‘Ay, sir. Dinna be concerned, I’ll see him right. I’ll bring my own wife to nurse him if need be.’
‘Good man.’
They rode off at a sedate pace southwards. Carey noted that the other men were letting the deer down from its tree. Dodd had seen to the rounding up of the sheep and, no doubt, the stripping of the two dead bodies. Carey had no intention of burying them: let Wee Colin Elliot see to it, if he wanted.
SATURDAY, 8TH JULY 1592, EARLY MORNING
It was an enraging business, taking the sheep back to the Routledge farm they had been raided from. Carey was an innocent about sheep and was astonished at how stupid they were, wiry and rough-coated creatures though these were, in contrast to the smug rotund animals that milled their way through London to Smithfield market every week. Dodd and the others worked around them making odd yipping and barking noises, like sheepdogs, and the whole process took hours. It was past dawn when the sheep poured over another hill and began baaing excitedly at the smell of home and at last moved sensibly in a flock in one direction.
The farmer, who owned his own small rough two-storey peletower, already had a group of men around him, all talking excitedly, while the women saddled the horses.
Carey, who had left the experts to their business, said to Dodd, ‘Looks like we’re just in time to stop a reprisal raid.’
‘Ay,’ grunted Dodd. ‘It’s a pity.’
‘Not if you have to deal with the resulting paperwork, it isn’t. This is simpler.’
It was, but not much. Jock Routledge seemed very offended that Carey had caught his sheep for him, no doubt because he had been planning to lift a few extra when he retrieved his own from the Elliots. He was also scandalised at the thought of paying the Wardenry fee.
‘Ye canna take one sheep in twelve, ye’ll ruin me,’ he shouted.
‘I can in fact take one sheep for every ten, so you owe me an extra lamb,’ Carey said. ‘I might remit the lamb if I get my rights quickly.’
‘Oh ay, yer rights,’ sneered Routledge. ‘Why did ye not stop them at the Border then, eh? Dinnae trouble to tell me, I know well enough. Well, ye’ll not...’
‘Sir,’ called Dodd from a few paces away. Carey looked round and saw he was slouching on his horse which was eating its way methodically through the pea-vines of a vegetable garden. In his hand was a lit torch. ‘Will I fire the thatch?’
Carey held up his hand in acknowledgement.
‘The fat four-year ewe, ay, sir,’ said Sim’s Will riding over stolidly and nipping a nearby animal from the herd, although not the one Carey had pointed to. It bleated piteously at being separated from its mates.
‘Ye bastard,’ growled Jock Routledge. Carey heard a crackling and saw that there were flames licking through the thatch of the house. He glared at Dodd who looked blankly back at him and moved away from the roof he had just set fire to. Luckily it was still too damp to burn well.
Carey growled and turned his horse, led his men away from the farmstead, followed by shouts of anger and the hissing of water on the flames.
As they continued south, following the course of the Eden towards Carlisle, Carey rode beside Dodd.
‘Sergeant, why did you fire their thatch before I asked you to?’
Dodd blinked at him. ‘I thought that was what ye wanted.’
‘I was trying to get what I wanted without burning first.’
Dodd was a picture of blank incomprehension. ‘Whatever for, sir?’ he asked. ‘He’s only Jock Routledge. He pays blackrent to everybody, he might as well pay a bit to you.’
‘That was our fee for the night’s work.’
‘Ay, sir, like I said. And he’ll be more civil next time.’
Carey growled but decided not to pursue the matter. While he rode he examined his side cautiously and found that something must have hit him there. He had a mark on his jack the width of his hand, but the metal plates inside had turned the blow. Unfortunately that was just where the knife slash was and from the tenderness he thought it was bleeding. It was only shallow, but it was scabbing into the bandages Philadelphia had wrapped round it and it pulled whenever he turned.
Their fee was unwilling to be taken from kith and kin and was as much trouble to drive as the full twelve had been. It was well into the morning before they came to Long George’s small farm. As expected, Red Sandy was gone but the barber-surgeon’s pony was cropping the grass outside. Four children were sitting in a row on the wall, and not one of them had any kind of rash or fever. The three boys were muttering together, and the littlest, a fair-haired girl, had her hands clamped tight over her ears.
‘Now then, Cuddy,’ called Dodd as they rode up.
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ said the eldest boy, politely, sliding down off the wall. His breeches were filthy and his feet were bare, his shirt had a long rip in it and his cap was over one ear. ‘Who’s that?’
‘The new Deputy Warden,’ said Dodd sternly. ‘So mind your manners.’
Cuddy pulled his cap off and made something of a bow.
A strangulated howl broke from the farmhouse. The little girl winced, hunched and stuck her fingers deeper in her ears. Her eyes were red from crying.
‘They’re cutting me dad’s arm off,’ said Cuddy matter-of-factly.
‘Will it grow back?’ asked the youngest boy, fascinated.
The howling rose to a shriek, bubbled down again. Cuddy unwillingly stole a glance over his shoulder, looked back at Carey who was staring at the farmhouse, waiting.
Another scream which at last faded down to a sequence of gasps.
‘It’s over now,’ he said, mostly to the little girl.
She shook her head, screwed up her face and dug her fingers in deeper. Her bare feet under her muddy homespun kirtle twisted together.
All of them listened but there was no more noise.
‘How did ye know, sir?’ asked Cuddy.
