“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.
“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 fli
rting 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?”
3 A Surfeit of Guns Page 5