3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  “When ye find out, will ye pass the word to your Uncle Richie, Hutchin? God knows, it’s why we paid to put ye in the Keep in the first place.”

  “Of course.” Hutchin was offended. “I know that. But it’s no’ so simple as I thought. It’s…well, he doesnae treat me like ye’d expect, and he doesnae think like a Borderer. I’m no relation of his at all, but there it was, he came after me.”

  Surprisingly, Uncle Jimmy nodded. “Your Uncle Jock o’ the Peartree was saying something alike the other day. He’s as puzzled as ye are. But dinna forget, Carey’s got his price, same as any man. All ye need to do is find out what it is and we’ll do the rest.”

  Hutchin smiled. “Whatever it is, it’ll be high. Have ye seen the velvets and silks he wears and the way he treats ‘em?”

  Uncle Jimmy laughed. “Och, we’ll even pay his tailor’s bills for him, if he wants. Uncle Richie’s a businessman, no’ a headcase like Kinmont Willie.”

  Belly packed tight with a hot pottage and more ale Young Hutchin said goodbye to his relatives and started back up the Soutergate towards the Townhead and Maxwell’s Castle. He felt very proud of himself for never mentioning the water-bailiff’s rather older wife that he had left in Carlisle.

  As he picked his way between the heaps of dung and the men playing dice and drinking at every corner, he realised that someone was keeping pace with him. Narrow-eyed with new suspicion, he looked sideways as he drew his dagger, saw a stocky youth a little older than himself, but well-dressed in a wool suit and wearing a sword, though not obviously a courtier. His face seemed a little familiar, but Hutchin couldn’t place it.

  “Good afternoon,” said the youth cheerfully. “Are you Hutchin Graham?”

  “Who wants to know?” demanded Hutchin, backing to the wall and looking around for ambushes.

  The youth took his cap off politely. “Roger Widdrington, second son of Sir Henry,” he said, and then added, “Lady Widdrington sent me.”

  Young Hutchin relaxed slightly. He could hear easily enough that this Roger Widdrington was no Scot, but did indeed come from the East March.

  “Ay,” he said. “I’m Hutchin Graham.”

  “Sir Robert Carey’s pageboy?”

  “Ay. What about it?”

  Roger Widdrington moved closer, ignoring Hutchin’s dagger, so that they were under the overhang of an armourer’s shop. “Ye know that my Lady Elizabeth has been forbidden to speak to the Deputy?”

  Hutchin nodded. He had carried the letter, but had not been able to read it. However, it was easy enough to guess what it said from the Deputy’s reaction to it.

  “Well,” said Roger Widdrington with a knowing grin, “my stepmother still likes to hear about him. Will ye tell me anything you can about him while he’s in Dumfries?”

  “The Deputy doesnae take me into his confidence much.”

  Roger Widdrington nodded wisely. “Whatever you can tell me,” he said. “And my lady will pay you of course, sixpence for each item of information.”

  Hutchin nodded cannily. That made sense and Lady Widdrington was a sensible woman. God knew, he sometimes thought the Deputy needed a nursemaid to keep him out of trouble.

  “Ay,” he said. “I can do that.”

  “What can you tell me now?”

  “Not much. I havenae seen him since last night, for I left the Castle before him this morning.”

  “How are his balls?”

  Hutchin suppressed a grin. “Not bad, not bad at all, considering some bastard tried to swing on them, though he doesnae ken who, it being too close and too quick. He didnae need the surgeon, though Dodd was all for sending for one, but the Deputy said most of the surgeons he knew were ainly interested in what they could cut off, and that wasnae what he had in mind.”

  Roger Widdrington laughed. “I’ll tell her he’s better,” he said, and handed Hutchin a silver English sixpence as proof of his integrity.

  “Meet me here tomorrow at noon,” said Roger Widdrington. “Can you do that?”

  “I reckon I can.”

  “Excellent. Oh, and don’t tell the Deputy about this—Lady Widdington doesn’t want him worrying about what might happen to her if Sir Henry finds out.”

  “Ay,” said Young Hutchin, well pleased with himself, pulled at his cap and went on up to Maxwell’s Castle.

  ***

  King James had finished his repast, mainly of brutally tough venison, and was well into the Tuscan wine when the English Deputy Warden was announced. Beaming happily he rose to greet the man and found him down on one knee again.

  “Up, up,” cried King James. “By God, I had rather look ye in the eye, than down on ye, Sir Robert. Will ye sit by me and take some wine? Good. Rob, my dear, fetch up some of the white Rhenish and some cakes for my good friend here.”

  King James watched his page trot off dutifully and sighed a little. At that age they were delightful; so fresh-faced and rounded, but King James was a man of principle and had promised himself he would have nothing to do with children. Poor d’Aubigny had been clear in his contempt for those who did and besides, as he had also said in his delightful trilling French voice, how could one tell that they would not suddenly erupt with spots or become gangling and bony? Beauty was all to d’Aubigny, beauty and elegance, things in precious short supply in Scotland.

  King James turned back to Carey and smiled. “It’s such a pleasure to meet someone newly from the English court,” he said. “Can ye tell me aught of my esteemed cousin, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth?”

  Carey, who was extremely tall once off his knees, had sat down at once when invited to, tactfully upon a low folding stool by the King’s great carven armchair. He spoke at length about the Queen, from which King James gathered that the old bitch was still as pawky and impossible as ever; that she was spending money like water upon the war in the Netherlands and the miserable fighting against the Wild Irish led by O’Neill in the bogs of Ireland; that if James’s annual subsidy was actually delivered he should be grateful for it, since there was no chance whatever of an increase—a sad piece of news to King James, but not unexpected.

  “Och, it’s a fact, Sir Robert,” he said sadly. “There is nothing more stupid than a war. If I have a hope for the…for the future, it is that I may one day become a means of peace between England and Spain.”

  Sir Robert took this extraordinary sentiment like a man. Not a flicker of surprise did his face betray; instead he managed to bow from a sitting position and say “Her Majesty is often heard to say the same thing: that the war was never of her making and that she fought against it with all she had and for as long as she could, but that at the last you cannot make peace with one who is determined to fight.”

  “Ay,” said the King. “That’s true as well and well I know it.”

  “What Her Majesty deplores most of all is the waste of gold to pay for weapons. She says it is like a great bottomless pit, and if you tip in cartloads of gold, still you never hear them so much as tinkle.”

  King James smiled at the figure, but felt he could improve it. “Or the mouth of an ever hungry monster, a cockatrice or a basilisk, perhaps.”

  “It’s not surprising,” continued Carey. “For weapons are expensive, above all firearms.”

  “So they are, so they are,” agreed King James affably as the young Robert came trotting back with a silver flagon and two silver goblets. The wine was better than most of the stuff swilling around Dumfries, but still not up to its surroundings, and Carey had some work to swallow it. King James was more used to the rotgut that the Hanseatic merchants had been unloading on thirsty Scotland until the Bonnettis arrived, and knocked his own drink back easily.

  “We had a strange accident in Carlisle upon the Sunday,” said Carey after a moment’s pause. “A number of newly delivered firearms were stolen out of our very armoury while we were at muster in readiness to assist you.”

  “Never?” said King James. “Well, I am sorry to hear it, Sir Robert, sorry indeed. Such dishonesty…�
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  “It was thought that they might have come to Scotland, perhaps brought by an ill-affected noble?”

  “Och no, to be sure, they’ll have been auctioned all over the Debateable Land by now,” said King James. “The surnames might well be a wee bit concerned with myself in the district to do justice and the hanging trees all ready with ropes. It’s not to be wondered at that they might try a thing like that to arm themselves better against me. Not that it will do any good.”

  “And then there was the rumour of a Spanish agent at Your Majesty’s court.”

  “Never,” said King James very positively. “Now why would we do a silly thing like that, harbouring an enemy of England, considering the manifold kindnesses and generosities to us of our most beloved cousin, the Queen of England.”

  “Not, of course, with Your Majesty’s knowledge,” said Carey, managing to sound very shocked, slipping from his stool to go on one knee again. “Such a thought had never crossed my mind. It struck me, however, that some among your nobles might have…designs and desires to change the religion of this land, or something worse, and the Spanish agent might be a part of it.”

  “Och, never look so sad, man, and get off yer poor worn out knee again. That’s better. Have some more wine. Nay, any Spaniard at the court, and I’d have had word of him from my lords here all at daggers drawn, quarrelling for his gold.” He smiled wisely at Carey who smiled back.

  “Of course, Your Majesty, I was a poor fool to think otherwise.”

  “Ay, well, we’ll say no more on it. And when I go into the Debateable Land to winkle out Bothwell, that black-hearted witch of a man, I’ll keep a good eye out for your weapons, never fear.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. If I might venture a little more on the subject: for God’s sake, do not try any that you might capture, for they are all faulty and burst on firing. You may tell one of the faulty guns by a cross scratched on the underside of the stock.”

  King James nodded. “I shall bear it in mind,” he said. “But personally I do not care for the crack and report of firearms no more than for the clash of knives or swords. Ye may have noted how most of the beasts we hunted this morning were slain by arrows or bolts or the action of dogs. So I’ll be in no danger from yer badly-welded pistols, have nae fear.”

  “I am very happy to hear it,” said Carey after a tiny pause. “Your Majesty’s life is, of course, infinitely precious, not only in Scotland, but also in England.”

  Hm, thought King James, is this some message from the Cecils, I wonder? Do they see danger somewhere? I wonder where?

  Gently he probed Carey, but thought that in fact the man was as he seemed: concerned at the lost guns from Carlisle and with the rumoured Spanish agent, but he had left London in the middle of June and was already a little behind with the court news. Also it transpired that he was one of the Earl of Essex’s faction, rather than with the Cecils, which showed he was disappointingly short-sighted.

  Surely it couldn’t be much longer to wait, thought James as they discussed the merits of hunting par force de chiens as opposed to using beaters; surely the old battle axe would die soon. But it seemed that she was like the Sphinx: full of riddles and immortal, her health depressingly good apart from being occasionally troubled by a sore on her leg.

  King James was sinking the wine as quickly as he usually did, with Rob already gone down to the butler for a refill. One of the clerks would be in soon with administrative papers for him to sign and letters to write: he knew he was getting a little tipsy when he slopped some of the wine down his doublet and laughed. Ever the courtier, Sir Robert fetched one of the linen towels off the rack by the fireplace and proffered the end to wipe up the spillage—something that would never even have occurred to Rob or the Earl of Mar or any one of his overdressed hangers-on.

  James was full of goodwill and caught Carey’s wrist with his hand as he came close.

  “Will ye speak French to me?” he asked. “I dinna speak it well mesen, but the sound of it always thrills my heart.”

  “Avec grand plaisir. Alas, Your Majesty, my accent is not what it once was and I have forgotten much,” said Carey in that language. On an affectionate impulse, James kissed his cheek which was so near and so inviting. Only a kiss.

  It was a mistake. Carey permitted the familiarity but no more. James felt the tension in him: damn the cold-hearted bloody English, they all bridled at a touch from him as if he was diseased.

  “Ye used to remind me so much of d’Aubigny, ye know,” James said thickly, hoping as he looked into Carey’s handsome face that the man was either easily overawed or as sophisticated as he seemed. “Ye still have very much his style, Robin.”

  Carey smiled carefully. “Perhaps from the French court,” he said, in Scottish this time. “My father wanted me to learn Latin as well as French, but alas I was a bad student and spent most of my time pursuing sinful women.” Yes, there was a distinct, if tactful accent on the ‘women’. Another man still in thrall to the she-serpent then. “My ignorance is entirely my own fault.”

  James let go of Carey’s arm and drank down what was left of his wine. “My tutor George Buchanan warned me that the wages of sin is death,” he said, wondering whether to be angry at the rebuff or simply sad, and also whether it would be worth having Carey to supper privately and filling him full of aqua vitae. He had known it work sometimes, with the ambitious, although that of course also contained the seed of heartache, in that the love could never be pure. How he longed for the clarity of the love and partnership between Achilles and Patroclus, or Alexander and Hephaistion. And David and Jonathan: it had been a revelation to him when he read how their love surpassed that of women, for how could the ancestor of Christ be guilty? Their love was never condemned in the Bible as was David’s adultery with Bathsheba.

  “Mr Buchanan was right, of course,” said Carey softly, not looking at James, his face impossible to read. “We are all sinners and all of us die.”

  “Even godlike kings?” sneered King James.

  “Your Majesty knows the answer to that better than I do.”

  “And queens? What about queens, eh? When do they die?” I am getting drunk, thought King James. That was a tactless question. Carey bridled only a little.

  “When Death comes for them.”

  “Has she bribed him, or what?”

  Carey smiled, the blue eyes intense as chips of aquamarine. “If that were possible, she surely would, but as you know, she would prefer to hold him rather with the promise of a bribe and a flood of sweet words.”

  King James laughed at the satire. Carey was sitting down on his stool again, meekly, as if James had never touched his hand, nor kissed his face. It was a pity, a pity: he had lovely shoulders and although his hair was odd, most of the curls black but the roots reddish brown, he had the long Boleyn face and the Tudor hooded bright blue eyes, and he had the smoothness and culture that d’Aubigny had shown King James when he was a raw lad of sixteen. The King’s face clouded: affection and sophistication had been heady things to discover for the first time in his hard-driven scholarly life. He looked on the time he had spent with d’Aubigny as a brief respite in Paradise, before the bastard nobles had kidnapped their King in the Ruthven Raid, with their usual lack of respect, and forced him to send d’Aubigny away. Not content with that they had then almost certainly poisoned the Frenchman. One day, thought King James, one day I’ll have satisfaction on all of them for it.

  “Speak some French to me again,” he said, watching Rob refill his goblet and Carey’s. But it wasn’t boys he wanted, unlike Spynie and his friends, it was men with good bodies and good minds: true companions as the Greeks had been, without the mucky dim-witted clinginess and greedy softness of women. Lord God, how Queen Anne his wife bored him with her pawing and treble complaints.

  “Je parle tres mal la belle langue,” said Carey, the brand of his Englishness striking through all the music of French. It was like hearing a spinet played by someone in gauntlets and King James
sighed again. What was it about the French language that had the power to bewitch him so? The first time he had heard d’Aubigny speak with the rolled rrs so different in Scots and the lilting cadences, he had been moved almost to tears with longing. Perhaps it had been witchcraft…No, the witches were all Scottish like the Earl of Bothwell. D’Aubigny had simply been…d’Aubigny, and this large, proud and beautiful Englishman was nothing of the kind.

  There had been a knock at the door some time before and now the secretary and the clerk stood there waiting with sour impatience. Carey had opened the door for them: well, it wasn’t James’s fault if Carey couldn’t see what Buchanan had beaten into the boy-King so well: that, like the wicked French mermaid Queen Mary his mother, women were darkness and dirt combined, the true root of sin, and an ever-present danger to every man’s soul, the invariable tools of the Devil. Poor Carey, to be in thrall to such creatures…Never mind. Perhaps a quiet supper some other time, perhaps the promise of advancement when King James came into his own: the English were the greediest nation on earth, everyone knew that.

  King James gestured imperiously to dismiss Sir Robert, who once more genuflected and kissed the royal hand, the contact of skins dry and without content. The clerk and the secretary exchanged glances when they saw their king’s squint-eyed look, and the secretary reordered the papers he was holding. Dammit, he could drink if he wanted to, he was the King.

  Carey backed off, bowed at the door, stepped back another three paces out of sight and then turned and left. King James sighed, tears of self-pity pricking at his eyes: one day he would find someone like d’Aubigny again, one day it would happen. He was the King, and he tried to be a good king and bring peace and justice to his thrawn dangerous uncharming people; surely God would relent again and let him taste love.

  Dodd came on Carey washing his hands and face in well-water and drinking aqua vitae by the gulp. He was already a little drunk, Dodd saw, which was no surprise if he had just had audience with the King of Scots, and he was also wound up tight, almost quivering with tension.