‘Y-yes sir.’
‘Which applies to any man in my service whatsoever,’ said Carey, glaring at Bangtail and then at Dodd. ‘You’ll see the men know that.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Dodd. ‘When did you want to flog him?’
‘It depends if he’s told the truth this time and if he hands over what he took.’
Bessie’s Andrew’s face was the colour of mildewed parchment. ‘But my mother...’
‘Blame it on me.’ Carey was inflexible.
‘Och God...’
‘You can bring me what you took after we get back. I might be merciful this time, since you were not, after all, in my service when you stole Sweetmilk’s jewels.’
‘What are you looking for, sir?’ asked Bangtail. ‘More gold?’
‘That or bits of cloth. Anything that shouldn’t be in a gorse bush.’
They all looked. It was Bessie’s Andrew who found the only thing that Carey found interesting, which was a long shining thread of gold. Carey put it away in his belt pouch and they searched fruitlessly for a little while before struggling back out of the bushes again to find the men also wandering about, checking hopefully for plunder from the old battlefield. There was none of course, the field had been picked clean for fifty years by crows and men. And nobody had bothered to set a watch, which caused Carey to lecture them again.
TUESDAY, 20TH JUNE, AFTERNOON
With Carey gone about some urgent business, Dodd rubbed down his own horse, saw the animals were properly watered, fed and clean, and then wandered, belly rumbling, down towards Bessie’s again. Time enough to eat the garrison rations when he had no more money left. He was still in a bad temper and cursing Bessie’s Andrew: if the ill-starred wean had behaved properly with his windfall and shared it with his sergeant, Dodd could have given Janet a little ring with a ruby in it which she would have liked. On the other hand, he might then have had to ask for it back...
He was sauntering along, thinking about that with his long dour face like the past week’s weather, when he saw something that cheered him at once.
There, astride Shilling his old hobby, rode the splendid sight of his wife Janet, market pannier full of salt and string and a sugar loaf poking out the top, her eyes and the dagger at her waist daring any man to try robbing her. Unlike the Graham women, she felt no need of carrying a gun to keep her safe. Dodd liked his woman to look well and Janet was in her red dress with the black trim, a neat little ruff round her neck, and a fine false front to her petticoat made of part of the old Lord Scrope’s court cloak, which the young lord had disdained since it was out of fashion, Philadelphia had accepted, her maid taken as a perk and Janet snapped up as a bargain the month before. Her white apron was of linen she had woven herself and was a credit to her. The red kirtle suited her high colour and the snapping pale blue eyes and Armstrong sandy hair. If her teeth were a little crooked and her hips broad enough to be fashionable without need of a bumroll (though she wore one of course) and her boots heavy and hobnailed, what of it? He put his hand to the horse’s bridle and Shilling whickered at him and tried to find an apple in the front of his jerkin. Janet smiled at him.
‘Now then wife,’ said Dodd, grinning lecherously at her.
‘I heard you were out on patrol.’
‘We were looking at the place where we found a body.’
Janet frowned. ‘Was that the body of Sweetmilk Graham you’ve not yet told me of?’
‘It was.’
‘Will Jock raid us, do you think?’
‘Why should he?’ demanded Dodd. ‘It wasn’t me that killed his son.’
Janet looked dubious. ‘What about lying to him at the ford?’
Christ, how did she hear so much? ‘He’ll know it was because I was not inclined to a fight. And where are you off to?’
‘To see my lover,’ said Janet with a naughty look. Dodd growled. She slid from the horse and began leading the animal, holding her skirts high above the mud.
‘How’s the wheat?’ Henry asked, walking beside her and enjoying the view.
Janet began to suck her bottom lip through a gap in her teeth and her brow knitted.
‘Sick,’ she said. ‘We might get by with the oats and the barley if there’s no more rain. I’ll leave that field fallow next year.’
‘But it’s infield,’ protested Dodd.
‘Give it time to clean itself. I might run some pigs on it. The beans are doing poorly too.’
‘What will you do to replace Mildred?’
‘I’ve heard tell there’s one for sale.’
‘Not reived?’
Janet shrugged. ‘Not branded, any road. That’s why I want to buy him.’
‘Buy,’ said Dodd and shook his head.
Janet giggled. ‘Will you want to come with me or would it go against your credit to be seen giving money for a beast?’
Dodd considered. Janet was almost as good a judge of horseflesh as he was himself, and knew most of the horses from round about and wasn’t likely to be sold a stolen animal, at least not unknowingly. But she was only a woman. If it had been a cow...
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
They turned down a small wynd leading to one of the many ruined churches of Carlisle: this one had a churchman in it, a book-a-bosom man who spent most of his time travelling about the country catching up with the weddings and christenings.
‘Good afternoon, Reverend Turnbull,’ said Janet politely, ‘we’ve come about the horse.’
