A Famine of Horses by P. F. Chisholm Page B

fees he could charge at stud…
    “Well?” said Janet.
    “Eh?” Dodd had his hands on the horse’s rump, running them down the beautiful muscles, feeling the tail which needed grooming to rid it of burrs.
    “Have you heard of a horse like that being reived recently?”
    “Reived…no, no, I’d have heard for sure. There now, there, I’ve no apples, I’m sorry…”
    “Dodd,” growled Janet. Henry paid no attention.
    “He’s an English beast, surely,” he said. “Never Scots, not looking like that, unless he’s out of the King’s stable.”
    “Is he?”
    “Is he what?”
    “Is he out of the King’s stable, Reverend?”

The churchman laughed fondly. “No, no, he’s an English horse, from Berwick, I know that from the man that sold him to me.”
    Dodd took the reins and swung himself up onto the horse’s back, rode in a tight circle before the church. He had a lovely gait, a mettlesome manner though he might have been short of horsefeed recently, and a mouth as soft as a lady’s glove.
    “Who was that?” asked Janet.
    “Oh, a peddler I know. He told me he came from further south than that, but he bought him in Berwick.”
    “Why bring him here? Wouldn’t he get a better price from the Marshal of Berwick Castle?” Janet demanded suspiciously.
    “I think he may have had some notion of crossing the border with him to sell to the Scots, but I convinced him he should not break the law and I bought him to sell on.”
    Dodd slid from the horse’s back again and patted his proud neck.
    “Hm,” said Janet, took Henry Dodd’s arm and moved him out of earshot. “Henry Dodd, wake up. Yon animal must be stolen.”
    “Not from here,” said Dodd, “I’d know.”
    “From Northumberland then.”
    Dodd shook his head and smiled. “Get a bill of sale on him and he’s ours legally.”
    “Oh, you…”
    “Janet, he’s beautiful, he’ll run like the wind and his foals will be…”
    “I know you in this state with a horse, you’d blather like a man possessed and pay three times the right price. If you promise me he isn’t stolen from this March, I’ll buy him, but you get away from here or the Reverend will see you’ve lost your heart.”
    Henry smiled lopsidedly. “I can’t promise he’s not reived, but I’m sure as I can be.”
    “We may have trouble keeping hold of him, you know, once the Grahams and the Elliots know we’ve got him.”
    Dodd shrugged. “I’m not mad, Janet. I’ll have him cover as many mares as I can in the time, then I’ll enter him at the next race and sell him after to the Keeper of Hermitage or Lord Maxwell.”
    Janet laughed. “Against the law.”
    Dodd had the grace to look embarrassed. “Or the Captain of Bewcastle or the new Deputy or someone strong enough to hold him.”
    Janet punched him gently in the ribs and kissed his cheek. “He’s a light thing to look upon, isn’t he.”
    Dodd forced himself to turn about, bid the churchman a gruff good day and walk away while Janet leapt hard-faced into the bargaining.
    Afterwards, she took the horses by back routes to the castle so that fewer unscrupulous eyes would see the beauty, and tethered both in Bessie’s yard. When she went in she found Henry, Red Sandy, Long George and Archie Give-it-Them all playing primero with a tall handsome chestnut-haired man she didn’t know, who talked and laughed more than anyone she had ever met, and had skyblue eyes to melt your heart.
    She sat down, watched the play which was tame, and waited to be noticed.
    “Oh Janet,” said Dodd happily, drinking from his favourite leather mug. “Sir Robert, this is my wife; wife, this is Sir Robert Carey, the new Deputy Warden.”
    Janet rose to curtsey to him and instantly took to him when he too rose and made his bow in return, smiling and addressing her courteously as Mrs Dodd rather than Goodwife. That arrogant lump Lowther would have grunted at her and told her to fetch him another quart. Though she would hardly need to be