3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (25 page)

“Am I respectable?” she asked, looking him over critically before they joined the surprising throng of dalliers in the garden.

Carey bowed with more than usual extravagance. “Positively virginal,” he said, naughtily. “But you were limping on the other foot before.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “
You
have done your doublet buttons up unevenly,” she told him, turning to go in.

“Wait. When can we meet again?”

“I am lodging with my husband at the sign of the Thistle near the Fish Cross, very expensive and not at all clean. Will you come and attend me there tomorrow morning, Robin, and entertain me? I shall be very bored and in a bad mood, I’m afraid.”

“With the greatest possible pleasure, ma belle.”

She went in ahead of him, looking plump and pleased with herself, straightening her mask. He waited for a count of thirty and followed her, still happily glowing.

The King was on the point of going to bed, barely held up by Lord Spynie who was not much better off, hiccupping and laughing at the invisible jokes of alcohol. It was an odd thing to see a monarch so drunk he could hardly stand, Carey thought. The mere idea of the Queen of England so unguarded smacked of sacrilege. The company stood and bowed or curtseyed as the trumpets blew discordantly, while King James with his surrounding company withdrew to take horse back to the Mayor’s house.

The Signora went with the courtiers, studiously and cautiously ignoring him. He took care not to do more than glance at her, thinking fondly about stroking the secret places between her thighs and…

Elizabeth Widdrington was staring at him, looking as if she was reading his mind. Guilt and a schoolboy sullenness brought the blood into his face involuntarily. Black velvet masks made for an exciting and illusory anonymity, but it was also harder to read people’s expressions. He hoped she couldn’t see him flush, he couldn’t work out what she was thinking at all, if she could tell, if she minded (of course she minded). She linked hands distantly with her rightful husband, turned and left, young Henry yawning at her other shoulder.

Just for a moment he felt truculent. Am I supposed to spend my life yearning after her like some goddamned troubadour, he thought rebelliously. I’ll marry her the instant Sir Henry’s safely buried, but until then, what am I supposed to do? Live like a goddamned Papist monk? It didn’t matter. Sadness and weariness set in and more than ever he wished it had been Elizabeth straddling his crotch in the rose garden, Elizabeth moaning and collapsing against him at last, Elizabeth telling him to do his doublet buttons up straight…He sighed and went over to where Dodd was sitting on a bench near the curled-up and sleeping Hutchin, nibbling at some shards of sugar plate.

Dodd’s miserable face cheered him up a little, it was so full of the plainest envy.

“What now, sir?” asked Dodd, dolefully.

“Bed. Let’s wake the boy, I’m not carrying him up those stairs.”

Hutchin was not easy to wake and smelled of wine fumes. He was a fast learner, Carey thought with amusement; he had already learned the pageboy’s trick of toping a quick mouthful out of every drink he poured for his master. Carey himself was much less drunk than he had been earlier and Dodd looked exactly the same as always.

“Did you enjoy the feast, Sergeant?” he asked.

Dodd shook his head. “Is that what ye do at court, sir?” he asked. “All the time?”

“Pretty much.” Though it was interesting to contemplate what King James’s court at Westminster would be like if the King was habitually drunk in the evenings.

“It wouldna suit me, sir.”

“You can get used to it.”

“Ay, sir,” said Dodd, disapproving and noncommittal. “Nae doubt.”

Thursday 13th July 1592, morning

Dodd was still in a bad mood the next morning, along with every single man in Maxwell’s entire cess. Finding the hall where he had slept before so packed with men rolled in their cloaks that it was hard to pick your way among them, he, his brother and Sim’s Will had dossed down in the stable next to Thunder. He neither knew nor cared where the Deputy Warden had slept since he thought the man deserved to sleep on the floor, and Young Hutchin had curled up by the hall fire in a pile of pageboys all sleeping like puppies. It was very different from what he had imagined about court life. And what were they doing, still there anyway?

Carey came striding into the stable the next morning, a whole hideous hour before sunrise, looking fresh and not at all hungover. He was wearing his jack and morion. Behind him was a red-eyed silent Hutchin and outside in the courtyard there was a brisk feeding and watering and saddling of horses.

“What now?” moaned Dodd, leaning up on his elbow and picking straw out of his hair. Beyond the stable door he could see that it was spitting a fine mizzle.

“My lord Maxwell is very anxious for us to ride out to Lochmaben and inspect his guns,” said Carey cheerfully. “Good God, what’s wrong with you, Dodd? You didn’t drink much yesterday.”

“Och,” said Red Sandy, sitting up and scratching, “he’s allus like this, he hates mornings. Always has. Will ye be wanting us too, sir?”

“No. I want you and Sim’s Will to go and do some drinking on my behalf.”

Red Sandy brightened up at that.

“Ay, sir.”

“I want you to spend time with the men around town, buy a few drinks, and see if you can catch any hint of a sudden influx of good firearms anywhere. Just listen for rumours, or envious complaints and take good note of who’s talking and who they’re talking about. That clear?”

Red Sandy was on his feet and so was Sim’s Will, both looking much encouraged. Sim’s Will nodded and went out to see who had taken their feed bucket, while Red Sandy brushed down two of the hobbies and put their saddles on.

Carey handed over several pounds in assorted Scots money to Red Sandy while Dodd sat up and fumbled for his boots.

“Do you think you could do that work for me without getting roaring drunk or into any fights with the Scots?” Carey asked. Red Sandy was offended.

“Ay, o’ course, sir.”

“Young Hutchin, you have to stay either with me or Red Sandy. Which do you prefer?”

Young Hutchin swallowed stickily and looked at the ground.

“I’d prefer to stay with Red Sandy, sir,” he said. “Ah…the Maxwells are at feud wi’ the Grahams, sir; Dumfries is well enough with the King here and all but it might be better for me not to go to Lochmaben.”

Carey lifted his eyebrows at the boy. “Is there any Border family your relations are not at feud with?” he asked.

Hutchin looked offended. “Ay, sir, we’re no’ feuding with the Armstrongs or the Johnstones, nor never have.”

“And that’s all? Has it never occurred to your uncles that merrily feuding with every surname that offends you in any way might not be a good long-term policy, especially if you have the King of Scotland after your blood as well?”

Hutchin looked blank. “What else can we do, sir?” he asked. “Be like the Routledges, every man’s prey?”

Carey sighed. “Stay with Red Sandy and Sim’s Will and try to keep out of trouble.”

“Ay, sir.”

***

Lord Maxwell looked no happier than any of his relatives or attendants, and seemed to have cooled towards Carey as well. They broke their fast hurriedly on stale manchet bread and ale, and then followed him out of the Lochmaben Gate of Dumfries and northeast along the road to his castle. They struck off the road after about four miles, into a tangle of hills and burns, until they met with a number of angry looking Maxwells, gathered about three battered wagons whose wheels bit deep into the soft forest track. Lord Maxwell’s steward came forward and spoke urgently into his ear, at which Lord Maxwell’s face became even grimmer.

He waved at the wagons.

“There ye are, Sir Robert,” he said. “See what ye can make of them.”

“Are we not going into the castle?” Dodd questioned under his breath.

“It seems my lord Warden wants to be able to deny the weapons are anything to do with him,” Carey answered softly. “Count your blessings, he’s not going to be a happy man.”

Carey slid from his horse, squelched over to the nearest wagon and climbed onto the board next to the driver. He pulled out a caliver or two, turned them upside down, grunted and threw them back. The last one he examined more carefully and then shook his head.

“Well?” demanded Maxwell impatiently.

“They’re all faulty,” said Carey simply. “The barrels are all badly welded, the lock parts have not been case-hardened and some of them are cracked already. If you use these in battle, my lord, your enemies will laugh themselves silly.”

“One of my cousins has been blinded by one and another man had his hand hurt.”

“There you are then, my lord. If you like we could prove a couple.”

“Ay,” said Maxwell, rubbing his thumb on the clenched muscles in his cheek. “Do so.”

Although he knew as well as Dodd that it was unnecessary, Carey went through the motions, rigged a caliver to a tree stump and spattered it all over the clearing.

There was a kind of contented sigh from the Maxwells standing about. Carey left the wagon, came back to his horse and mounted up again in tactful silence. They waited, finding the paths all blocked by Maxwells.

The tension rose, broken by wood-doves currling at each other through the trees and anxious alarm calls from the jackdaws.

Finally Maxwell flung down his tall-crowned hat and roared, “God damn it! Bastard Englishmen, bastards and traitors every one, by God…”

He swung suddenly on Carey and at the motion the Maxwell lances seemed to lean inward towards the Deputy Warden and Sergeant Dodd. “And what d’ye ken of this, eh, Sir Robert? Sitting there so smarmy and clever and telling me I canna do what I plan because the guns are nae good…”

“Would you have preferred me to keep silent and let you use them against the Johnstones, my lord?” asked Carey levelly. “I could have done that.”

Ay, thought Dodd viciously, wondering how many of the lances were aimed at his back, and why didn’t you, you interfering fool?

“Ye’re in it wi’ Scrope and Lowther and the Johnstones, aren’t ye, aren’t ye?” yelled Maxwell, forcing his horse over close to Carey and leaning in his face. “And a clever plot it was too, to gi’ the advantage to the pack of muirthering Johnstones.”

“Nothing to do with me, my lord,” said Carey steadily.

“Lord Scrope’s yer warden, ye’d do what he tellt ye.”

“I might,” allowed Carey. “If he had mentioned this to me, of course. In which case I would hardly have come here with you, would I? But I don’t think it was him.”

“And who was it then?”

“From whom did you buy the guns, my lord? Ask yourself that and then ask who did you the favour of stopping you firing one of them.”

Oh, thought Dodd as a great light dawned on him. So that’s what the interfering fool’s about, is he? Well, well. It took most of his self-control not to let a wicked grin spread itself all over his face. That night spent tediously marking all the guns in the armoury with an x before we even knew there was anything wrong with them, it was time well-spent. And now we’ve found them again and we can go home.

Maxwell’s face was working. He seemed to be thinking and calming down.

“Ye came to find these, did ye no’?” he said at last.

Carey shrugged. “I knew we had lost the guns during the muster on Sunday, and I knew someone must have put a big enough price on them for…someone to want to take the money and embarrass Scrope at the same time.” Noticeably he did not mention the previous theft on the road from Newcastle, when the Tower-made guns had been swapped for the deathtraps now owned by Maxwell.

“The bastard,” breathed Maxwell repetitiously. “God damn his guts.”

“Amen,” answered Carey piously.

“I paid good money for this pile of scrap iron.”

Carey tutted. “Who to, my lord?” he asked casually.

Maxwell’s lowering face suddenly became cunning. “I canna tell ye that, Sir Robert.”

Carey sighed at this sudden niceness. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “Will you say what you paid?”

“Twenty-five shillings a gun, English, and we were to send them back once we’d had the use of them.”

Up went Carey’s eyebrows at this unexpected titbit. “Really?” he said slowly. “Is that so?”

“The usual arrangement, ye ken, only we wanted more of them. And for longer. Sir Ri…He was to find them at Lammastide in an old pele-tower near Langholm, ye follow.”

“Ah yes, I understand. And take the credit for it. Hmm. Well, what will you do with them now, my lord?”

“Throw ‘em in a bog.”

“Don’t do that, my lord.”

“Will ye take them back then?”

Carey smiled thinly. “I don’t think so, my lord. But will you keep them here for a couple of days?”

“Why?”

Carey looked opaque and tapped his fingers on his saddle horn. “Just in case, my lord, just in case. You never know what might happen.”

Maxwell grunted sullenly. “What am I to dae about the Johnstones?” he demanded to know.