Dodd did not look at the corpse. ‘It’s one of the Bells, I think,’ he said. ‘We’re taking him to Carlisle...’

‘I’ll have him.’

Dodd sucked his teeth and thought. He liked silence, and the little jinks of harness and the creaking noise made by men in leather jacks leaning forward with their spears only confirmed the blessedness of it. Behind them the Esk was purling its way to the marshes about Rockcliffe castle and thence to the sea. There were hardly any men in the fields with the wet, most of them at the summerings anyway, a few women peering out of their huts further down the road. Jock folded his arms and narrowed his eyes impatiently. Dodd could see no reason for hurry, the man was dead after all.

‘Well Jock,’ he said at last, ‘I’d need to ask the Warden’s permission...’

‘Now.’

Dodd sighed, his gloomy face lengthening with weariness.

‘What makes you so interested in a Bell?’

‘I’m nae interested in any dead Bell, nor you neither Sergeant, and ye know it. I think he’s a Graham,’ said Jock. ‘That’s good enough for me. I’ve five men out...’

‘On a raid?’

‘They were in Carlisle to buy horses.’

‘Ah,’ said Dodd agreeably, ‘I see. Well, Jock, as you know, I’d like to oblige you, but I canna. If you had found him, that would be one thing. But we found him and that makes him Warden business for the moment.’

‘If ye drop him accidental off the horse, and I come upon him, then I’ve found him, eh?’ suggested Jock.

Dodd looked at his men. ‘If it was myself and none other, then I’d oblige you, Jock.’ He glared at Bangtail who seemed dangerously close to opening his mouth. If Jock of the Peartree knew for sure that his favourite son was dead, there was no telling what he might do... God help the man that killed Sweetmilk, Dodd thought, for nobody else will dare.

He leaned on the crupper again, calculating ways and means. They were about five miles from Carlisle which was over-far for a race as far as he was concerned, if he could avoid it, and nobody in their right senses wanted to mix it with the Graham surname. Storey might, but then Storey had family reasons.

Jock of the Peartree was speaking. ‘What use d’ye have for a corpse in Carlisle?’ he demanded. ‘There’s a man that’ll foul no more bills and it’s late to think of stretching a rope wi’ him.’

‘It’s the law, Jock,’ Sergeant Dodd explained, all sweet reason, with a trickle of either rain or sweat itching his back under his shirt. On the other hand they were at least talking, and it was probable even the Grahams might think twice about killing the Sergeant of the Carlisle Guard and his men. Possible at any rate. ‘The law says there should be an inquest for him and an inquest there will be. If he’s yours, ye can have him to bury in two days.’

As if that closed the conversation, Dodd clucked at his horse, waved the men on, and rode slowly past the Grahams. Collectively holding their breath and praying that the Grahams were not in a mood for a fight, the patrolmen followed after, with Croser’s mare pecking irritably at the leading rein as she bore her cloak-wrapped burden. The prickling down Dodd’s spine continued until he heard Jock of the Peartree shout, ‘Two days, Henry Dodd, or I’ll burn your wife from your land.’

Red Sandy winced, but Dodd merely looked back once and then continued. Bangtail Graham, who was Jock’s nephew by marriage, had the grace to look embarrassed.

‘It’s his way of talking, sir...’

Dodd’s face cracked open a little.

‘God help your uncle if he goes up against my wife and her kin, Bangtail,’ he said, before slouching deep into the saddle and seeming to fall asleep.

SUNDAY, 18TH JUNE 1592, EVENING

They reached Carlisle as the rain slackened off a little and the day slumped towards evening. The cobbles were slippery and treacherous and none of the townsfolk were impressed by Dodd or his men, making way with very ill grace.

‘What will we do with him?’ asked Red Sandy as they passed through the gate by the uneven towers of the Citadel. ‘We canna take him to Fenwick or any other undertaker, Jock will hear ye lied to him by morning.’

Most of the shopkeepers on English Street were too busy shutting up their shops to pay much attention to them.

‘I never lied to him,’ said Dodd. ‘I said I thought it was a Bell. I canna help it if I made a mistake.’

Red Sandy grinned and waited.

‘We’ll take him to the castle and find a storeroom to put him in until the inquest.’

Once past the Captain’s Tower into Carlisle keep, they found the courtyard and its rabble of huts full of disorderly folk. Lowther was back from an inspection of the Bewcastle waste, and the castle guard was being changed. Carleton and his men were in town as well. Dodd and his men threaded quietly through the confusion to the Queen Mary Tower, where he, Bessie’s Andrew and Red Sandy hauled Sweetmilk awkwardly up the stairs and into one of the empty chambers that unexpectedly had tallow dips lit around the walls. They rolled the corpse onto the bed and covered it up with the counterpane.

‘He’ll ruin the bedcover...’ muttered Bessie’s Andrew, whose mother gave him a hard life.

‘Aw shut your worriting, Andrew,’ said Red Sandy. ‘Any fool knows a corpse that cold doesna bleed and, besides, that counterpane’s older than you are, or it should be, the state it’s in.’

When they clattered down the stairs and out under the rusted portcullis, they found Bangtail and Long George waiting for them in great excitement.

‘Ten new horses in the stables?’ Not even Dodd could hide his blazing curiosity which he showed by rubbing his cheek with his knuckles. They hurried to the stables by the New Barracks to look at the beasts.

As expected, Lowther’s men had made free with their rations and the ale had succumbed to the usual vinegar fly, so they went back through the Captain’s Gate to the outer ward where Bessie Storey had her strictly illegal but long-tolerated alehouse hard by the crosswall.

An hour later, Dodd’s belly was gratefully full of Bessie’s incomparable stew and ale, and he was already hoarse with argument over the likely stamina of the six new horses and how a cross with one of his hobbies might turn out.

‘See, you’d get the southern speed and a bit of extra bone...’ Red Sandy was explaining when he noticed Dodd had gone silent and was trying to become invisible in the back of the booth. Red Sandy looked at the door and saw a boy in Scrope’s livery craning his neck.

‘Sergeant Dodd, Sergeant Dodd...’ called the boy.

‘He’s here,’ said Bessie’s Andrew, waving, no doubt getting his revenge for the gorse bush.

The boy came barging over through the press, neat work with his elbows.

‘Sergeant Dodd,’ he squeaked, stopped and managed to drop his voice. ‘The Warden wants you, he wants you in the Keep, sir.’

‘Now?’ asked Dodd, wondering why he had paid good cash to be Sergeant of the Warden’s Guard and whether he could find some fool to sell the office to and recover his money.

‘He wants you to meet his new Deputy.’

‘I already know Richard Lowther.’

‘No sir.’ The boy’s face was alight with pleasure at knowing something Dodd didn’t. The conversations round about them suddenly sputtered and died. ‘It’s not him.’

‘What?’ demanded Dodd, who had been straining himself to be pleasant to Lowther in anticipation of his confirmation in the Deputyship.

‘I thought he was set to get it,’ protested Red Sandy, concerned about his own investment, ‘I thought the old Lord promised him...’

The boy shook his head. ‘It’s not him.’

‘Well who is it then?’ demanded Bangtail.

Cunning disfigured the child’s face. ‘I dinna ken,’ he said.

Dodd picked up his cap which had been steaming next to the fire. ‘Is it still raining outside?’