A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm

rack nearest the door. Then he went to the gunpowder kegs and opened them, filled a pouch from each, and brought out the least filthy arquebus.
    “Please note, gentlemen,” he said taking a satchel from his perspiring servant, “this is the right way to clean an arquebus so it may be fired.”
    By the time he had done scraping and brushing and oiling, there was an audience gathered round of most of the men of the garrison. Behind him the Carlisle locksmith was working to replace the lock he had broken.
    Carey made neat little piles of gunpowder on the ground and called for slowmatch. The boy he had brought with him came running up with a lighted coil. He blew on it and put it to the first pile, which burned sullenly.
    “Sawdust,” said Carey.
    In silence he went down the row of little mounds with his slowmatch. Lord Scrope had his hand over his mouth and was staring like a man at a nest of vipers in his bed. The last pile of gunpowder sputtered and popped grudgingly.
    “Hm. Sloppy,” said Carey sarcastically, “they must have missed this barrel.”
    He loaded the arquebus with a half-charge, tamped down a paper wad and used his own fine-grain powder to put in the pan. He then fastened the arquebus carefully on the frame his servant had brought, aimed at the sky, and stepped back.
    “Why…?” began Scrope.
    “In Berwick my brother had two men with their hands and faces blown to rags after their guns exploded,” said Carey. The audience immediately moved out of range.
    He leaned over to put the fire to the pan, jumped away. The good powder in the pan fizzed and the arquebus fired after a fashion. It did not exactly explode; only the barrel cracked. There was a sigh from the audience.
    “What the devil is the meaning of this?” roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.
    Carey folded his arms and waited as Lowther shouldered his way through, red-faced.
    “How dare you, sir, how dare you interfere with my…”
    His voice died away as he saw the pile of dummy weapons and the still feebly smouldering mounds of black powder.
    “ Your armoury?” enquired Carey politely.
    Lowther looked from him to the Lord Warden who was glaring back at him.
    “There is not one single defensible weapon in the place.” said Lord Scrope reproachfully, “Not one.’
    “Who gave him authority to…”
    “I did,” said Scrope. “He wanted to check on his men’s longbows as part of the preparations for my father’s funeral.”
    “I see no longbows.”
    “That’s because there are none,” put in Carey. “There’s some rotten firewood at the back, but the rest have been sold, no doubt.”
    Lowther looked about him. Most of the men in the crowd were grinning; Dodd himself was hard put to it to stay stony-faced and the women at the back were whispering and giggling.
    “Where’s Mr Atkinson?” he asked at last.
    “I’ve no idea,” said Carey, “I was hoping you could enlighten us.”
    Lowther said nothing and Carey turned away to speak to the locksmith.
    “Finished?”
    “Ay sir,” said the Locksmith with pride, “I did it just like yer honour said.”
    Ceremoniously Carey paid him, shut the door to the armoury and locked it, put the key on his belt and gave the other to Scrope.
    “Where’s mine?” demanded Lowther.
    The Carey eyebrows would have driven Dodd wild if he’d been Lowther, they were so expressive.
    “The Deputy Warden keeps the key to the armoury,” he said blandly, “along with the Warden. Though it hardly seems necessary to lock the place, seeing as there’s nothing left to steal.”
    Lowther turned on his heel and marched away. Most of the crowd heard the rumbling in their bellies and followed. Bangtail Graham and Red Sandy were talking together and Dodd joined them as Carey came towards him.
    “How far is it to where you found the body?” Carey asked.
    Dodd thought for a moment. “About six miles to the Esk and then another two, maybe.”
    “That’s Solway field, isn’t it, where the