3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  There was a confused babble of voices, followed by the crack of a fist on somebody’s flesh and a dull thud, no doubt of a boot landing somewhere soft.

  Dodd was already amongst the diceplayers, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. The lad who was just scooping up dice unwisely tried to draw his sword and Dodd booted him in the face. The only other one who seemed interested in a fight became suddenly less interested when Dodd put the point of his sword against his neck and grinned.

  There was some nasty work going on upstairs as crashes and the clattering of plate reverberated, but there was nothing Dodd could do about it except what he was doing. If Carey got himself killed in a sordid brawl over a pageboy, it would do no more than serve him right for not bringing enough henchmen with him to Dumfries. Still holding the diceplayers at bay with sword and dagger. Dodd cautiously toed open the inn door. The commonroom was full of men, caught in mid-move, staring at him and beyond him. Dodd wondered what they could see at his back but didn’t dare take his eyes off the diceplayers long enough to look.

  Almost to Dodd’s disappointment, there was the crash of an upstairs door flung open and footsteps. Carey appeared at the top of the stairs with a scarlet and dishevelled Young Hutchin in front of him. He came down sideways, with his sword holding a brightly dressed young man at bay. Young Hutchin had his dagger in his hand as well and had the squint-eyed look of a Graham about to kill something.

  “Out to me, Hutchin,” Dodd called. It seemed Carey had managed to avoid bloodying his sword and seeing this was King James’s court and these were some of King James’s best-liked hangers-on from the glamour of their clothes, that might be a good thing to continue. Hutchin stumbled forwards, ducked by the staring diceplayer still on the verge of death from Dodd’s sword, and stood behind Dodd with his chest heaving and his mouth working.

  Carey backed out to the door, silently daring the company to attack him. It wasn’t at all that the young courtiers following him down the stairs or the liverymen in the commonroom were cowards; it was only that Carey looked as if he positively hoped they’d try an attack so that he could kill them. Nobody wanted to be the first to take on a lunatic Englishman, they were all waiting for someone else to try it first. It showed you the sad corruption of the court, Dodd felt; most Scotsmen he had ever met would have taken the both of them without even thinking about it. Dodd kicked the nearest diceplayer’s kneecaps hard enough so he fell backwards and they both came away and into the street.

  Maxwell was standing there with fifteen of his men, shaking his head and grinning. For the first time in his life Dodd found himself warming to a Scot. Another Maxwell came hurrying out of the little vennel by the side of the inn, leading the big black horse almost as wide as the passage. Carey caught sight of this all in the one moment and started to laugh.

  “Ay, it’s true what I heard,” said Maxwell. “Ye’re an education and an entertainment, Sir Robert.”

  Carey bowed with a flourishing salute of his sword.

  A handsome young man in gorgeous padded purple and green brocade was leaning out of the window with spittle on his lips.

  “King James’ll hear of this, ye bastard Englishman! I’ll hae ye strung up for treason…”

  Both Carey’s knuckles were grazed. He sucked the left one and looked up at this and his face darkened with instant rage.

  “Come anywhere near me or mine again, my lord Spynie,” he bellowed, “and I’ll cut off your miserable little prick and stuff it down your neck.”

  A gaggle of women were tutting behind Dodd, an interested crowd was forming.

  “Ye dinna sceer me…” sneered the young man, although he had recoiled a little, no doubt from the sheer volume of noise.

  “And then I’ll stick you on a pole and shoot at you like a popinjay,” finished Carey, calming down enough to be witty.

  “King James will…”

  “Isn’t the King’s bed enough for you, my lord?” Carey asked in a voice that drawled insinuatingly. “Do you want fresher meat than His Majesty’s? I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear it.” With a theatrical turn, Carey tutted and shook his head sadly. Lord Spynie flushed and he pulled his head back in again.

  The crowd laughed knowingly and some of them began haranguing the young men about the door for the court’s sinfulness in the sight of the Lord. Some of them were well-educated enough to begin quoting Leviticus at length. Carey sheathed his sword, turned and strode back in the direction of Maxwell’s Castle, with the Lord Maxwell on his left, Thunder being led by Young Hutchin on his right and Maxwell henchmen in an almost reassuring bunch around them. Dodd tagged along, still keeping a weather eye open for Scotch ambushes and wondering whether it would still be possible to get out of town unscathed now Carey had put the King’s favourite against him. Probably not. Which would be better? Rejoin Red Sandy and Sim’s Will with Sir John Carmichael, or send for them both to come and take refuge with the new Lord Warden? Better stick with the new, now Carmichael had no official power. On the other hand, could Maxwell be trusted?

  They had no trouble coming to Maxwell’s Castle, overflowing with Maxwell’s cousins and Herries kin as well. In the courtyard, Maxwell exclaimed over the beauty of Thunder and felt his legs and looked in his mouth, all the while Carey solemnly denied that he was interested in selling the beast at all.

  Hutchin held the horse’s bridle as if it was a mooring in a storm and said nothing. When Maxwell had gone back into the hall, Carey looked at the boy and raised his eyebrows.

  “The man said he was fra the King and give me a shilling to come and show Thunder for him,” Hutchin answered in a sullen mutter. “How should I ken what they wanted?”

  Dodd waited for Carey to shout at Hutchin, tell him what a fool he was for believing any man with a tale like that, perhaps give him a beating for being so gullible. Hutchin’s face was still working with rage and humiliation. He had gripped his dagger so tight in his hand. Dodd could see blood on his palms, coming in half-moons from where his nails had bitten.

  “Scum,” said Carey to Young Hutchin gravely. “They’re scum. There’s dregs like that at every court but there are more here because the King…The King is soft on his followers.”

  Tactfully put, Dodd thought.

  “They try it with every unprotected boy they find and they’ll do the same with every girl and the reason why is that they’re evil bastard scum and they think they’ll get away with it.”

  Hutchin was still shaking with rage.

  “I’ll mind them,” he managed to whisper. “I’ll mind every one o’ their faces.”

  “You do that, Young Hutchin,” said Carey. “I’ll look forward to hearing the tale of how you kill them all when you’re grown.”

  “I marked one of them this time,” said Hutchin fiercely. “I hope he dies screamin’ o’ the rot.”

  “So do I,” said Carey. “Go and see what’s to eat in the kitchens and then stay close to us. If you have trouble again, give your family warcry…What is it?”

  “L-Liddesdale.”

  Carey smiled wryly. “I’ll come to it and so will Dodd. Off you go now.”

  Dodd’s mouth was open with outrage. When Hutchin had trotted off, he gasped, “But sir, will ye no’ thump him for nearly losing ye the horse?”

  Carey laughed softly. “Lord, Dodd, what could I do to him that would be worse?”

  “But he’ll no’ respect ye…”

  “Oh, the hell with the bloody horse, Dodd, there’s no chance Spynie could keep Thunder, any more than Maxwell could. And I think the boy will be more careful now.”

  “Sir, how did ye guess so fine what they were after?”

  “Come on, Dodd, you know I’ve been at King James’s court before? Though I have to say it wasn’t this bad then.”

  Dodd shut his gaping mouth before he said something he would regret. Wild speculation and surmise began to crowd through his mind. He managed to nod stolidly.

  “Ay,” he said. “Will I go and fetch Sim�
��s Will and my brother now?”

  Carey considered this. “No,” he answered. “Not on your own, not yet. I’ll get my lord Warden to send one of his servants with a letter to Carmichael and a couple of his men as backup.”

  Dodd nodded approvingly at this. The two of them took Thunder round to the stables and settled him in the best stall which had been cleared by Maxwell’s head groom. Carey unstrapped the dag-cases and slung them on his shoulder.

  “More shooting, sir?” Dodd asked sadly.

  “My lord wants to win the shooting match and I promised him the loan of my dags for it, though I think he’d be better off with a longer barrel. Come on. You can have a few shots too, if you like.”

  “No thank ye, sir,” said Dodd with dignity. “I dinna care for firearms.”

  ***

  They sat down again to eat with Lord Maxwell who had polished off much of the haggis and half the chicken, Carey waving Dodd to a seat on the bench next to him. Mollified as to his dignity, Dodd took the rest of the haggis, though it wasn’t as good as the ones his wife made when they had done some successful raiding.

  “Boy keep his maidenhead then?” asked Maxwell casually.

  “Just about.”

  “I could have warned you not to bring a lad that pretty here.” Carey sighed.

  “I know, my lord.”

  Maxwell swilled down some more of the terrible wine. “Ye ken what it’s like,” he said. “Lord Spynie’s friends and relations reckon they can do as they please, and mainly they can…”

  “On her last progress, the Queen hanged a man that was caught raping a girl—after a fair trial, of course.”

  Maxwell nodded. “The King should do it too, but Spynie begs him and the King always gives in. Any road, who knows; most of the time, the girls are willing enough for a ring or a couple of shillings. It’s the boys I feel sorry for.”

  The talk wandered on in a desultory way until it came back, remarkably enough, to the topic of the mysterious German.

  “No one knows,” said Maxwell flatly. “I heard he was a mining engineer from the Black Forest and he was to find the King a rich gold mine at Jedburgh and work it for him, by a new and Hermetic system for seeking out metals in the earth, but the mine collapsed and the King hanged him for lying about his knowledge.”

  Carey nodded wisely at this.

  “I heard he was from Augsburg,” he said.

  “Nay, the Black Forest, I’m certain of it.”

  “What was his name?”

  Maxwell made a small moue of ignorance and shook his head. “I never saw him, only heard tell of him.” He poured himself some more of the wine, sipped, seemed to notice the taste for the first time and spat it out into the rushes. “Jesus Christ, this stuff is shite.”

  Carey looked sympathetic again. “I had heard that you had found a decent wine merchant to supply you with…”

  Maxwell’s face darkened with anger. “I found a slimy bastard of an Italian catamite, that’s what I found, Sir Robert, him and his wife together.”

  The depth of sympathy in Carey’s face was masterly.

  “Oh?” he said.

  Maxwell grunted. “Brought them into Scotland, introduced them to the Court and what thanks do I get for it? None. Bonnetti’s bringing in French and Italian wine by the tun for His Highness and do I get a drop of it? I do not. As for his whore of a wife…” Maxwell spat into the rushes again. “If I didnae ken very well it’s not likely, I’d say she was in the King’s bed and Queen Anne should watch out.” He drank some more of his inferior wine and made a face. “Mind, she’s nothing so special there either, for all her looks.”

  “You’ve…er…”

  Maxwell shrugged elaborately. “Ye ken what these Southern bitches are like, Sir Robert. Allus on heat. But I dinna care to eat another man’s leavings, if ye understand me.”

  Carey nodded, completely straight-faced, while Dodd hurriedly buried his nose in his beermug.

  “She might be slipping out of favour wi’ the King as well,” Maxwell added, “seeing she came making up to me a couple o’ days since. I soon settled her, though. Bitch.”

  He stared up at his family’s battle trophies with an expression of gloomy reminiscence. There was a short awkward silence. Carey broke it.

  “And how is the King finding Dumfries?” he asked.

  Maxwell shrugged. “His Highness says he likes roughing it in the best house in town, after mine, but he wouldna stay here with me for all the assurances I gave him. He said he doesnae like castles much, for all he wouldnae be surprised by Bothwell here with me as he was at Falkland and Holyrood as well.”

  “No,” agreed Carey in a tactful voice.

  “At least he said he’s coming to my banquet tomorrow, though, after he’s been hunting.”

  “Mm. Where is he hunting?”

  “Five miles west of Dumfries, over by Craigmore Hill. My gamekeepers and huntsmen have been finding game for him all week, and we’ll beat the drive tomorrow.”

  “Mm.”

  “Of course, we canna use guns in the hunting, the King doesnae like them.”

  “Of course. Will this be a private hunt or…”

  Maxwell laughed at Carey’s tact. “Och, God, ye can come along if ye want, everyone else will. The King’s always in a good mood after a hunt, ye canna pick a better time to ask him for something.”

  Carey smiled back. “Splendid,” he said. “I wonder if he’ll remember me.”

  “And then there’s my banquet. It’s a masked ball and he said last time I spoke to him, he’ll be here incognito and seduce all the ladies. Good God,” Maxwell added with distaste, “who does he think he’s fooling?”

  Carey said nothing to that. He spent an hour after the meal showing Maxwell how to wind up the fancy lock of one of his dags and arguing with him over the right charge and how much it threw to the left. Maxwell was enchanted by a firearm not completely crippled by rain and further one where you did not have the bother of hiding the bright end of a slowmatch if you were lying in wait in some covert. Carey and he had a long technical discussion on the rival merits of wheel-locks and snaphaunces compared with matchlocks, but as the Maxwell pointed out, when you were talking about a fight, the key was numbers and anything more complicated than a matchlock was fiendishly expensive. The thought of the Maxwell clan armed with weapons like that made Dodd shudder, but Carey didn’t seem to see it. On the other hand, the Courtier’s fancy dags missed fire often enough for Dodd to feel that if you had to use the infernal things, perhaps you were better off with ones you were more sure might work in a tight spot.

  The bowling alley reverberated to the booms from the gun while Maxwell got its measure, and then all of them went out to the pasture on the other side of the river where the earthbank and targets had been set up. The King was not there, though an awning with a cloth of estate and carven chair had been set up ready for him. He was only a little less frightened of guns than he was of knives and would not come out until the contest was over and the football match ready to begin. The legend was that his unnatural fear of weapons had come about while he was still in his mother’s belly: Mary Queen of Scots had been six months pregnant with him when her husband Lord Darnley and the Scottish barons of the day had dragged her advisor and musician David Riccio from her presence at gunpoint and stabbed him to death in the next room. Or it could have been the shock of seeing his foster father bleed to death from stab wounds when the King was five years of age. Whatever the reason, King James was seriously handicapped as King of Scotland by being probably the least martial man in his entire kingdom. On the other hand he was at least still alive after twenty seven years on the throne, a rare boast for a Stuart.

  Dodd stood with Carey as the various lords who had come out with their followers to provide James with his army, stood forward one at a time to show off their prowess at shooting. For the archery they shot at a popinjay: not a real parrot, being too expensive for the burghers of Dumfries, but a bunch of feathers on a hi
gh stick, that wobbled in the soft wind. It was a far harder mark than the targets set up against an earthbank ready for the musketry competition.

  Carey watched with attention and then said to Dodd quietly, “If you want to recoup your horse-racing losses…”

  “I cannae,” said Dodd gloomily. “The wife has all that was left.”

  “I thought you managed to give her the slip at the muster?”

  “Her brothers found me afterwards in Bessie’s once we’d gone back up to the Keep and she wouldna take no for an answer.”

  Carey tutted sympathetically.

  “Ay,” said Dodd. “She even took the money I had back for my new helmet and said she’d pay it herself or we’d end up in debt to the armourer.”

  “Very disrespectful of her.”

  “Ay,” moaned Dodd. “And I’ll be getting an earful of it every time I see her no matter what I do. I’d beat her for it, I surely would, sir, but the trouble is it wouldnae make her any better and there’d be some disaster come of it after.”

  The last time Dodd had tried to assert his authority with his wife he had wound up in ward at Jedburgh as a pledge for one of her brothers’ good behaviour and spent three months in the gaol there because the bastard had seen fit to disappear immediately after. Dodd still wasn’t sure how it had come about, but he had no intention of making the experiment to find the connection. Besides she was fully capable of putting a pillow over his face while he slept if he offended her badly enough and she’d never burn for the crime of petty treason because Kinmont Willie would take her in as his favourite niece, no matter what she did. That thought alone had kept Dodd remarkably chaste while he did his duty at Carlisle and his wife spent most of her time running Gilsland. Still no bairn though, which was a pity. There was no wealth like a string of sons.

  Applause and ironical cheers distracted him from his normal worries. The archery contest had been won by a Gowrie. Now the gun shooting contest began and it seemed as if Carey had been busy laying bets. The laird Johnstone shot first and did reasonably well; Maxwell stepped forward and managed to put his first shot in the bull. Then a tall broadshouldered young Englishman with a face as spotty as a plum pudding stepped out. Carey groaned.