3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  “You could take your whole troop.”

  “No need, my lord, and in any case, I doubt I could find them anywhere to sleep. Also we will need to take supplies for us and the horses…”

  “Ye sound like ye’re going on campaign,” Lowther put in again.

  Carey sighed. “Clearly,” he said, “Sir Richard has never seen a Royal court on progress, as I have, many times.” Scrope nodded anxiously.

  “I might have known ye’d be drooling after the chance to meet the King,” said Lowther. Carey stared at him and wished he could find an honourable excuse to punch the man. The words were bad enough but Lowther’s tone twisted them into an implication of sodomy.

  “I have met the King of Scotland,” Carey said with cold patience. “Nearly ten years ago on Walsingham’s embassy.” Lowther sniffed.

  “What about the weapons?” Scrope asked, swerving back to the problem at hand. “If you leave tonight you could be sure of telling the King before they can be used against him.”

  “Either they are on packponies or they have been moved to wagons. Ponies, I would imagine, they move faster in this part of the world. But the quickest a pony train could go so heavily laden would be about fifteen miles a day, and it’s thirty-five at least to Dumfries. I can get a good night’s sleep and still talk to the King before the guns are likely to get near him.”

  “It’s not nearly so far to the Debateable Land.”

  “True. But if that’s where they’re going, they’re there already and nothing we can do about it.” Scrope nodded. “I’ll need some kind of excuse for going to the Scottish court as well.”

  “Hm? Oh, no problem, Sir Robert. You can take a letter of congratulations to my lord Maxwell on his forthcoming appointment as Warden of the West March of Scotland. It would be polite of me to send one and I want to ask for a Day of Truce, do some justice. That will do, won’t it?”

  “Perfectly, my lord.”

  “I’ll send the water-bailiff with you, he’s a Graham and he knows the way.”

  Lowther scraped his chair back as he stood up. “Ay, it’s a pretty sight,” he sneered heavily. “Ye’ll keep it from Her Majesty the Queen what happened to her own weapons, but ye’ll tell it to the Scotch King to keep him sweet.”

  Scrope coughed and tapped his fingers on the table as Lowther marched out. “And now, unless any of you has any useful suggestion on retrieving our weapons…”

  There was a pregnant silence. Not even Carey spoke.

  “…I think we will end this meeting. No, Mr Bell, I do not require a record of it. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Carey was the last to leave, rapidly totting up what he would need to take with him by way of clothes and supplies and money. He drew Scrope aside once the others had clattered down the stairs and told him that Long George was dead.

  “Dear me,” said Scrope, looking concerned. “Was that the man who lost his hand when you ambushed Wee Colin Elliot?”

  “Yes. He leaves a wife and four children and they need a pension.”

  “Er…well, I’m not at all sure if…”

  “My lord, without one they will either starve or turn to theft.”

  “Well, yes, but there’s no obligation for us to provide a pension to…”

  Carey looked around at the hangings, the wax candles, the softly shining rosewood of the virginals and the silver flagon of wine in the corner. Bad wine, true, but wine.

  “Not only an obligation, my lord, but a necessity,” he said through his teeth, something old-fashioned and feudal rising in him at Scrope’s modern stinginess. “If other men see that their families might starve should they be killed in the Queen’s service, how the Devil do you think we shall find men to garrison the Keep?”

  “Er…yes. True.”

  “Whereas if Goody Little receives a pension, even a small one, the word will get round that we look after our own at least as well as the Grahams.”

  That was a hit. Scrope flushed slightly and his jaw set. “Well…if you put it like that, Robin…Yes. Of course, Goody Little must have a pension.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ll talk to Richard Bell before I go. There is also the matter of money that I need to take with me into Scotland. I shall need a minimum of ten pounds for bribes, possibly more, some good silver plate and another five pounds sterling for rooms and stabling.”

  “Haven’t you got it?”

  “No, my lord. To be bald, I haven’t a penny at the moment.”

  Scrope blinked at him. “But you brought a large loan from the Queen with you. And you won a considerable amount from Lowther only last week.”

  Carey coughed self-deprecatingly. “And I’ve spent it, my lord,” he said. “And…er…lost it.”

  “On the horse-racing? On Thunder?”

  Carey shrugged. “Not having the sale of the armoury clerkship in prospect, my lord, I felt I needed to raise cash to pay the men next month.”

  Scrope wandered over to his beloved virginals, sat down in front of it and began stroking the lid. “Well, er…Robin, I’m very sorry, but I’m in a few difficulties that way myself.”

  “But, my lord, your estates yield…”

  “Oh, to be sure, to be sure, theoretically. Do you have any idea how much it costs to be March Warden? Especially if I’m to pay pensions to the families of men killed in my service? Let alone burying my father properly? The funeral cost me more than two thousand pounds, most of it cash which I had to borrow. And the Queen has not yet seen fit to send my warrant, nor any of my fees.”

  Carey stared at his brother-in-law, half-thinking of Long George being put in the ground by his father as cheaply as a dead dog. Though a peer of the realm was not to be compared with a Border tenant farmer, of course, still the worms would find them equally tasty…

  “But, my lord, can you not at least advance me something against my own fees, for travelling expenses?”

  Scrope began playing with a faraway expression on his face, something pretty and tinkling, making Carey want to slam the virginals lid shut on his spidery fingers. He shook his head.

  “Your sister was…ah…as hopeful of Thunder’s prospects as you were yourself. I’m afraid I have no actual money at all at the moment.”

  The perky little tune tweedled up the keyboard and down again and Scrope’s attention was gone with it, far into the realms of music where grubby King Mammon held no sway. Carey bit his tongue on several unwise retorts and strode to the door.

  “Um…Robin?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Ah…Thomas the Merchant Hetherington is reliable and not too…um…exorbitant. A penny in the shilling, mainly.”

  “Per month?” Carey’s tone was undeniably sarcastic, but Scrope only coughed.

  “Er…no. Per quarter.”

  Carey shut the heavy door behind him with exaggerated care and the gossamer notes faded into the darkness of the spiral staircase.

  “Did ye tell him of the guns?” Dodd asked in the dusky courtyard, after Carey had ordered him curtly to make ready for a journey to Dumfries.

  “Good God, no. How on earth could I explain how I knew?”

  “We’re going into Scotland.” Dodd stared into the middle distance, looking gloomy. “Ay. Tonight?”

  “No, no. Tomorrow. There’s a couple of things I need to do first and I need a good night’s sleep.”

  “We’re going into Scotland in braid daylight?” Dodd was shocked and horrified.

  Despite his money-worries, Carey grinned at him. “Yes,” he said. “Why not? We’re not planning to lift any livestock, are we?”

  “Nay, sir, but…”

  “Not that you’ve ever done any reiving in that area yourself, have you, Sergeant?” Dodd’s neck reddened immediately. I really shouldn’t tease him, Carey thought to himself, it’s not fair.

  “Er…nay, sir, but…”

  “So there wouldn’t be any fear of you meeting any enemies, would there?”

  “Well, there would, sir, if ye follow me.
There’s the Johnstones for one, and what’ll we do if we meet up with Wee Colin Elliot again?”

  Carey gave him a cold blue stare. “Smile sweetly and bid him good day. We’re going to Court, not to a God-damned battle. Make sure you’re in your best jack and your helmet is polished.”

  Dodd nodded sadly and went to check on his tack. It was clear he would infinitely have preferred a battle.

  Monday 10th July 1592, early morning

  Carey’s sister refused to let Barnabus travel with them, which was deeply annoying since it meant Carey would have to do without a manservant at the Scottish court. Still, Barnabus was clearly very unwell, looking yellow, feverish and tightlipped. Philadelphia had put him back to bed in the little sickroom next to her stillroom with a brazier burning sweet herbs and a pile of blankets to help the fever. Carey, who had miraculously avoided ever catching a dose himself, hoped devoutly that he would stay lucky: Barnabus had been adenoidally eloquent on the trouble he had passing water and a number of intimate medical details that Carey could have done without. Philadelphia had also been firm on the subject of money.

  “I haven’t a penny,” she sighed, busily stirring a steaming little pot over a dish of hot coals on her stillroom table. Putty-coloured and unnaturally still in the sickroom’s other bed, Walter Ridley snored heavily in the background. “I can’t even afford to buy embroidery silks, thanks to you and that big lolloping horse of yours,” she added accusingly. “And my lord’s no help; he says I should have known better than to wager on anything with Sir Simon Musgrave, let alone horse-races. Why don’t you take Thunder with you and sell him at the Scottish court? King James likes good horseflesh, and he’s probably a bit short at the moment, what with the raid on Falkland Palace and everything.”

  Carey looked at her with annoyance, because he hadn’t thought of that himself.

  “Isn’t it illegal to trade horses into Scotland?”

  Philadelphia sniffed. “Don’t be silly, Robin, that law’s for peasants and their hobbies, not proper tournament chargers.”

  It would be a wrench to sell Thunder. George, Earl of Cumberland had offered him forty pounds for the animal before he left London, and he had been too sentimental to take it. Besides, at the time he had just wheedled a loan out of the Queen and was feeling rich. But there was no denying that Thunder was eating his head off in Carlisle, was too big-boned and heavy for Border-riding and was very unlikely to win him any tournaments at the moment. He might make something in covering fees but not enough to earn his keep.

  “Hm,” Carey said, thinking it over. “Perhaps it would be worth taking him. But in any case, I need travelling money now and some for bribing the Scots courtiers as well.”

  Philadelphia shrugged and stopped mixing the tisane she was making for Barnabus. “Well then, you’ll have to hock some rings, Robin, I’m sorry.” She cautiously sipped the brown liquid in the pot over her chafing dish with a silver spoon and shuddered. She began carefully decanting it into a silver goblet through a muslin strainer.

  “What’s in that?”

  “Hm? Oh, wild lettuce, camomile, dried rosehips. That kind of thing. It should make him a bit less sore, but I’m afraid if Barnabus is going to go on catching the clap every year, he’ll need to see a surgeon. Have a word with him about it when he’s better.”

  And so Carey delayed their departure for an hour while he did his business with Hetherington. This gave Dodd time to find his brother and tell him he was going into Scotland with them. Both Dodds were appalled at the thought of only themselves and Sim’s Will Croser crossing the land between Carlisle and Dumfries with the Courtier, who was plainly insane and tired of life, and the Graham water-bailiff who was not to be trusted.

  “It’s no’ the going there I’m so worried about,” Red Sandy said, chewing a bit off his fingernail. “It’s the coming back. D’ye mind that raid a few years ago where the Johnstones jumped us by Gretna?”

  “Ay,” said Dodd, who had a scar on his leg for a souvenir. “We could take every man in the garrison wi’ us and still not be more than halfway safe.”

  “He’s mad,” said Red Sandy, positively. “Run woodwild.”

  “Are ye coming or no’?”

  Red Sandy sighed heavily and bit down on his thumbnail. “Ay, of course I am, brother. God help us.”

  Sim’s Will Croser was a stocky and phlegmatic man who saddled up without complaint as if he were doing no more than taking a dispatch to Newcastle. Carey had left orders that they were to bring a week’s supply of hard-tack and horse fodder with them, and so they also had to load up four pack ponies with food and a fifth with blankets and a bag that clanked when shaken.

  Carey chose that moment to come striding into the yard, followed by the English Graham water-bailiff. Dodd noticed that the Courtier was broader by the thickness of a money belt around his middle under his jack and black velvet doublet and that he had two rings fewer on his long fingers. “Are we running a raid intae the fair Highlands?” Red Sandy wondered, shaking his head at the preparations. Carey smiled at him.

  “Plagues of locusts and looting Tartar hordes have nothing on a Court for stripping a place bare,” he said. “And that’s only the English court I’m thinking about; God alone knows what King James’s gentle followers are doing to Dumfries.”

  He went over to the stables and led out Thunder, who was already tacked up, hitched him to the big horse called Sorrel that was Carey’s normal Border mount. Thunder whickered in protest at the indignity of being led, and pulled at the reins as Carey swung into the saddle.

  He led them at a brisk pace out of the crowded town, nodding to some of the local gentry he had met at the old Lord’s funeral, and headed north towards the Border. They would have about five miles of the southern end of the Debateable Land to cross in order to go over the Border and Carey obviously needed to do it as quickly as possible, before word could get to any broken men about Thunder and their packponies.

  He was in a hurry but to Dodd’s surprise, Carey did not immediately take the route across the Esk and past Solway Field that led mostly directly to the Dumfries road. Instead, after a conversation with the Graham water-bailiff, he turned aside to Lanercost, until he came to the little huddle of huts where Long George’s family lived. The half-tanned hide across the entrance of the living hut still hung down unwelcomingly, although there was movement within. There was also a fresh grave a little way from the place, under an apple tree. Dodd looked at it and wondered nervously about ghosts.

  Carey dismounted, went over and knocked on the wattle wall and poked his head around the leather, immediately to start coughing at the smell of woodsmoke and porridge. All the four children he had seen before were piled up asleep like puppies in the bundle of bracken and skins and blankets where Long George had died and Goodwife Little was stirring at the pot hanging over the central fire.

  To Goody Little the Deputy’s sudden appearance like that was a nightmare come true again, and she shrieked softly at the horned appearance of his morion before recognising the face.

  “Cuddy,” she shouted. “Get up and stir the pot.”

  The boy fell blinking out of bed, scratching himself under his shirt and shambled obediently over to the pot. Goodwife Little wiped her hands on her apron and came to the Deputy, where she curtseyed.

  “Ay, sir?” she said, looking up at him, her hard thin face steely with hope firmly squashed and sat upon so it could not sour on disappointment.

  “May I come in, Goodwife?”

  She gestured and Carey stepped around the hide.

  “Long George was owed sixty shillings and sevenpence back pay, of which I have fifteen shillings and sevenpence here.” Goody Little took breath to speak but subsided when Carey raised his hand, palm towards her. “I have also arranged a pension which is only threepence a day, but which I have the word of the Lord Warden will be paid on any day of the month that you choose to collect it. You may collect the rest of his back pay at the same time, in instalments, or as
a lump sum, and you must present yourself in person with this paper here at the Carlisle Keep.”

  Goody Little had gone pale and put her hand against the wall. She smelled sourly female and as well-smoked as a bacon haunch, and as far as Carey could make out she had no breasts and no hips to speak of.

  Was she going to faint, blast her? “Goodwife? Are you well?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Only I was…I was relieved. I can pay Richie Graham what we owe him now, ye follow. I hadnae expected to see ye again, sir.”

  Carey said nothing for a moment. He took her scrawny rough hand between his two long-fingered hard ones.

  “Goodwife, this will not affect your pension, but I greatly desire to know the answer. It could help avenge your husband.”

  She looked at him warily.

  “What were Long George and his kin up to on the Wednesday before he was hurt? Don’t tell me lies: if it’s over dangerous for you to tell me, then I won’t press it, but please, it would help me. What was he doing?”

  “Why, sir?” she asked shrewdly. “Why is it so important to you to know?”

  “He got a gun in payment for it, right? A pistol?”

  After a moment she nodded at him.

  “Well, Goodwife, whoever it was gave him the weapon was the man that killed him. That pistol was faulty: it burst in his hand when he fired it the second time, and that was how he came to lose his life.”

  Her mouth opened slightly and her eyes narrowed. She was not a fool, Carey could see, only very wary and weary also.

  “Are all of the guns bad?” she asked. “All the guns that was in the armoury?”

  Carefully, not revealing what she had let slip, Carey nodded.

  Goodwife Little thought for a moment longer while Carey held his breath because he desperately wanted to cough. “My man was out wi’ his uncle and cousins,” she said finally. “Taking a load of guns from carts and loading them on a string of packponies.”

  “And, I suppose,” said Carey quietly, “putting another load of guns into the carts that went on to Carlisle?”

  Goodwife Little nodded.