‘I know,’ said Carey.

FRIDAY, 23RD JUNE, AFTERNOON

Dodd had split his force into three to come at Netherby from the south west, the south east and the east. Will the Tod took the road north from Longtown that passed beside the river Esk, his son Geordie came in from Dodd’s tower at Gilsland with the Dodds but joined up with his own surname and went through Slackbraes wood and Cleughfoot Wood. The Dodds went over Slealandsburn and Oakshaw Hill and also passed through the eastern part of the Cleughfoot Wood that cupped itself around Netherby. They rode well spread out and caught four of the men that Bothwell had stationed to watch.

At Longtownmoor stone, Geordie, Will the Tod and Henry Dodd had agreed that as they didn’t know exactly how many men Bothwell had or where they were, their best plan was to hit hard and fast, drive off his horses, capture Bothwell himself if they could and if they couldn’t, to trap him in Netherby tower with as few of his men as possible and then negotiate.

The daylight made things difficult for them, experienced night raiders though they all were, since they would be visible further off and they had no torches to signal the onset with. After some argument, they agreed on horncalls when they were ready, which would warn Bothwell, but might confuse him as well, or so they hoped. It might make him think the Carlisle garrison had come out to rescue the Deputy Warden.

And so, being the last to get into position because of having to go over the hill, Dodd put his horn to his lips as soon as he sighted the tower through the trees, and then all three of the groups of men broke from the woods and galloped over fields and barley crops straight up to Netherby tower.

It seemed that Bothwell was distracted, though unfortunately most of his men were already in the barnekin. Geordie and his men got into the horsepaddocks where the vast numbers of horses were—Jesus, there must have been a couple of hundred at least—broke down the fences and drove the horses off into the wood, leaving two men dead behind them.

Will the Tod and Henry rode hard for the barnekin, aiming for the gate. Complete confusion broke out round the tower. Some of the Grahams turned away from what they were doing and shot at them with arquebuses, a couple of the women managed to free the gates. Six men ran outside to help shut the big main gate: there was a sharp fight with ten more who came out with lances to hold them off and then the gate was shut and barred and most of the Grahams outside either surrendered or legged it northwards for Liddesdale and the Debateable Land.

Dodd let them go, he was looking all about him. ‘Can ye see the Deputy?’ he yelled. ‘Check the trees, where is he? Where’s Bothwell?’

‘DODD!’ came a happy roar that was unmistakably Carey’s voice—at least he could still shout. Where the devil was it coming from?

‘DODD, I’M UP HERE ON THE ROOF.’

By God, so he was. Dodd squinted, shaded his eyes from the sun and saw a smutty wild figure waving his arms from the top of Netherby tower where the smoke was billowing in great black clouds. Some Graham down in the barnekin shot at him with a caliver at a hopeless range and he ducked down. In a moment he was up again.

Dodd sat back in the saddle and grinned.

‘Och,’ he said to Will the Tod who was beside him, ‘they’ve got him treed.’

‘That him?’ asked Will the Tod curiously. ‘Are ye sure?’

‘Ay,’ said Dodd, ‘he doesnae normally look like that, he’s generally a very smart man, almost a dandy. But ay, that’s him, and he’s given ’em a run for their money, if I’m any judge.’

‘Wattie Graham must be ay annoyed at having to burn his own tower.’

‘And he’s got Jock of the Peartree.’

Will the Tod’s face was split in the broadest of grins. ‘Ay, it’s a grand thought, Jock made a hostage by the Deputy Warden of Carlisle. That’s worth the bother by itself. He’s his father’s son, true enough.’

‘I thought ye didn’t take to Lord Hunsdon.’

‘Oh, I wouldna say that, he never burned me and he did burn a few of my enemies when I pointed them out to him. I’ve got nothing against the Careys, me.’

‘Good,’ said Dodd, ‘but now we have to get the Deputy down from the tower.’

‘It’s a tickle situation, Henry. What’s your plan?’

‘Talk to Bothwell.’

‘And if Bothwell willna talk?’

Dodd shrugged. ‘Avenge Carey and give him a decent burial.’

‘It’d be a pity.’

‘Ay.’

‘So now. I’m the English Armstrong headman, Henry, so I think it’s fitting if I do the talking.’

Dodd opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it. He nodded. Will the Tod looked pleased with himself.

‘Hey, BOTHWELL!’ he roared. ‘Show your face, I want to talk to ye.’

FRIDAY, 23RD JUNE, AFTERNOON

Jock coughed hackingly. ‘When will ye surrender?’ he asked. Carey had hustled him back to the beacon post and tied him to it again. Hammering came from below—they must have brought in lances or long poles. Carey backed away from the trapdoor, behind the angle of the roof and his barricade of firewood. He counted out his arrows—he had five left—and laid them in a row in front of him, set his bow before him and waited. Counting the knives still in their scabbards on his wrist and at the back of his neck, he had seven shots at whoever poked his head through the trapdoor, before it was hand to hand.

‘Why should I surrender if Bothwell won’t ransom me?’

‘Och, I’ll protect ye, lad. Ye’ve talked me round wi’ that smooth courtier’s tongue of yours, I’ll not let Bothwell harm ye, nor Wattie. Ye’ve my word on it.’

‘Well,’ said Carey, tempted against his will. A drift of smoke caught him and he coughed.

‘Ye’ll get us both killed. Ah can save ye, if ye let me lift up the trapdoor and talk to Bothwell. Ye can keep an arrow pointed at my back if ye like. There’s no need to die.’

That was when Carey and Jock both heard the sound of horns, of hoofbeats, shouting, fighting, the creak and double thud of the barnekin gate. Carey ran to the eastern parapet, peered over, batting furiously at the smoke, and there was Sergeant Dodd, filthy, armed and triumphant, with something like eighty men about him. Carey shouted, waved his arms, shouted again. He’d never have thought he could be so delighted to see that miserable sullen bastard of a Sergeant.

Jock of the Peartree brought him back to reality.

‘So the garrison’s out,’ he said dourly. ‘It makes nae odds to ye, ye bloody fool. Bothwell’s still going to have ye either by breaking in the trapdoor or he’ll wait until the smoke kills ye. Me, I’d wait.’

Carey was coughing again: the smoke reeked and was making his eyes stream. He fanned the air uselessly.

‘Us, Jock, you too. Still,’ he said between hacks, ‘we can negotiate a bit better because if he kills me, he’ll have to fight Dodd and I don’t think he wants to with his big raid due tomorrow. So why don’t you try talking to him again, Jock?’

‘Nay, I tried my best, it’s a waste of breath now. Let Dodd and that fat Armstrong father-in-law of his do all the hard work.’

‘Oh the hell with it,’ he said, ‘Jock, will you swear not to play me false if I let you free?’

‘Ay,’ wheezed Jock, ‘I swear.’

Carey hesitated a moment longer, then went to him, cut the ropes that bound him and undid the belt still holding Jock’s arms behind him. Jock whined a little with the pain of returning circulation, brought his arms round very slowly and flexed them. He turned to Carey.

‘That was kindly of ye, Courtier,’ said Jock grudgingly. ‘Ah wouldnae have done that for ye in this situation.’

‘No,’ coughed Carey, ‘I’m too soft, that’s my problem. Get on the other side of the roof until it’s over.’

‘Ay,’ Jock muttered, moving away, ‘y’are soft an’ all.’

There was a heavy thump on the trapdoor. Carey watched through tears and coughing. They must have lit a fire right under it, they weren’t about to waste gunpowder when fire would work as well even if it was slower. Once the wood was burned through, the weight of the flagstones would...