A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm

Author:P. F. Chisholm [Chisholm, P. F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Historical, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781615954056
Google: 4GBHwK8DDv0C
Amazon: B00822G9CG
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2012-05-08T04:00:00+00:00

“There’s no other way ye’ll get off this tower still breathing, lad, so ye’d best think about it now and right hard.”

It was in fact perfectly true that Carey had no idea how he was going to get off the top of Netherby tower in one piece. When he came to Netherby he had had a vague plan that involved stealing the Dodd and Widdrington horses quietly early in the morning as soon as he knew where Bothwell was planning to raid and making off back to Carlisle as fast as one of them could carry him. Once that was no longer possible, thanks to Lowther’s machinations, he had simply reacted according to instinct.

“What do you think I’m worth on the hoof?” Carey asked after a pause.

“Everyone knows Scrope’s a rich man. A thousand pounds, perhaps,” said Jock consideringly. Carey whistled.

“He might not pay that much.”

Jock clearly regarded this as a feeble attempt at bargaining.

“Well, if ye’re Lord Hunsdon’s son, he’ll stump up for you. Of course, first ye’ve got to get yon Earl to talk civilly to ye, and that might take a while.”

“He is very upset. What are my chances?”

“It’s always possible,” Jock allowed, “a one-legged donkey with spavins could win the Carlisle horserace, but I wouldnae put my shirt on it.”

“I think you’re a bit of an optimist, Jock,” said Carey drily.

Jock laughed again, then winced. “Ye could loosen my arms a bit,” he suggested, “I canna feel my hands.”

Carey leaned over cautiously and felt one of the hands. It was a little swollen, but not too bad.

“No,” he said, “I’ve got too much respect for you, Jock. I don’t want to waste all the care I had of you if you take it in your head to jump off the top of the tower.”

“I think it’s you’ll be making the jump from a high place in the end.”

“No,” said Carey, leaning his head back and feeling very tired, “he won’t hang me.” Jock looked dubious. “That’d be too quick for Bothwell.”

Jock grunted. “I never said he’d hang you first. That’d be after he’d skelped and roasted you. And I’ll be first in with the whip, believe me.”

Carey had his eyes half-shut. “Oh, I believe you, Jock. And yet, you know, one reason I came here was so I could find out who killed Sweetmilk.”

Jock’s face changed. The long craggy canyons in it deepened, the mouth lengthened, and his chin fell on his chest.

“Poor Sweetmilk,” he said, “he was such a bonny wee bairn, running after me and laughing.” Jock’s chin quivered, then hardened again. “Anyway, what do ye care, Deputy, he’s one less Graham you’ve got to chase over the Bewcastle waste.”

Carey thought of trying to explain the idea of an impartial law enforcement officer, as interested in the wanton killing of Grahams as in cattle raids and suchlike, but decided it would take too long.

“I don’t want you blaming Dodd,” he said at last, “and I’m puzzled about it.”

“What’s to puzzle about, the lad was shot in the back.

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