the fence posts were dropped. A few seconds later all of them had dispersed into the crowd.

Lowther sheathed his sword and rode over to where Carey was sitting with his fist on his hip, looking contemplative.

“That’s how ye keep order at a muster,” said Sir Richard, swelling like a turkey. “Ye know the men because ye’ve been ruling ‘em for years and ye call them by name.”

Carey ignored him pointedly.

Lowther’s jowls purpled above the tight ruff while Dodd gazed busily into the distance. Away in the hills to the north was a long line of animals, small as ants, no doubt heading for Dumfries where King James would be in need of supplies. Eventually Lowther rode away.

The muster of the West March didn’t come to an end so much as tail off. Those who lived less than ten miles away went home, those who lived further out went to their exorbitantly-priced, shared beds in the inns and taverns of Carlisle, or lit camp fires and prepared to doss down for the night, each surname forming its own small armed camp in the meadows and gardens around Carlisle. The competing smells of bacon pottage and salt fish rose here and there.

Carey caught up with Scrope at last and found him deep in conference with Sir Simon. He waited politely for a while and finding himself to be somehow invisible, turned his horse away to go and seek out Thunder and give him some carrots.

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