‘What, all four, sir?’

‘As many as you can, Barnabus.’

‘Right sir.’

Sir Robert turned his horse to go to the front, stopped.

‘Aim for the faces, they’ll be wearing padded jacks.’

‘Yes sir.’

Heart thudding under his wrecked doublet, Barnabus slowed his horse until he was level with Simon, sent the boy up ahead and then nodded to the Berwick man who joined him.

‘Spot of bother coming then, eh?’ he said brightly, hoping the rain would disguise the fact that he was sweating.

The Berwick man frowned at him, shook his head. ‘Ah wouldna like tae ride for Carlisle at this distance.’

‘No,’ said Barnabus with feeling, ‘nor me.’

‘It’s aye the packs they’ll be after.’

Barnabus made a face. The three pack ponies were trudging along under a remarkable quantity of clothes and gear, including, Barnabus was sure from the weight, a certain amount of weaponry.

‘Why didn’t Sir John send more men?’ asked Barnabus. ‘Seeing it’s his brother.’

There was a cold stare from the Berwick man.

‘He didnae have more men to send.’

‘Well,’ said Barnabus desperately, ‘we’re still in England, ain’t we? They can’t be Scots, surely?’

The Berwick man rolled his eyes and did not deign to answer.

They rode along and the men with the lances paced with them. Sir Robert was casting increasingly anxious glances to the rear. At last, one of the broader of the strangers detached from the group and rode down through the scrub to stop beside a flowing pothole. Sir Robert held up his hand to stop his own procession and trotted forwards, smiling blithely. That was a thing the Court taught you, reflected Barnabus, drying his hands on his padded breeches and taking out one of his daggers covertly under his cloak. To paste a smile on your face and keep it there, no matter what.

The two men talked while Barnabus tried to see in two directions at once. Was that a movement behind a rock there, in the rain? The sticky squelching was only the rearmost pony shifting his feet, and that... no, it was a rabbit.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sir Robert laugh, lean forward and... thank God, shake the man’s hand. Barnabus let his breath puff out once more, and resheathed his dagger with fingers that were trembling so much it took him three tries.

Sir Robert waved them on towards him, while the broad northerner did the same with his men. Snorting protestingly the pack ponies let themselves be led forward to pick between the pools and ridges, while the strangers came down from their hillock. Four more materialised from the south, but walking not galloping.

‘My brother-in-law Lord Scrope,’ said Sir Robert loudly, ‘has very kindly sent Mr Thomas Carleton, Captain of Bewcastle, to escort us the last few miles into Carlisle, the country being somewhat unsettled since the death of his father.’

The Berwick men grunted and relaxed a little. Barnabus suddenly felt his gut congeal as he puzzled out the implications. Footpads were one thing, highwaymen were another thing, but a country where the Lord Warden of the West March had to send an escort for the area around his own city... What in God’s name was Carey doing here?

‘Welcome to Carlisle,’ said the Captain of Bewcastle, looking like a beer barrel but sitting his horse as if he were born on it and ignoring the little rivers running down the curves of his helmet. ‘I see the weather’s kept nice for you.’

SUNDAY, 18TH JUNE 1592, AFTERNOON

He’d been shot from behind, that was clear enough. There was a gaping hole in the chest and white ribs visible in the mess of red, mixed with tatters of shirt, doublet and leather jack with the padding quilted in the Graham pattern. The crows had not had time to wreck his face completely: there was no mistaking the long jaw and sallow skin of a Graham. No doubt the eyes would have been grey.

Red Sandy had ridden up behind Dodd to peer at the body.

‘Devil take it,’ he said. ‘Is that...?’

‘Ay,’ said Bangtail, wiping his hands on the seat of his horse, looking upset and disgusted, ‘it’s Sweetmilk Geordie.’

‘Oh Christ,’ said somebody.

‘Jock of the Peartree’s youngest boy,’ said Dodd heavily.

Bangtail nodded. ‘He’ll not be happy.’

Dodd blinked through the thinning rain at the grubby sky and wondered briefly what particular thing he had done was warranting this, in God’s ineffable judgment. Storey was openly worried, while the other men were gathering closer and looking over their shoulders as if they were expecting a feud to explode immediately like a siege bomb. Which it would, of course, but in due time. Dodd coughed and shook his head at Archie Give-it-Them who had his hand on his swordhilt.

‘Sim’s Will Croser, I want your horse.’

Sim’s Will was the next youngest to Storey and slid from his mount resignedly, grabbing his steel bonnet from the pommel and putting it on. As if he had shouted an order, the others all put on their own helmets. Dodd thought about it and decided to stay with his squelching cap. Why deliberately look more martial than you were?

Croser was taking his own cloak off, but Storey said, ‘His cloak’s in the gorse still.’

Sim’s Will crashed into the gorse to fetch it, while Dodd walked all around the corpse and toed him. Dead and gone since yesterday, no doubt of it. The pale leather of the jack was stained black around the small hole in the back where the bullet went in.

Croser had returned and was laying the cloth on the ground. Storey and Bangtail moved the corpse onto it and bundled it up, a makeshift shroud. Bangtail tried to cross Sweetmilk’s arms on what was left of his chest. The corpse was not co-operative so he made the Sign of the Cross on his own. Croser covered his horse’s eyes and led him forwards, while Story and Bangtail huffed and heaved to get Sweetmilk slung over the animal’s back before he knew what was happening. Sweetmilk fitted nicely, which helped. By the time the hobby’s small but sharp brain had taken note of the blood and the weight and it had begun to hop and kick, Croser had wrapped his stirrup leathers round Sweetmilk Graham’s wrists and ankles and after a couple of protesting whinnies, it quieted and stood looking offended at Croser.

‘Lead your horse, Sim’s Will,’ said Dodd. ‘Archie and Bangtail to the front, Archie goes ahead a way, Bessie’s Andrew and myself with you, Red Sandy and Long George at the back. Anyone asks, it was a Bell we found.’

They paced on towards the ford of the Esk at Longtown, hoping they would meet no Grahams.

Longtown was quiet and the ford seemed clear of danger, though the water was higher than usual. Archie Give-it-Them splashed across, scrambled up the bank, and cantered on down the path. Dodd waited a minute, then gestured for the rest of them to go on. Then just as they were in the middle of the ford, Archie came galloping back on the opposite bank, with five fingers raised, and then a thumb pointing down, meaning he’d seen ten men ahead, and as Dodd made to draw his sword, five more came out of the bushes on foot. Bugger, thought Dodd.

‘I’m the Sergeant of the Carlisle Guard,’ he shouted. ‘We’re on Warden’s business.’

Bangtail’s horse was already out on the bank, but Sim’s Will, Bessie’s Andrew and Dodd were still in mid-stream because Sim’s Will was having trouble leading his hobby through the high water. Bessie’s Andrew stared open-mouthed at the lances surrounding them, stock still. Dodd swung about and brought his crop down on the laden animal’s rump. It whinnied, pranced sideways and at last Croser hauled the snorting animal up the other bank. Dodd and Andrew Storey followed.

‘Surely they wouldna dare...’ stuttered Bessie’s Andrew.

Well, at least, Dodd thought, feeling his pulse in his temples and wishing he’d put his helmet on while he had the chance, if they were planning to dare, they would have done it while we were still sloshing about in the Esk.

A long-faced, grey-eyed, grey-haired ruffian in a patched and mended jack and a dull blued steel helmet trotted forward, his two younger sons behind him. The third they had across Croser’s hobby, of course. Surely nothing he’d done recently deserved this much trouble, Dodd though protestingly. Just in time he saw that the idiot lad Storey was reaching for his sword, and he spurred his horse up behind and cuffed the boy out of the saddle.

‘If you want a fight, you can fight them alone,’ he said.

Jock of the Peartree smiled. He had four teeth missing and one chipped and a nose that had been broken at least three times. Storey picked himself up out of the mud resentfully.

‘Now then, Jock Graham,’ said Dodd civilly.

‘Is that one of mine ye have there, Sergeant Dodd?’