3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (7 page)

“Now then,” Carey said warily.

Hutchin drew a deep breath. “When I take Thunder out for his evening run, will I let anybody see him?”

“Certainly,” said Carey. “Let them see he’s no miracle.”

Young Hutchin nodded and grinned in perfect understanding.

Scrope and his party returned and Carey tagged along while they wandered down to the Captain’s gate to look at the alterations and refurbishments being done to the Warden’s Lodgings in the gate-house. Finally the gentlemen went off into Carlisle town which was already getting noisy and Carey at last had Scrope to himself.

Scrope, however, did not want to talk about the armoury clerkship or the weapons. He chatted about horses, he held forth on Buttercup the lymer bitch’s ancestry and talents, he spoke hopefully that some of the falcons might be out of moult soon, he congratulated Carey on the venison his patrol had brought in and the sheep which was being butchered even now, and he regretted at length the sad news about Long George.

At last Carey’s patience cracked. “My lord,” he said, breaking into a long reminiscence about a tiercel bird Scrope had hunted with five years before. “Will you be issuing the new weapons for the muster?”

“Oh ah, no, no, Robin, not at all, never done for a muster, you know.”

“But for God’s sake, my lord, even the Graham women have bloody pistols and my men are only armed with longbows.”

“Never done, my dear chap, simply never done. Now don’t huff at me…”

“I would have taken it very kindly if you had waited to consult me over the temporary clerk to the…”

“Quite so, quite so, I’m sure you would.” Scrope beamed densely. “Very patient of you, bit of a mix up over the armoury clerkship, and once it’s all sorted out, we’ll look into the matter, of course, but in the meantime, if you could…ah…be kind enough to leave it with me? Eh?”

Carey took breath to say that he was not patient and was in fact highly displeased, but Scrope beamed again, patted his shoulder with irritating familiarity and said, “I would love to carry on chatting, Robin, but I simply must go up to the keep and change or Philadelphia will skin me, bless her heart.”

Carey could do no more than growl at the Lord Warden’s departing back.

“Ay,” said a doleful voice behind him and Carey turned to see Sergeant Dodd standing there. “Valuable things, guns. So I heard.”

Carey’s lips tightened with frustration. “Well, Sergeant, thanks to my Lord Warden. I’ve lost the sale of a fifty pound office and you’ve lost about ten pounds in bribes from hopeful candidates trying to get you to put in a good word for them.”

It hardly seemed possible but Dodd’s face became even longer and more mournful, which gave Carey some satisfaction.

“Och,” said Dodd, sounding stricken, “I hadnae thought of that.”

Carey snorted and turned to go back to the Queen Mary Tower to see how much money he could raise for backing Thunder the next day. Dodd fell into step beside him.

“Lowther’ll gi’ us none of them,” Dodd predicted.

Carey snorted again.

“If they’re there at all,” added Dodd thoughtfully.

“What?”

“If they’re there…”

“Are you saying the guns might not have been delivered?”

“Och, I heard tell there were barrels full o’ something heavy delivered this morning and barrels of gunpowder and all, but I never heard anyone had seen the guns broken out of the barrels.”

There was a short thoughtful silence.

“I saw Sir Simon Musgrave testing a caliver in the yard.”

“I heard him too, the bastard.”

Strictly speaking Carey should have reprimanded Dodd for talking about one of the Queen’s knights so rudely, but he didn’t like Musgrave either.

“You know he’s one o’ Sir Henry Widdrington’s best allies,” Dodd added.

“Hmm.”

“And I know he proved two calivers, but naebody saw any of the other guns save Sir Richard Lowther and his cousin, the new armoury clerk. And they was mighty quick to change the locks again, so ye couldnae see them yourself, sir.”

“Hmm.”

Carey said nothing more because he was thinking. At the foot of the Queen Mary Tower he turned and smiled at Dodd.

“Could you manage to stay moderately sober tonight, Sergeant?”

“I might.” Dodd was watching him cautiously.

“Good. Meet me by the armoury an hour after the midnight guard-change.”

“Sir, I didnae mean…”

“Excellent. I’ll see you there, then.”

Dodd shut his mouth since Carey had already trotted up the spiral stairs and out of sight. “Och, Jesus,” Dodd said to himself sadly. “What the Devil’s he up to now?”

Saturday, 8th July 1592, evening

Philadelphia sat at her table in the dining room that presently doubled as a council chamber and stewed with mixed rage and hilarity. This supper party was clearly not going to be an unqualified success. All down the table were ranged the higher ranking of the local gentlemen who had come in for the muster, and some of the hardier wives and women-folk. They were talking well, their faces flushed with spiced wine and the joys of gossip, hardly tasting their food as they thrashed out the two most recent excitements: the inquest into the previous armoury clerk’s death and the raid on Falkland Palace the previous week. Seated with infinite care according to rank and known blood-feuds between them, they were settled in and looked like being no trouble.

However there was trouble brewing right next to her where her husband sat, his long bony face struggling to appear politely interested. At his right sat Sir Simon Musgrave, and facing Sir Simon was Scrope’s younger brother Harry, who had brought his young wife. The silly girl was tricked out to the nines in Edinburgh fashion, halfway between the German and the French styles, bright green satin stomacher clashing horribly with tawny velvet bodice and a yellow-starched ruff. She was also flirting outrageously with Robin who was next to her and courteously swallowing a yawn.

Sir Simon was booming away to Scrope about some tedious argument between the Marshal of Berwick and the Berwick town council. Sir Simon was firmly on the side of the town council. This was tactless of him because the Marshal of Berwick was Sir John Carey, elder brother of Robin and herself.

“It’s ridiculous,” opined Sir Simon for the fourth time. “Yet cannot let your garrison troops run wild in the town and then expect the mayor and corporation to pay for them…”

Scrope nodded sagely, while young Harry Scrope, who was even less bright than his brother, but had the sense to know it, kept his mouth shut.

Meanwhile Harry’s wife Mary cooed at Philly’s favourite brother, “Oh, Sir Robert, tell me more, it must be so exciting to serve the Queen at Court.”

“It certainly can be,” said Robin, being courageously polite. Philadelphia felt sorry for him. It was essential that he be seen there, but he looked more than ready for his bed and there was the cut in his side which must be hurting. Perhaps she could think of some excuse for him to leave. Then she saw him smile and lost all sympathy. Weary or not, he simply could not help being scandalously conspiratorial with Mary Scrope, who clearly thrilled to it. “It’s particularly exciting when the Queen takes against something you’ve done and throws her slippers at you,” he said.

Mary Scrope gasped and her breasts threatened to pop loose. She tilted a little so Robin could get the full benefit of them.

“Oh! What do you do then, Sir Robert?”

“Duck,” said Carey, picking up his goblet and drinking.

Philly noticed he had eaten practically nothing but that the page had refilled his drink three times. The continuing drone from beside her caught her ear briefly.

“…Sir John’s never been any good as Marshal, you know, my lord, he hasn’t got the grasp of Border affairs. I’d niver say nothing against his father, mind, but the…

Mary Scrope batted her eyelashes: she was a sandy sort of girl, Philly thought unkindly, sandy hair, sandy eyebrows, sandy complexion and whoever had recommended tawny had done her no favours.

“I can’t think what
you
could do to offend her.”

Carey smiled with a slightly sardonic turn. “It depends on your sex and your activities,” he said, letting his gaze wander all over Mary’s willing chest. His voice dropped. “A woman might offend her by dressing too well or misplacing a gem.”

Good God, Robin, thought Philadelphia, you’re not going to allow yourself to be seduced by Mary Scrope of all people, are you?

Robin cut a choice piece from the dish of mutton in front of him, placed it delicately on Mary Scrope’s plate with the tip of his knife, smiled winningly again with his eyes half-hooded.

“And a man might offend her by marrying or sed…”

Philly kicked her brother.

“Or not knowing what he was talking about,” she said brightly with a warm smile at Mary “That sort of thing offends her seriously.”

“Oh,” said Mary Scrope coolly. “Have you been at Court, Lady Scrope?”

“She’s one of Her Majesty’s favourite ladies in waiting,” said Robin, a reproachful glance on the oblique to Philly. “So much so that the Queen even forgave her when she married my lord Scrope.”

“So it’s true Her Majesty doesn’t like her courtiers to marry,” breathed Mary Scrope, with her breasts in desperate danger now as she leaned sideways. “Have
you
ever had that trouble, Sir Robert?”

Robin swallowed and smiled. “Not yet.”

On impulse Philly dropped her napkin and took a peep under the table: Robin had now tucked his long elegant legs awkwardly to the side, while Mary had one foot at full stretch trying to find his knee to touch. Philadelphia wondered where the various limbs had been before she kicked him. Honestly, men were impossible creatures. Imagine flirting with Scrope’s sister-in-law, as if his position weren’t delicate enough as it was. There was also a small lapdog, who had crept in somehow and was snuffling about on the rushmat for droppages.

Pink with suppressed emotion, Philadelphia took her seat again. Carey gave her a knowing look, but Mary Scrope hadn’t noticed, still being intent upon her prey.

“What else do you do at Court, Sir Robert?” she was asking.

“Oh, we dance and we stand around in antechambers playing cards and waiting to be sent on errands and we…”

“Seduce the maids of honour,” boomed Sir Simon who had finally noticed that nobody except Lord Scrope was listening to his stories about the politics of Berwick. “Isn’t that right, Sir Robert?”

Nobody could escape the edge of hostility in his voice. It was also the first time he had actually spoken directly to Carey.

“Not all of us, Sir Simon,” said Robin mildly. “Some of us have better things to do.”

Lord, thought Philly admiringly, that was a good barefaced lie, Robin.

“Ay,” sniffed Sir Simon. “I’ll be bound. Run around Netherby tower in disguise and borrow horses from other people’s wives, eh? That have no business lending ‘em, poor silly woman.”

“You’ve heard about Robin’s little adventure, then?” said Lord Scrope, reedily trying to deflect Sir Simon.

“Oh, ay. Widdrington’s not best pleased by it, I can tell you. The nags were exhausted by the time she got them back to Hexham, and one of them gone lame. The fool woman’ll no’ make that mistake again if I know Sir Henry.”

Interesting, thought Philadelphia, feeling sorry for Elizabeth and the nape of her neck prickling at the sudden sense of boiling rage coming from her brother. Robin’s gone white. He has got it badly, I wonder what he’ll do?

To everyone’s astonishment, the unregarded Harry Scrope spoke up.

“But in the process didn’t Sir Robert manage to persuade the Borderers on Bothwell’s raid to steal the King’s horses at Falkland Palace, rather than kidnap the King himself?” he said nervously. “That’s what I heard.”

“Maybe,” grunted Sir Simon. “But that’s not
all
that I heard, eh, Sir Robert?”

Robin sat for half a heartbeat, as if considering something very seriously. Then he finished his wine, stood up and made his most courtierly bow to Lord and Lady Scrope.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sir Simon,” he said with freezing civility in a voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “but I’m afraid I’m thick-headed at the moment. I was fighting reivers most of yesterday night and so if you will forgive me, my lord, my dear sister, I’ll go to my bed.” Philadelphia managed a gracious nod and a bright smile. “Good night, Mr Scrope, Mrs Scrope. God speed you back to Berwick, Sir Simon.”

Mary watched him stalk out of the council chamber with regret written all over her face: it was perfectly true, Philly thought affectionately, her brother was a fine figure of a man in his (as yet unpaid-for) black velvet suit, though his hair was presently shaded between black and dark red from the dye he had used for his Netherby disguise. Who could blame Mary Scrope if she wanted a spot of dash and romance to liven her life in the dull and practical north?

Saturday 8th July 1592, night

It was Sir Richard Lowther’s turn to patrol and he had long gone. Once again the night was sultry and dark with cloud, though the rain still refused to fall. Solomon the gate guard was sitting and knitting a sock with his one arm, one needle thrust into a case on his belt to hold it steady, a second ticking away hypnotically between his fingers and the other two dangling. He was away from his usual lookout on the Captain’s Gate, sitting quietly by the north-western sally-port where he could see into the castle yard. There was a stealthy sound to his left and he turned to look.