3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  The father stepped forward protectively, while Long George’s brother moved unobtrusively for an axe hanging on the wall.

  “Who’re ye?”

  “I’m the Deputy Warden.”

  There was a sequence of grunts from the men and a sniff from the wife. Carey saw that the barber-surgeon was squatting beside his patient, tending the stump. Finally he wrapped the remains of George’s hand in a bloody cloth and rinsed his arms in water from one of the three buckets. George’s tightly bandaged stump was partly hidden by a cage of withies that the surgeon had bound around it. It lay stiffly inert beside George, not seeming to be part of him.

  “Did ye kill the man that did it?” demanded George’s father with his eyes narrowed. “What family was he, sir?”

  “I killed one Elliot myself, I don’t know who killed the other.”

  “Did ye not hang the rest?”

  “They escaped.”

  George’s brother spat eloquently into the bucket of blood by the bed. The surgeon stood up, nodded to Carey, handed the gory package to George’s wife.

  “Bury that with a live rat tied to it to draw out any morbidus,” he prescribed reassuringly. “Give him as much to drink of small beer as he’ll take but no food till tomorrow and I’ll come the day after to see to him. My fee…”

  Carey caught the man’s eye and shook his head. The man looked puzzled, then caught on, and nodded happily, no doubt tripling his fee on the instant. He began wiping, oiling and packing his tools away in his leather satchel, whistling between his teeth.

  Long George’s family stared at him and Carey went over to the bed, squatted down beside it. Carey had visited wounded men of his before; he knew there was not much he could say that would make anything better, but he was very curious about the cause of Long George’s maiming.

  “Long George,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

  “Ay, Courtier.” The voice was down to a croak and Long George’s face had the grey inward-turned look of someone in too much pain to think of anything else. He was panting softly like an overheated hound. It was a pity he had been too tough to faint while the surgeon did his work.

  “I’m sorry to see you like this, Long George,” Carey said inadequately.

  “Ay.” Long George tried to lick his grey lips. “What about ma place?”

  For a moment, Carey was nonplussed.

  “Ah canna fight now, see ye.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, don’t worry about it. I’ll look into a pension for you.”

  “Ay.” Long George sounded unconvinced.

  “What happened to your new pistol?”

  A long long pause for thought. “I dinna ken.”

  “Did it blow up in your hand? Is that what happened?”

  One of the men behind him sucked in a breath suddenly, but said nothing.

  Another long pause. “Ay. Must’ve.”

  “Did you load it twice?”

  Long George couldn’t understand this, the unbandaged bits of his face drew together in a puzzled frown.

  “Why would he do that?” demanded his father. “He wouldnae waste the powder.”

  “It might happen, in the excitement.”

  “Nay,” whispered Long George. “Once.”

  Carey sighed. “Where did you get the pistol?”

  No answer.

  “He canna talk,” said the woman sharply. “He’s sick and hurt, sir. Can ye no’ wait till he’s better?”

  Carey straightened up, nearly hitting his head on a roofbeam, and turned to her.

  “Do you know where Long George got his pistol, goodwife?” he asked.

  Her thin lips tightened and she folded her arms. “Nay, sir, it’s nae business of mine.”

  “Or either of you?” Both the other men shook their heads, faces impenetrably blank.

  Carey sighed again. Almost certainly the pistol was stolen goods from somewhere and completely untraceable now it was in bits on the Scottish border. Trying to swallow the coughing caused by woodsmoke and a foul mosaic of other smells, Carey moved to the doorway, bent ready to duck under the half-tanned cowhide they had pegged up out of the way so that the surgeon could see to cut.

  On an afterthought he felt in his belt pouch and found a couple of shillings which he put into the hard dirty hand of Goodwife Little. From the smell of it, the pot on the fire had nothing in it except oatmeal.

  “I’ll ask the surgeon if he has any laudanum,” he said. “If he hasn’t, I’ll talk to my sister about it.”

  Oppressed by the hostility of their stares and the smells of blood and sickness in the little hut, Carey went out to where the surgeon was waiting and told him to come for his fee to the castle in Carlisle, and come to him personally. The surgeon did not carry laudanum, since that was verra expensive, and an apothecary’s trade foreby. Carey returned to Dodd, mounted and they continued wearily back to Carlisle. Behind them the children stood in a hesitant row outside their hut, arguing over whether they should ask to be let back in again.

  ***

  They went into Carlisle Castle by the sally-port in the north-east wall and led their horses between the buttery and the Queen Mary Tower to the castle yard which was bare save for two empty wagons parked in the corner. Carey handed Sorrel’s bridle to Red Sandy and told Dodd to see to the horses and put their rebellious fee in the pen by the kitchens and then try and make sure all of them got some sleep and food before evening. There was no chance any of his men would go prudently to bed early that night, when the taverns would be full of their friends and relatives come in for the Sunday muster. In the meantime, if he could get his report to Lord Burghley written and ciphered quickly he might catch the regular Newcastle courier before he left at noon.

  He climbed the stairs to his chambers in the Queen Mary Tower, found nobody there at all. Damn it, where were the two servants he paid exorbitantly to look after him? Feeling hard done by, he stripped off his filthy helmet and jack and left them on the stand. He opened his doublet buttons to take the pressure off his side, then answered the heavy door himself to a timid knock.

  Surgeon’s fee paid, he decided he could stay awake until the evening. Sleeping during the day always made him feel frowsty and ill-tempered, and he was surprised to find himself so soggy and weary after only one night’s lost sleep. He stamped into his office, rubbing his itchy face, his head aching but the memory of the night’s doings clear. One of the many things he had learned when he attended Sir Francis Walsingham on an embassy to Scotland in the early eighties had been the vital importance of timeliness in intelligence. Burghley was not the spymaster that Sir Francis had been, but he needed to know about James VI’s mysterious German as soon as possible—which meant by Tuesday, with luck. Carey took a sheet of paper, dipped his pen and began to write, hoping that what he was writing was reasonably comprehensible.

  An hour later Philadelphia came hurrying up the stairs, knocked and entered her brother’s bedchamber and found it empty. She heard snoring from the office, went through and found Carey with his head on his arms fast asleep at his desk.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she sniffed, and shook his shoulder gently. “Robin, if that’s a letter to Lord Burghley, you’ll drool on it and smear the ink…”

  Robin grunted. Philly saw his doublet was open, pulled it back and saw blood on his shirt. Her lips tightened.

  Moments later she was in the castle courtyard, sending every available boy scurrying to find Barnabus. The small ferret-faced London servant eventually arrived looking hungover and even uglier than usual.

  “Good day, Barnabus,” she said with freezing civility. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  “Er…” said Barnabus.

  “I’m delighted to hear it. Are you free to do your job now?”

  “I didn’t know ‘e was…”

  “When I want to hear your excuses, I’ll ask for them. Now get up there and help me put your master to bed, you lazy, idle, good-for-nothing…”

  “What’s
wrong with him?” muttered Barnabus resentfully as they climbed the stairs. “‘E drunk then…?”

  A tremendous backhanded buffet over his ears from Philadelphia almost knocked him over. Barnabus shook his ringing head and blinked at her in astonishment. Seeing her fury, and remembering whose sister she was, he decided not to say the various things he thought of, and carried on up the stairs.

  Carey was extremely unwilling to be woken, but finally came groaning to consciousness and let his doublet and shirt be taken off him so that Philadelphia could attack the re-opened cut with rosewater, aqua vitae and hot water. She peeled the bandages off, making him wince.

  “God damn it, Philly…”

  “Don’t swear, and hold still. You’ve another bad lump on your head, what did that?”

  Carey thought for a moment. “Sim’s Will Croser’s horse kicked me,” he said. “My helmet’s dented.”

  “I’m not surprised. What was he thinking of?”

  Carey blinked and said with dignity, “Insofar as Sim’s Will is capable of thought, I should think he was thinking I was an Elliot.”

  “Hmf. I wish you wouldn’t get into fights.”

  Carey began laughing. “Philadelphia, my sweet, it’s my job.”

  “Hah! Hold still while I…”

  “Ouch!”

  “I told you to hold still. Barnabus, where are you going?”

  “I was only getting a fresh shirt from the laundry.”

  “Bring bandages and the St John’s wort ointment from the stillroom and small beer and some bread and cheese too.”

  “I’m not hungry, Philly.” She bit her lip worriedly and felt his forehead, her gesture exactly like their mother. “No, I’m not sickening. I’m not as delicate as you think me. It’s Long George. He had to have his right hand cut off this morning. His pistol exploded and took most of the fingers from it.”

  “I don’t see what Long George’s hand has got to do with you not eating,” said Philly, with deliberate obtuseness, getting out her hussif from the pouch hanging on her belt and cutting a length of silk. “Are you feeling dizzy, seeing double?”

  “No, no,” said Carey. “I’m perfectly all right, Philadelphia.” She stepped back and stared at him consideringly. In truth he looked mainly embarrassed at having fallen asleep over his work, like some nightowl schoolboy. “Can you send out some laudanum to Long George’s farm? And some food?”

  Her face softened a little. “Of course.” Carey nodded, not looking at her and she frowned again.

  “I think you should be in bed so your cut can heal,” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m going to sew the edges up and then bandage it again to try and stop it from taking sick and don’t argue with me. Don’t you know you can die from a little cut on your finger, if it goes bad, never mind a great long slash like that? Go on. Sit on the bed and lean over sideways so I can get at it.”

  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.”