“Absolutely not. Stay away from him.”
“But I lost the race because of him, for Christ’s sake, sir, will ye no’ let me…hurt him, at least, sir?”
“It was only a horserace,” said Carey, distantly, clearly doing some mental arithmetic of his own, “I’m sorry, but you don’t murder or assault people over a horserace.”
Hutchin’s young face was miserable with disappointment and uncomprehending resentment.
“But, sir…”
“And besides, he’s bigger than you are and he’ll be ready for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some others of his kin waiting for you, so you stay by me.”
Young Hutchin’s face took on an evil look of cunning at this and he calmed at once.
“Ay,” he said thoughtfully. “Ay, ye’ve the right of it, sir, he will. Ay. Me dad allus says there’s time to take yer vengeance, all the time in the world.” Carey either wasn’t listening or tactfully pretended not to hear.
“Whit about Thunder, sir?” Hutchin asked after a moment.
“One of the boys has already caught him, don’t worry about it. You should have won and it wasn’t your fault you didn’t; just don’t get yourself hanged over it, understand?”
“Ay, sir,” said Young Hutchin ominously.
Carey smiled faintly. “Keep an eye on him, Dodd.”
He sighed, squared his shoulders and marched briskly over to the triumphantly grinning knot of Salkelds, taking his purse out from under his jack and doublet.
Even Dodd had to admit that there was more style in bowing graciously to Salkeld as he patted his mare’s nose and personally led her up and down to cool her off. Carey paid his losses with a negligent flourish, smiling and laughing good-humouredly with Salkeld and ignoring Lowther. You could see that it took the edge off the bastards’ pleasure that the Courtier didn’t seem to care about his losses.
Philadelphia Scrope was less suave as she presented the silver bells for prizes. She glowered ferociously at Mr Salkeld as well as at Sir Richard Lowther, from which Dodd guessed she was hurting in her purse as well. It couldn’t have helped that Sir Simon Musgrave had been sitting beside her and was looking as happy as Lowther. Dodd saw her hand a small fat purse to him and sighed. God damn it, if Carey and his sister had lost their shirts on the race, where were Dodd’s wages to come from?
The savour had gone out of the day for him, and it only confirmed his mood when his wife caught up with him and demanded briskly to know exactly how much he had lost on the Courtier’s big charger and didn’t he know better than to think a Salkeld would lose so easily?
He heard his name called and turned eagerly to see who it was. Red Sandy was standing on one of the marker stones of the race track gesturing over by the rail, where a crowd swirled around a knot of shouting men.
Dodd mumbled an excuse to his wife and arrived at the outskirts in time to see two Lowthers piling into a Salkeld with their fists. The Salkeld bucked and heaved and slipped away, started shouting for his kin, three more Salkelds attacked the Lowthers and then it seemed half the crowd was at it, swinging fists, shouting and roaring and pulling up hurdles from the fencing to use as weapons.
Dodd had more sense than to dive into that lot, even if Carey had not given them strict orders on no account to get into any fights on their own. He blew the horn he had on his baldric, dodged somebody with a club and heard hoofbeats behind him. Carey was riding up with four of the men, leading a horse for Dodd which the Sergeant took gratefully and vaulted into the saddle.
“Reverse lances,” Carey called. “Don’t stick them.”
In the early moments of a fight they could push the combatants apart; once it had got to this stage, the only thing they could do was stop it from spreading by using their horses as barriers and try and push the fighters over and away from the main crowd. The shouting swirled and spread, more of the garrison horse came over, Carleton with his troop and the rest of their own. There were knives flashing now, ugly and bright, someone was puking his guts up by the fence and the horses were whinnying as they objected to being used as mobile fences. Then Sir Richard Lowther rode over with Mr Salkeld behind him and instead of joining the line of garrison men, he rode straight into the middle of the mêlée and began laying about him with the flat of his sword. Evidently, thought Dodd, he had gone mad. There he was, bellowing that as God was his witness, he would shoot one of them—ay, Ritchie’s Clem, you too—if the fighting didn’t stop.
Astonishingly, it did. Men who had been at each others’ throats let go of each other, the knives disappeared, the fence posts were dropped. A few seconds later all of them had dispersed into the crowd.
Lowther sheathed his sword and rode over to where Carey was sitting with his fist on his hip, looking contemplative.
“That’s how ye keep order at a muster,” said Sir Richard, swelling like a turkey. “Ye know the men because ye’ve been ruling ‘em for years and ye call them by name.”
Carey ignored him pointedly.
Lowther’s jowls purpled above the tight ruff while Dodd gazed busily into the distance. Away in the hills to the north was a long line of animals, small as ants, no doubt heading for Dumfries where King James would be in need of supplies. Eventually Lowther rode away.
The muster of the West March didn’t come to an end so much as tail off. Those who lived less than ten miles away went home, those who lived further out went to their exorbitantly-priced, shared beds in the inns and taverns of Carlisle, or lit camp fires and prepared to doss down for the night, each surname forming its own small armed camp in the meadows and gardens around Carlisle. The competing smells of bacon pottage and salt fish rose here and there.
Carey caught up with Scrope at last and found him deep in conference with Sir Simon. He waited politely for a while and finding himself to be somehow invisible, turned his horse away to go and seek out Thunder and give him some carrots. You couldn’t blame the horse: he had been doing his best to win and it wasn’t his fault that he had mislaid his rider.
Carey had got as far as the paddock when he heard a shrill cry behind him.
“Deputy, Deputy!”
He realised that a woman had been chasing after him and shouting for some time, so he turned his horse to look down at her. It was a skinny whippet of a woman, with her blue homespun kirtle held up and her feet bare.
“Goodwife Little,” Carey said courteously. “What can I do for you?”
She came up to him, skidded to a halt and dropped a sketchy curtsey which he acknowledged.
“Deputy, I want Long George’s back wages and a pension.”
“I’m sorry?”
“How am I to look after his bairns? We havenae land of our own, he was a younger son, and now I must pay the blackrent we owe the Graham and…
“Goodwife, wait a minute,” Carey dismounted and stepped towards her. “Are you saying Long George is dead?”
She blinked up at him, bewildered that he didn’t yet know of her world-shattering disaster.
“He died in the night,” she said bleakly. “The surgeon said if he saw the dawn, he’d likely be well enough. But he didnae. He went to sleep and he died. He were stiff as a board this morning.”
Carey shut his eyes briefly. “I’m very sorry to hear of it,” he said. “My condolences, goodwife.”
“Whit about his wages?”
“I haven’t the money on me now.”
“Well, what do I do about getting it?”
Carey struggled to make his thoughts behave themselves. He kept thinking how the little girl’s feet had twisted themselves together under her kirtle.
“I’m not sure I can help you myself at the moment,” he said. “Do you need shroud-money for the burial?”
Goodwife Little sniffed. “He’s in the ground already, his dad did it this morning. I need the money for the blackrent to Richie Graham of Brackenhill, or they’ll burn us out again.”
For a moment Carey stood still, thinking of Long George being buried in
unconsecrated ground like a dog or a suicide, wondering if his ghost would walk. He shook himself, felt inside his doublet and shirt and found his purse which had a couple of shillings in it, his entire fortune.
“That’s all I have, goodwife,” he said, handing it to her. “I’ve troubles of my own at the moment, but I’ll try and see what I can do for you.”
She curtseyed again, muttered her thanks as she took the purse and ran off into the crowd. Hitching Sorrel to the fence and ducking under the poles, Carey found Thunder in the middle of an admiring circle of boys and men, mainly English Grahams, with Young Hutchin holding his bridle and enlarging on the wickedness of that poxed pig of a Lowther that tipped him out of the saddle. Thunder whickered and nuzzled Carey. There was no question that Hutchin had kept him in beautiful condition, his coat gleamed and felt like warm damask, and he hardly seemed tired by his race. Nor was it Hutchin’s fault that his uncle was one of the worst gangsters on the Border. Carey gave him the rest of the day off.
It was soothing to Carey to ride Thunder back to the castle at the head of his troop, patting his withers while the big animal shook his head and pranced a little. Dodd, who had drunk enough at the end of the day to be imaginative, could have sworn the animal looked embarrassed and puzzled not to be wearing the victor’s bell. Dodd himself was weary and miserable and his stomach queasy with the after-effects of four meat pies, a strawberry turnover and a gallon or two of beer.
However there was no rest in prospect once they got back to the Keep. Something was happening in the courtyard when they rode in through the golden evening. It was full of shouting men carrying lanterns and torches, with Lord Scrope standing wringing his hands in the middle.
Carey frowned and looked in the same direction as the Lord Warden. Then he checked his horse and sat completely still, his lips parted as if he was about to say something and had forgotten what.
Dodd followed his gaze and thought, that armoury door is a mess, will ye look at it, bust apart and off its hinges…Je-esus Christ!
Somebody had raided the armoury while the Carlisle garrison was at the muster. In broad daylight, under the noses of the Warden, Deputy Warden and all the defensible men of the March, they had raided it and emptied it of every single caliver and pistol that it contained.
Sunday 9th July 1592, evening
The meeting took place in the Council Room that doubled as a dining room, Scrope presiding, Lowther, Carleton, Richard Bell and Carey all present. Carleton’s best jack was still dirty from his hurried ride out with his men to try and catch up with the guns or at least find some kind of trial. He had returned empty-handed, complaining that the number of feet that had trampled round the area made it completely impossible to find a trace.
Barnabus Cooke was holding the floor, answering Scrope’s questions.
“I was asleep, my lord,” he whined. “I’m sick wiv a fever and I was in my bed in Sir Robert’s chambers, sleeping. I din’t see nothing, din’t hear nothing.” That was all he would say with such monotonous regret that it was hard not to believe him.
There had only been six people in the Keep altogether, two of whom had been drunk and still were. The other two had been prisoners in the dungeon who hadn’t seen daylight for days and certainly couldn’t be suspected. And Barnabus had been asleep.
Scrope dismissed Barnabus and turned to his wife who was standing at his right hand.
“Walter Ridley?”
Walter Ridley was Lowther’s cousin, the acting armoury clerk whom Carey had never met and now probably never would. He had been found at the back of one of the stables, knocked out cold.
“He’s more deeply asleep than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life,” Philadelphia answered rather quietly. “He’s snoring and his colour’s bad. There’s a dent in his skull: I think he’s going to die, my lord, so if you will excuse me I’ll go back to him now.”
She shut the door behind her softly.
“Why would they kill him if he was helping them?” asked Scrope in a frustrated voice.
“To stop him telling who paid him?” said Thomas Carleton significantly, swivelling his barrel body to look at Sir Richard Lowther.
“There’s no reason to suppose he was helping them,” Lowther sniffed. “No doubt they hit him on the head to prevent him raising the alarm.”
“What was he doing up at the Keep in any case?” asked Scrope.
“Perhaps counting the weapons to be sure naebody had got at them.”
“Of course, it’s possible the thieves didn’t intend to kill him,” said Carey. “Perhaps they just wanted to give him an alibi.”
All of them knew they were avoiding the main issue. Scrope had pressed his fingers very tightly together.
“I need hardly tell you that this is a very serious matter,” he said pedantically. “All of the new weapons in the armoury have disappeared while we were mustering. And most of the ammunition and most of the fine-grain priming powder. How it could have happened is of less importance than finding and returning them…If the Queen got to hear of it…” His voice trailed off.
There was a moment of dispirited silence while Lowther and Carleton, who had never met her, wondered if all they had heard was true. Carey and Scrope, who knew that the legend was only the half of it, tried not to think of her rage.
“She simply must not be allowed…she must not be troubled with this,” said Scrope at last. “We must retrieve the weapons and that’s all there is to it. In any case, we can’t possibly ask for more weapons and munitions, so we must get them back. And we must also not let it be generally known what has happened, how weak we are. Or we shall have every reiver in the Scots West March riding south to take advantage.”
Scrope was looking upset, thought Carey, which was understandable. Carleton seemed quietly amused by the whole thing and Lowther…Now Lowther’s attitude was odd.
Carey coughed behind his hand. Scrope turned to him.
“Do you have something to say, Sir Robert?” he demanded rather pettishly.
“No,” Carey said blandly. “Although I think it’s going to be difficult to keep quiet. I also think there’s more to all these goings-on in the armoury than meets the eye.”
It seemed that Scrope didn’t want to hear it. He made an abstracted smile and spoke at large.
“We are agreed then that the Queen must not be allowed to hear of this and we must therefore make sure that our ambassador in Edinburgh doesn’t hear of it either. We will have to make very discreet enquiries as to what exactly happened and who stole the weapons…”
Carey continued to look bland. “My lord,” he said smoothly, “I shall of course bend every effort to finding the guns. But in the meantime—have you informed His Majesty of Scotland?”
“What?” Scrope looked more obtuse than seemed possible.
“Why the Devil should he do that?” demanded Lowther.
“King James is in Dumfries with an army to catch the Earl of Bothwell. That was the reason for the muster, if you recall, Sir Richard,” Carey lifted his eyebrows insolently at Lowther.
“I recall it, ay.”
“Surely the likeliest thief of the weapons is Bothwell or one of his friends, since they’d have need of them. They could be planning another attack on the King while he’s in the area.”
“I thought you said that Bothwell had gone to the Highlands,” Scrope protested.
Carey spread his hands. “I heard that, my lord. I don’t know if it’s true. He could be in the Hermitage in Liddesdale, raising an army to meet King James.”
There was a short silence while they all considered what could be done to the delicate balance of chaos on the Border and in the Debateable Lands by a couple of hundred handguns and barrels of gunpowder. Scrope rubbed his eyes with his fingers and then knitted his knuckles again.
“I must say, I hadn’t considered that,” Scrope admitted. “Puts a different complexion on the raid, rather. High treason and so on.”
“Precisely, my lord,” murmure
d Carey deferentially.
“Perhaps we had better tell the King, better to keep…ah…to show him respect.”
Very carefully, Carey did not smile. Scrope was as interested in keeping sweet the King of Scotland and likely future King of England as the Cecils or anyone else for that matter. As was Carey himself. King James in Dumfries, only a day’s ride over the Border, was an opportunity not to be missed, even if he had certain personal reasons for caution at the Scottish court.
“What? Send a messenger into Scotland wi’ news of the guns being reived?” demanded Lowther with a sneer. “Why not print it up in a pamphlet and sell it at the Edinburgh Tolbooth—it would have more chance of keeping quiet?”
Scrope was looking round the room in the way he had, his fingers fluttering on the table unconsciously as his gaze roamed past the covered virginals in the corner. Carey forced himself to sit still and keep his mouth shut. Would Scrope do it? It was an obvious course of action, but Carey had a strong suspicion that if he showed himself too eager, Scrope would shy away from the idea.
“We should send someone to the King with a verbal message for him alone,” Scrope pronounced at last. “Someone discreet that the King would be certain to receive.” His restless froggy eyes rested on Carey. “Whom the King already knows, perhaps?”
Lowther frowned. “My lord, I see no necessity…”
“Then you do know who stole the weapons, Sir Richard?” Carey snapped at him.
“No, I do not.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” put in Scrope with unwonted firmness. “I will have no…no disputes. Sir Robert, would you be willing to ride to Dumfries and speak to the King?”
Carey inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”
Even Scrope’s face was cynical. “You could start tonight…”
“No, my lord,” Carey said. “Not tonight. I don’t know the area and I might be mistaken for a reiving party crossing into Scotland. I would want to take three men with me…”
“What for?” sneered Lowther. “To protect ye?”
“Yes, Sir Richard,” said Carey sneering back. “I know the Scottish court and a man with no followers there is of no account at all. Three men is enough for respect.”
3 A Surfeit of Guns Page 8
