‘Eh?’ said the earl, squinting through the mirk. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Sir Robert Carey, my lord, Deputy Warden of the English West March.’
‘Eh? Speak oot, mon.’
Carey repeated himself in Scots. Behind him he could feel Dodd sitting quiet and watchful, his lance pointed upwards, managing expertly to project a combination of relaxation and menace without actually doing anything.
The Earl of Mar was glaring at Carey’s dags. Rather pointedly, he did not put them away. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see a further six or eight riders milling about in the forest, rounding up stray dogs, while three of the other huntsmen tried to reassert discipline over the hounds who felt they had a right to the deer’s innards after their run.
‘What are ye doing here?’
‘Well, my lord, I could ask you the same question since we’re on English land.’
‘We’re on a lawful hot trod.’
‘Oh?’ said Carey neutrally.
‘Ay, we are. My lord Spynie, where the devil’s that bit of turf?’
A young round-faced man with a velvet bonnet tipped over his ear rode forward. Some crumbs of turf still stuck to the point of his lance, and he was frowning at it in irritation. He was a handsome young man, of whom Carey had heard but had never met, known variously as Alexander Lindsay, Lord Spynie, King James’s favourite and the King’s bloody bum-boy.
‘I see,’ said Carey, relaxing slightly and putting his dags away but leaving the case open. ‘Well, my lord, in that case, as Deputy Warden of the English West March, I am a proper person for you to tell the cause of the trod to, and if necessary, I will render you what assistance I can.’
The Earl of Mar glared at him. Two of his men had dismounted and were lifting the German to his feet, not very gently.
Knowing he was well within his rights, but feeling a bit of oil might be appropriate in the circumstances, Carey bowed lavishly in the saddle and added, ‘If my lord will be so very kind.’
The Earl of Mar harrumphed. He either ignored or did not understand the edge to Carey’s obsequity. ‘Ay, well,’ he said. ‘Ye’ve already assisted me, by stopping this traitor here, so I’ll thank ye kindly and we’ll be awa’ again.’
‘Ich bin nicht...’ the German began yelling. His arm slipped out of one of his helpers’ hands, he swung a wild punch at the other which connected by sheer chance. Hands plucking at the empty scabbard on his belt, he shouldered past another would-be helper, running at a desperate stagger for the forest, only to be knocked off his feet by a kick in the face from one of the other horsemen. He was hefted up again and his hands tied briskly behind him. Carey had tensed when he made his break, every instinct telling him to help one against so many, but intelligence and self-preservation ordering him not to be such a fool. He had eight men—the Scottish courtiers had at least thirty plus the law of the Borders on their side. And the man was a foreigner.
‘I see,’ he said, looking away as the German was hauled to a riderless horse, still half-stunned and bleeding from the nose, and slung across it like dead game. ‘May I ask what form his treason took? Is there anything likely to be a threat to Her Majesty the Queen?’
‘Nay,’ said the Earl of Mar, backing his horse with a rather showy curvette. ‘’Tis a private matter between yon loon and our King. We’ll be off now.’
With great difficulty the hounds were whipped off the stag, some of them still trailing bits of entrail from their mouths as they lolloped unwillingly away. The whole cavalcade plunged back into the forest, heading north again, with the unfortunate German occasionally visible, like a feebly struggling sack of flour across his horse’s back. Cheekily the Earl of Mar winded his horn as they disappeared from sight.
***
Dodd said nothing as Carey dismounted and went back to the stag to see what could be salvaged. The stag was quite a bit the worse for wear but much of the gralloching had been done. The skin would not be useable though. The men reappeared and, unasked, hung the stag up on a tree branch by its back legs to drain.
They waited by the tree while the most part of the deer’s remaining blood trickled out. With suspicious efficiency the men constructed a travois out of hazel branches and argued quietly over whose horse should pull it.
Dodd was still saying nothing, and cocking his head northwards occasionally with an abstracted expression.
‘What’s the problem, Sergeant?’ asked Carey.
Dodd coughed. ‘It’s the trod, sir.’
‘The Earl of Mar’s taken his captive back into Scotland by now, I should think.’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘So?’
‘Sir, did ye never follow on behind a hot trod so ye could claim the beasts ye took were part of it?’
‘You mean there might be a Scots raiding party following the Earl of Mar’s trail so they can claim they’re legally coming into England as part of the pursuit?’ Carey asked carefully.
Dodd clearly wondered why he was belabouring something so obvious. ‘Ay, after about an hour or so,’ he agreed. ‘To let the... excitement die down, see.’
‘I do see, Sergeant. Do you think they’ll come by here?’
Dodd’s wooden expression told Carey he had asked another stupid question.
‘Only, ye can mix the trails about, sir.’
‘Fine. What would you suggest, Sergeant?’
Dodd’s suggestion took shape: they took the deer carcass down from the tree and lashed it to its travois, which Long George and Croser hauled into the branches of an oak to keep it away from foxes.
‘We can’t actually stop them coming south,’ Carey said while the others cleared the ground of their own tracks. ‘They haven’t committed any crime and they’re following a lawful hot trod, so...’
Dodd and his brother Red Sandy exchanged patient glances.
‘No, see, sir, if we stop them before they’ve lifted aught, then we’ll get nae fee for it, will we? We’ll stop ’em after.’
‘I see. Very interesting. Do you ever... arrange for raids, so you can stop them and get the fees for them?’
