A Clash of Spheres

by P. F. Chisholm

  Typically Carey, who was wearing his second-best suit, the hunting green, rode straight into the middle of them, bowed all around and asked after Lord Maxwell’s beautiful Irish wolfhounds.

  “Och, they’re somewhere about,” said Lord Maxwell, looking for them. “They’re the best deerhounds in the country, of course I’d bring them. There they are!” He whistled and a boy ran over holding the four leashes with the wolfhounds trotting gravely behind him. They smelled Carey and let him lean right down from the saddle to pull their ears, smelled Dodd and left him alone. Lord Maxwell’s smile changed from honest pride in his dogs to a courtier’s smile, and Carey smiled back so all was as dishonest as could be.

  “How’s the West March of England?” asked Maxwell.

  “Remarkably peaceful for the time of year,” said Carey with a knowing grin, “which is to say not peaceful at all since it’s the raiding season. I found a lot of cattle in Liddesdale on patrol last week and also saw off a Graham ambush.”

  “Ay, I heard,” said the Maxwell dismissively. “Any of them mine?”

  “We found no Maxwell or Herries brands,” said Carey blandly, since he knew that Maxwell was careless about branding his beasts, “So, no. I am surprised to see you here at all, my lord.”

  “Oh? Why? The King likes me again.”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Carey very smoothly, “but didn’t the Johnstones just raid a lot of your horses from near Lochmaben?”

  Lord Maxwell scowled. “Ah hadnae heard that,” he growled.

  “Oh, my mistake, probably just a rumour. Could I trouble you to arrange a Warden’s Day, my lord? It’s now sixteen years since we had one in the West March and well past time for one.”

  The Maxwell, who had only agreed to be the Warden so he could use the office against the Johnstones, nodded vaguely, “Ay, we should, o’course.”

  Trumpets sounded at the King’s approach with his own attendants and Carey turned his horse to face in that direction.

  “How’s the Deputy Warden, Sir Richard Lowther?” asked the Maxwell, with heavy meaning.

  “Well, I know he has gout, poor man,” said Carey with false sympathy, “which never improves any man’s temper, and of course for some reason he is not at all pleased that I have just received my warrant from the Queen as Deputy Warden and so we have to work together.” Carey favoured the Maxwell with a particularly happy smile and trotted away, glancing back once to see the Maxwell impatiently beckon another Herries cousin and send him off with a verbal message.

  Dodd knew it wasn’t true about the Johnstone raiding the Maxwell’s horses and thought Carey had said that purely to spoil the man’s sport for him. He trotted after Carey and set himself behind him to the left, glad he hadn’t worn his jack or helmet as no one else had one.

  The King rode into the clearing and everyone took his hat off and at least bent the neck to him. The King was in a dark purple doublet and hose and high leather boots which disguised the fact that he had had rickets as a child—quite mildly compared with Sir Robert Cecil—it just meant he was shaped like a tadpole with broad shoulders and puny legs.

  “Och, what a goodly show!” he said to the assembled company. “We’ll have some sport today.” His sweaty grubby face with traces of breakfast egg in his beard beamed upon them because King James was never so happy as when he was pursuing deer across country at a gallop.

  If he had been inclined to talk to anyone, Dodd would nevertheless have been struck dumb at the beauty of James’ horse, a wonderful grey with a high arching neck and a high pace, a pure Arab and perhaps the father of Dodd’s own mount, since he was a stallion.

  “Och,” he said, struck to the heart at it. It was too much, he almost had tears in his eyes as he watched the beautiful beast prance and sidestep while the King spoke to each of his nobles in turn.

  “I think His Highness calls his horse Whitey,” said Carey quietly in his ear. “Something about not letting him get too big-headed.”

  Dodd almost cracked a smile, but remembered and just said “Ay,” and carried on staring hungrily at the animal. Carey shook his head in amusement and moved away.

  To start with it was all milling about as the dogs cast around for the scent and the younger ones became excited about rabbits and snapped at other dogs they didn’t like and the Master of Hounds used his whip to break up a dogfight that broke out over by the musicians’ cart.

  Carey sat his horse and watched patiently. If he had been riding Sorrel he would have let the reins loose so the horse could cast around in case there was anything a hobby could eat in the bare winter forest. However he was riding a horse he didn’t know, so he kept them tight and discouraged any messing about by the horse. He didn’t really need to: the horse had been beautifully schooled. Dodd was nearby on his own part-Arab and Carey had to admire the way his body went with the horse and controlled her without even thinking about it. He didn’t even know what a centaur he was.

  Yet Dodd’s face was stony and dour, and not from its natural set. Silence and rage breathed out of Dodd like a smell—maybe it was a smell, since the wolfhounds hadn’t done more than greet him. It looked like he wasn’t going to forgive Carey any time soon.

  Suddenly the hounds all moved together and gave tongue, and they were off across country, streaming out in a long comet’s tail around the King, a couple of trumpets calling. It was a short run; they caught some young rascals with just a couple of points against a deerfence, and the forward hounds pulled them down and killed them and then the whole pack gave tongue again and went after something new.

  Carey was keeping up with the King, a few ranks back as was suitable, with Dodd sticking to his back like an ugly limpet. He was watching all the people around the King, had seen Spynie quite a long way from the centre and found a shifting population of tough Border earls. There went Kerr of Cessford, and Earl Hume, and one or two handsome young men, but no one figure staying close to the King.

  So the King hadn’t found a new minion yet, eh? Carey thought back to his own youth without regret—Lord, what an innocent he had been. He looked around behind him, saw Dodd as usual behind him, saw the beaters running behind the horses and thought he glimpsed Bangtail running among them, but then lost him again behind some trees covered with ivy.

  There was a knot of nobles all shouting at each other and the Earl of Huntly burst out of the middle of them, his face alight, and galloped hell for leather after the King whose white horse was floating ahead like a speedy cloud, ripping through undergrowth and leaping brooks as if his hooves didn’t quite touch the ground. It was easy to forget, but in fact the King was a superb horseman and not at all shy when in the saddle hunting, although he was notoriously frightened of knives and guns, which his aggressive subjects thought very strange. As a result of this eccentricity, none of the nobles were armed with anything more than hunting knives, nobody had any kind of gun, swords were absent, of course, even crossbows were only in the hands of a few men-at-arms to finish off anything more dangerous than a deer.

  Huntly had caught up with the King and shouted something at him and the King turned his mount on a sixpence and came back to the stand of trees where everybody was waiting for the hounds to find the scent again. He happened to be near Carey and brought his horse prancing alongside and beamed at him.

  “Sir Robert Carey, what a pleasure to see ye again, cousin, how is Carlisle?”

  “Still there,” said Carey drily which made His Highness laugh.

  “Ye’ve brought yer tooth-drawing philosopher, have ye not?” Carey bowed. “Ma Court’s in need of a philosopher. Lord knows, we hae a sufficiency of dominies and ministers but not a whiff of a philosopher, apart from a couple of mathematicians. How’s he shaping?”

  As if Anricks was a hunting dog, thought Carey, highly amused. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “he is working on the first part of his dissertation.”

  �
��Ah, excellent. He’s no’ here, is he?”

  “No, Your Majesty, he says it’s a well-known fact that philosophers do not ride to hounds but spend their time hunting in mental coverts, pursuing the white hart of truth wheresoever he may flee.”

  King James laughed again, he loved flights of rhetoric, which was why Carey had unblushingly stolen Anricks’ trope. “Och, that’s pretty. I havenae got a proper philosopher to dispute wi’ him so I’m thinking I may take the job maself.”

  “Your Majesty is an extraordinary prince,” said Carey, his heart sinking. “Is there another ruler in Chistendom that could be able to do such a thing?”

  “Mebbe, mebbe not,” said King James complacently, “but I dearly love a good intellectual argument so…Och, my Lord Huntly, are ye back, what did ye catch?”

  “Only a few does, Your Highness,” said Huntly, some twigs in his hair and his hat over his ear. “I let them go. There’s a full crop of staggards and rascals in this forest and no need for killing the women.” He turned and winked at Carey for some reason and laughed.

  “Ay, ye’re right.”

  They were waiting for the hounds to take the scent again and Carey imagined the frenetic activity behind the copses and deerfences as previously captured deer were released from cages and driven towards the King and his party.

  And then the King spotted something himself and they were off again, a little group of stags running before them, flashing their rumps in and out of the trees. There went the King, Huntly, shouting and singing, the Maxwell, Spynie…Spynie was looking over his shoulder at something and Carey looked over his own shoulder to see what it was. Nothing there was more interesting than holly bushes. He kicked his horse to a gallop and followed the leaders, heard the clear cold tones of silver trumpets in the distance, felt rather than saw that Dodd had suddenly fallen back. There were two attendants on either side of him, keeping pace with him, forcing him slightly off course. He was headed for a copse that was clear of undergrowth. Spynie was still breaking his neck to look back at Carey and now Huntly was as well. Suddenly Carey went icy.

  The wonderful horse was galloping too fast to stop quickly so as he passed between the first two trees, he hunkered right down to the horse’s neck, felt something swipe his hat off, tried to slow the horse, took his feet out of the stirrups, felt rather than saw something else and felt the horse lift in a desperate effort to get over whatever it was, but wrongfooted and the back legs tangled in something. With a panicky scream the horse went over sideways and Carey just managed to jump clear out of the saddle and roll into a hollybush.

  As he lay there winded and surrounded by prickles, Carey saw Bangtail run past followed by Red Sandy, straight into the holly patch and into a fight, which bashed to and fro until Bangtail’s head and shoulders suddenly appeared between the bushes, dealing a wonderful headbutt on his opponent’s face which produced a fountain of blood from a mashed nose. Red Sandy emerged from the prickles on the other side and caught the man nicely behind the ear with a cosh that he then politely put away in his jerkin. The two of them dragged the man out between them with holly leaves in their hair.

  “The other one ran,” said Red Sandy breathlessly as he passed.

  Somehow the King was there, looking thoughtfully down at him from his grey.

  “Sir Robert, ye’ve lost your hat.”

  Then he looked at the crashing in the brambles where the horse was trying to get up and a strange look of terror crossed his face. “T’il est haut!” he shouted and galloped off immediately to the group of nobles, including Huntly, trotting up behind him, galloped between them and rode on ahead as they turned their horses and whipped them to a gallop behind him. If he hadn’t been the King, Carey would almost have thought he was fleeing from something terrible, fleeing for his life. But no, surely not. Kings don’t do that.

  Carey was still crowing for breath but started picking his way out of the hollybush which seemed determined to hang onto him like something out of a ballad about the Faeries, and made half a dozen holes in him every time he moved.

  Wheezing, he fought clear of it and staggered over to where his horse was flailing about in the winter brambles, both his hind legs caught in some kind of thick wire. One leg was at an ugly angle and another of the attendants was standing there, staring but not doing anything.

  Carey caught the panicking great head and put his weight onto the forequarters which weren’t injured although the hooves were kicking. He held the head, muttering sweet nothings until the animal had calmed a little and then looked along the beautiful ruined body to where one of the foresters had come up and was examining his hindquarters carefully. Scored in two places by what had tripped him, both his back legs were still tangled in the wire and one of his legs was clearly broken. The forester looked up and shook his head slowly, reached in his pack and pulled out a crossbow.

  Carey had only met the horse an hour before, but still his heart hurt for the stupid destruction of such a lovely animal. He didn’t even know his name. So he held the horse’s head tightly, whispered more endearments in his ears and put a hand over his eyes as the forester came up, aimed the crossbow at the centre of the chestnut forehead and loosed the bolt. After that there was only a shudder and the usual smell of shit and the glorious horse was knacker’s meat.

  Carey’s heart was still thumping and so he waited a minute before he let go and stood up and found Dodd standing nearby with his statute cap off in respect.

  His hands were shaking too, more for rage than for fear because he knew exactly who had caused the fall and how. He went over to the man Red Sandy had coshed who was still unconscious and kicked him to check, then went back to where the rope had been and finally discovered his wounded hat. He also found the rope still there, tied at neck height between two trees and looked very carefully at it before he untied it and took it down.

  “Och,” said Dodd a little way away, his face stricken for a moment. He still had his mount, who was tethered to a tree a little way off and neighing anxiously in the direction of the knacker’s meat. Mother and son, perhaps?

  “Here we are,” he said, the rope under his arm, as he untangled the wire from the horse’s legs. He chucked the rope at Red Sandy. “Nice little trap, rope first which I ducked under and then a double wire at the horse’s chest height. He tried to jump it, but…” His voice suddenly seized up and he stopped, had to breathe carefully in and out a couple of times. “Not possible,” he finished bleakly, staring straight at Dodd who was examining the ground in front of him.

  “All right, ye!” said Red Sandy to the man he had caught, whose hands he was roping behind him. The man was coming to but was still googly eyed. “Who paid ye?”

  “S…Spynie is m…my good lord…” came the mutter which only confirmed what Carey already knew. Who else had been craning his neck, looking to see him fall? No one. Apart from the Earl of Huntly whom Spynie could have told.

  More attendants were coming up with a cart, and a slide. They roped up the dead horse’s back legs and dragged the body onto the cart and then closed the back, touched up the carthorse and trotted off in the direction of Holyrood House and the kennels most probably. It wasn’t so unusual for a horse or even a man to be killed in the hunt, what was unusual was the means.

  “Sir, are ye hurt bad?” asked a gruff voice, and there was another attendant, an elderly man with a bag full of bandages.

  “No, no, I’m not,” admitted Carey, after a look all over himself. Holly scratches aplenty and bruising on his shoulder and back where he had hit the ground when he rolled, but nothing worse. “Do you have another mount for me?”

  “Ay sir,” said the man, beckoning up a young groom with a fresh horse for Carey. Not an Arab this time, but a perfectly respectable hunter. What Carey wanted to do was have a drink but that seemed out of the question. Or maybe not.

  “Do ye have any brandy?” he asked the man who seemed
to be some kind of surgeon. A shy smile lit the man’s face.

  “Ay sir, would ye prefer aqua vitae or whishke bee?”

  “I’ll have the whishke bee, if I may, goodman.”

  There was a look of approval and a small flask was produced which Carey drank from and nodded because it was very good, though not as smoky as the stuff he had drunk in Carlisle. More of an earthy taste.

  “All right,” he said to the young groom, checked the bit, the girth and then swung himself up and adjusted the stirrups. “Sergeant!”

  Dodd was already mounted again and his face returned to its usual granite.

  “We’ll see if we can catch the King again,” said Carey. “Bangtail and Red Sandy, thank you very much for catching that bastard…Was it Mr Anricks that suggested you come along as beaters?”

  “Ay,” said Red Sandy, “and he paid us forebye, he’s a nice man and sensible. Said we wis tae try tae stop ye breaking yer neck.”

  “Well, take the man back to Holyrood House and put him in a storeroom for the moment. I don’t think my Lord Spynie is likely to try anything more against me now.”

  Bangtail knuckled his statute cap and they started trotting the man back to the palace. “Och, ye can run or we’ll set light tae yer breeks,” Carey heard one of them say at the man’s protests as they disappeared between the trees.

  Carey looked long and hard at Dodd who said nothing. And so he put his heels in and galloped off after the King and his nobles who had left a trail behind them.

  ***

  The man who said his name was Jonathan Hepburn was extremely angry. As far as he could tell from a couple of foresters he had paid, the idiot Lord Spynie had made an attempt on Carey’s life, botched it, and then left the English Deputy Warden with a prisoner who could say who had arranged for a rope and two wires to be stretched across the man’s path. Worse still, Spynie had asked Hepburn to tell Sergeant Dodd to hang back at the silver trumpets but had not explained why. As he had done as he had been asked, that meant that Dodd could say Hepburn had been part of the plot against Carey, which in fact he hadn’t, since he had come up with a new use for the mad Courtier and needed him alive for the moment.