3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (6 page)

She looked a great deal like her mother when she was determined, despite her inevitable crooked ruff. Sighing, her brother did what he was told. Barnabus shambled back with supplies from the stillroom and then went away again to fetch food. Philadelphia threaded her needle and put an imperious hand on his ribcage.

“Now stay still. This is going to hurt, which is no more than you deserve.”

It did, a peculiarly sore and irritating sharp prickle and pull as the needle passed through. Carey tried to think of something else to stop himself from flinching, but wasn’t given the chance.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to get yourself hurt, you know,” Philadelphia said accusingly as she stitched. “What with the muster tomorrow and King James coming to Dumfries and all. Don’t twitch.”

Before he could protest at this unfairness, Barnabus came limping back with a tray and a fresh shirt. Philadelphia knotted and snipped.

“About time,” she sniffed, putting her needle carefully away and picking up the pot of ointment and the bandages. “Up with your arms, Robin.”

Trying not to wince while she dabbed the cut with more green ointment, Carey asked, “What did you come to see me about, Philly?”

For answer she tapped irritably at a scar on his shoulder. “When did this happen?”

“In France. A musketball grazed me. It got better by itself.”

“You were lucky. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What for? So that you and mother could worry about it?”

“Hah. Hold this.”

Holding the end of the bandage with his elbow raised and his other arm up, Carey said again, patiently, “What did you want me for?”

She blinked at him for a moment and then her face cleared with recall, and switched instantly to an expression of thunder. “I assume you know that my lord Scrope has appointed an acting armoury clerk to replace Atkinson?”

“WHAT?”

“And the guns from London came in at dawn this morning while you were prancing about poaching deer on the Border and they’ve been unpacked and stored already and Lowther’s changed the lock on the armoury door again…
Will
you stay still or must I slap you?”

“God’s blood, what the Devil does your God-damned husband think he’s playing at…?”

“Don’t swear.”

“But Philly…OUCH.”

“Stay still then.”

“But what’s Scrope up to? Does he want me out? What is he
doing
?”

“You weren’t here when the guns came in. Lowther was. Scrope was panicking about who was going to keep the armoury books and Lowther said his cousin could do it for the moment and Scrope agreed. He must have forgotten that the office should be one of the Deputy Warden’s perks.”

“The man’s a complete half-witted…”

“And as far as I know, Lowther’s cousin didn’t even pay anything.”

Carey was now tucking his shirt tails into the tops of his trunkhose and he winced when he moved incautiously. “Atkinson paid fifty pounds for it, damn it.”

“I know. And the armoury clerkship has always been in the gift of the Deputy Warden. I checked with Richard Bell and he agreed with me, but when I talked to my lord Scrope all he would say was that the appointment was only temporary and you could have the sale of it later.”

Carey shrugged into his old green doublet and snapped his fingers impatiently at Barnabus to do up the points to his hose at the back.

“God damn it,” he muttered. “I was relying on selling the clerkship to pay the men next month.”

For once Philadelphia did not tell him off for swearing. Her small heartshaped face was bunched into a worried frown. “It’s worse that Lowther has the keys to the new lock and you haven’t,” she pointed out. “I’m sure he’ll find reasons not to let you have any of the new weapons.”

Carey went into his little office and sat down at his desk again, ignoring the bread and cheese Barnabus had laid out for him. He propped his chin on his fist and stared into space.

“Has the Newcastle courier gone yet?”

Philadelphia looked blank at the sudden change of subject. Barnabus coughed modestly. “No, sir,” he said. “He was in Bessie’s, last I saw.”

“And where the Devil were you, Barnabus?”

“Well, I…”

“I don’t ask much of my servants, just that they occasionally be present to serve me. Nothing elaborate.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Shall I fetch the courier for you, sir?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, Barnabus.”

Barnabus limped out the door muttering under his breath about his water being sore and his master being sarcastic and life in the north being even worse than he expected. Carey continued to stare into space for a moment and then shrugged, took a fresh sheet of paper and a small leather notebook out of a locked drawer in his desk.

“What are you going to do, Robin?”

“Finish writing to London. I’ll ask Burghley to try and persuade the Queen to pay my salary direct to me, and to do it quickly, and try to find me some funds for paying informers as well. I’m deaf and blind round here at the moment.”

“Are you going to tell him about my lord Scrope and the clerkship?”

Carey looked at her seriously. “Do you want me to?” he asked. “The Queen thinks little enough of your husband as it is, and she hasn’t sent his warrant yet. He’s not even officially Lord Warden. Do you want to give her excuse for delay?”

Philadelphia scowled and shook her head. She watched as Carey’s long fingers took up the pen and began the tedious business of ciphering his letter.

“Will you go to bed when the courier’s gone?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Well, I…”

“Only I want you fresh for this evening.” Carey stopped writing and glanced at her warily.

“Why?”

“I want you to come to the dinner party I’m giving for Sir Simon Musgrave, who brought the convoy in, and some of the other local gentlemen who have come for the muster.”

“Must I?”

“Yes. If the Deputy Warden isn’t there, people will begin to wonder if my lord is planning to take your office away, especially when they hear about the armoury clerkship.”

“Damn.”

“And besides everyone in the country wants to meet the dashing knight who solved Atkinson’s murder, never mind what he was up to the week before last—of which I have heard at least five different versions, and none of them as ridiculous as the truth.”

Carey rolled his eyes at the sarcasm in her voice.

“I have nothing fit to wear.”

Philly looked withering. “This isn’t London, you know. The only people who dress fine around here are the headmen of the big blackrenting surnames, like Richie Graham of Brackenhill. I’ll make sure Barnabus has mended your velvet suit by then; but your cramoisie would do well enough.”

Carey grunted and continued counting letters under his breath. Philly came and kissed him on the ear.

“Do say you’ll come, Robin.”

“Oh, very well. So long as you don’t expect me to do anything except feed my face and smile sweetly at people.”

“That would be perfect.”

***

The boom of gunfire woke him up. Carey found himself halfway to the window with a dagger in his hand before he was fully awake. He peered out into the castle yard and saw a small crowd of garrison folk gathered around a cleared space. He smiled at himself, thinking back to his time in France the year before when he had been similarly on a hairtrigger. As he watched, a thickset middle-aged man in a worn velvet suit and Scottish hat lined up a caliver with a well-earthed target and squeezed the trigger. Carey nodded. Typical. Not only had they unloaded the weapons without him, now they were testing them while he had a much-needed rest.

Muttering to himself he went back to bed, drew the curtains and tried to go back to sleep in the stuffy dimness. Eventually he did.

Awakened once more by Barnabus, Carey decided to dress early and go and talk some sense into Lord Scrope.

The Lord Warden of the English West March was nowhere to be found, however, until Carey thought to go round to the stables to see how Thunder his black tournament horse was faring. There he ran Scrope to earth, deep in conference with four local gentlemen.

“Ahah,” said Scrope, raising a bony arm in salute as Carey wandered round the dungheap which was being raked and trimmed by three of the garrison boys. “Here he is. Sir Robert, come and give us some advice, would you?”

Carey coughed and with difficulty, managed a politic smile at his brother in law.

The gentlemen were debating horse-races. Specifically, they were insistent that a muster of the West March could not possibly be held without a horse race or three and were even willing to chip in for the prize money. They had already decided on one race for three year olds and two for any age, and a ten pound prize for each.

“No,” said Carey in answer to one of the gentlemen. “Thunder’s not a racehorse, he’s a tournament charger.”

“Might be useful in the finish,” said the gentleman. “Twice the leg length of a hobby and good bones. Be interesting to see how he ran. How does he do in the rough country hereabouts?”

Carey raised eyebrows at that. “I never use him on patrol, he’s too valuable.”

“Oh quite so, quite so,” said the gentleman. “Still. Got a mare might come into season, you know.”

“I wouldn’t put Thunder to a hobby,” Carey said. “The foal might be too big.”

“Well, she’s a bit of a mixture, not a hobby really, got hobby blood so does well on rough ground, but still…”

“Sir Robert couldn’t ride him in the race,” put in Scrope. “He’s the Deputy Warden, he has to maintain order at the muster. Can’t have him breaking his neck in the race as well.”

“Put someone else up,” suggested another gentleman with a florid face, who had been feeding the horses carrots.

“That’s an idea,” said Carey, warming to the notion. If Thunder won a race, it would at least put the stallion’s covering fees up. “Who would you suggest? He’s not an easy animal to ride.”

“Find one of the local lads,” said a third gentleman. “Little bastards can ride anything with four legs, practically born in the saddle.”

There was a flurry on the top of the dungheap, fists swung and then a sweaty mucky boy scrambled down to land in front of Carey.

“Me, sir!” he was shouting. “I’ll ride him, let me ride him, I’ll bear the bell away for ye, sir!”

Carey squinted at the boy, and finally recognised Young Hutchin Graham under the dung.

Another boy, one of the steward’s many sons, leaned down from the top of the heap, holding a puffy lip and sneered, “Ay, ye’ll bear it away on yer bier, ye bastard, ye canna ride better than a Scotch pig wi’ piles…”

Young Hutchin ignored this with some dignity, and stood up, brushing at himself ineffectually.

“I can so,” he said to Carey. “I’ve rid him at exercise and he…”

Carey stared fixedly at the boy as the gentlemen listened with interest.

“…he’s a strong nag, an’ willing,” Hutchin finished after an imperceptible change of course. “And I’d be willing, sir, it’d be good practice.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed if he proved slower than you expected,” said Carey gravely.

“Och, nay, sir, I wouldnae expect him to win, not wi’ Mr Salkeld’s bonny mare in the race and all,” said Young Hutchin, all wide blue eyes and innocence.

Mr Salkeld was standing beside Carey and gave a modest snort.

“Well, she shapes prettily enough,” he admitted. “Prettily enough, certainly.”

“Hm,” temporised Carey artfully. “I’m not sure it would be worth it.”

Mr Salkeld took out his purse.

“Sir Robert,” he said with a friendly smile, “I can see ye’re too modest for your own good. How about a little bet to make it worth your while?”

“Well…”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give ye odds of two to one that my pretty little mare can beat your great Thunder.”

“Now I think
you’re
being modest, Mr Salkeld.”

“Three to one, and my hand on it. Shall we say five pounds?”

They shook gravely while Carey wondered where he could find five pounds at short notice if he had to.

After that nothing would do but that Scrope must show the gentlemen his lymer bitch who had pupped on the Deputy Warden’s bed at the beginning of the week. There was little to see at the back of the pupping kennel, beyond yellow fur and an occasional sprawling paw, while the bitch lifted her lip at them and growled softly. Carey waited while the rest of them went off to examine some sleuth-dog puppies, then put his hand near her muzzle. She sniffed, whined, thumped her tail and let him pat her head.

“I should think so,” said Carey, pleased. “Where’s your gratitude, eh? I want that big son of yours, my girl, and don’t forget it.”

“Sir Robert,” hissed a young voice behind him and Carey turned to see Young Hutchin slouching there. He smiled at the boy who smiled back and transformed his truculent face into something much younger and more pleasant.