3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  Red Sandy brightened up at that.

  “Ay, sir.”

  “I want you to spend time with the men around town, buy a few drinks, and see if you can catch any hint of a sudden influx of good firearms anywhere. Just listen for rumours, or envious complaints and take good note of who’s talking and who they’re talking about. That clear?”

  Red Sandy was on his feet and so was Sim’s Will, both looking much encouraged. Sim’s Will nodded and went out to see who had taken their feed bucket, while Red Sandy brushed down two of the hobbies and put their saddles on.

  Carey handed over several pounds in assorted Scots money to Red Sandy while Dodd sat up and fumbled for his boots.

  “Do you think you could do that work for me without getting roaring drunk or into any fights with the Scots?” Carey asked. Red Sandy was offended.

  “Ay, o’ course, sir.”

  “Young Hutchin, you have to stay either with me or Red Sandy. Which do you prefer?”

  Young Hutchin swallowed stickily and looked at the ground.

  “I’d prefer to stay with Red Sandy, sir,” he said. “Ah…the Maxwells are at feud wi’ the Grahams, sir; Dumfries is well enough with the King here and all but it might be better for me not to go to Lochmaben.”

  Carey lifted his eyebrows at the boy. “Is there any Border family your relations are not at feud with?” he asked.

  Hutchin looked offended. “Ay, sir, we’re no’ feuding with the Armstrongs or the Johnstones, nor never have.”

  “And that’s all? Has it never occurred to your uncles that merrily feuding with every surname that offends you in any way might not be a good long-term policy, especially if you have the King of Scotland after your blood as well?”

  Hutchin looked blank. “What else can we do, sir?” he asked. “Be like the Routledges, every man’s prey?”

  Carey sighed. “Stay with Red Sandy and Sim’s Will and try to keep out of trouble.”

  “Ay, sir.”

  ***

  Lord Maxwell looked no happier than any of his relatives or attendants, and seemed to have cooled towards Carey as well. They broke their fast hurriedly on stale manchet bread and ale, and then followed him out of the Lochmaben Gate of Dumfries and northeast along the road to his castle. They struck off the road after about four miles, into a tangle of hills and burns, until they met with a number of angry looking Maxwells, gathered about three battered wagons whose wheels bit deep into the soft forest track. Lord Maxwell’s steward came forward and spoke urgently into his ear, at which Lord Maxwell’s face became even grimmer.

  He waved at the wagons.

  “There ye are, Sir Robert,” he said. “See what ye can make of them.”

  “Are we not going into the castle?” Dodd questioned under his breath.

  “It seems my lord Warden wants to be able to deny the weapons are anything to do with him,” Carey answered softly. “Count your blessings, he’s not going to be a happy man.”

  Carey slid from his horse, squelched over to the nearest wagon and climbed onto the board next to the driver. He pulled out a caliver or two, turned them upside down, grunted and threw them back. The last one he examined more carefully and then shook his head.

  “Well?” demanded Maxwell impatiently.

  “They’re all faulty,” said Carey simply. “The barrels are all badly welded, the lock parts have not been case-hardened and some of them are cracked already. If you use these in battle, my lord, your enemies will laugh themselves silly.”

  “One of my cousins has been blinded by one and another man had his hand hurt.”

  “There you are then, my lord. If you like we could prove a couple.”

  “Ay,” said Maxwell, rubbing his thumb on the clenched muscles in his cheek. “Do so.”

  Although he knew as well as Dodd that it was unnecessary, Carey went through the motions, rigged a caliver to a tree stump and spattered it all over the clearing.

  There was a kind of contented sigh from the Maxwells standing about. Carey left the wagon, came back to his horse and mounted up again in tactful silence. They waited, finding the paths all blocked by Maxwells.

  The tension rose, broken by wood-doves currling at each other through the trees and anxious alarm calls from the jackdaws.

  Finally Maxwell flung down his tall-crowned hat and roared, “God damn it! Bastard Englishmen, bastards and traitors every one, by God…”

  He swung suddenly on Carey and at the motion the Maxwell lances seemed to lean inward towards the Deputy Warden and Sergeant Dodd. “And what d’ye ken of this, eh, Sir Robert? Sitting there so smarmy and clever and telling me I canna do what I plan because the guns are nae good…”

  “Would you have preferred me to keep silent and let you use them against the Johnstones, my lord?” asked Carey levelly. “I could have done that.”

  Ay, thought Dodd viciously, wondering how many of the lances were aimed at his back, and why didn’t you, you interfering fool?

  “Ye’re in it wi’ Scrope and Lowther and the Johnstones, aren’t ye, aren’t ye?” yelled Maxwell, forcing his horse over close to Carey and leaning in his face. “And a clever plot it was too, to gi’ the advantage to the pack of muirthering Johnstones.”

  “Nothing to do with me, my lord,” said Carey steadily.

  “Lord Scrope’s yer warden, ye’d do what he tellt ye.”

  “I might,” allowed Carey. “If he had mentioned this to me, of course. In which case I would hardly have come here with you, would I? But I don’t think it was him.”

  “And who was it then?”

  “From whom did you buy the guns, my lord? Ask yourself that and then ask who did you the favour of stopping you firing one of them.”

  Oh, thought Dodd as a great light dawned on him. So that’s what the interfering fool’s about, is he? Well, well. It took most of his self-control not to let a wicked grin spread itself all over his face. That night spent tediously marking all the guns in the armoury with an x before we even knew there was anything wrong with them, it was time well-spent. And now we’ve found them again and we can go home.

  Maxwell’s face was working. He seemed to be thinking and calming down.

  “Ye came to find these, did ye no’?” he said at last.

  Carey shrugged. “I knew we had lost the guns during the muster on Sunday, and I knew someone must have put a big enough price on them for…someone to want to take the money and embarrass Scrope at the same time.” Noticeably he did not mention the previous theft on the road from Newcastle, when the Tower-made guns had been swapped for the deathtraps now owned by Maxwell.

  “The bastard,” breathed Maxwell repetitiously. “God damn his guts.”

  “Amen,” answered Carey piously.

  “I paid good money for this pile of scrap iron.”

  Carey tutted. “Who to, my lord?” he asked casually.

  Maxwell’s lowering face suddenly became cunning. “I canna tell ye that, Sir Robert.”

  Carey sighed at this sudden niceness. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “Will you say what you paid?”

  “Twenty-five shillings a gun, English, and we were to send them back once we’d had the use of them.”

  Up went Carey’s eyebrows at this unexpected titbit. “Really?” he said slowly. “Is that so?”

  “The usual arrangement, ye ken, only we wanted more of them. And for longer. Sir Ri…He was to find them at Lammastide in an old pele-tower near Langholm, ye follow.”

  “Ah yes, I understand. And take the credit for it. Hmm. Well, what will you do with them now, my lord?”

  “Throw ‘em in a bog.”

  “Don’t do that, my lord.”

  “Will ye take them back then?”

  Carey smiled thinly. “I don’t think so, my lord. But will you keep them here for a couple of days?”

  “Why?”

  Carey looked opaque and tapped his fingers on his saddle horn. “Just in case, my lord, just in case. You never know what might happen.”


  Maxwell grunted sullenly. “What am I to dae about the Johnstones?” he demanded to know.

  “Entirely your affair, my lord. But if I were you, I’d let them sweat until you’re ready.”

  “And stay bloody Warden all that time?”

  Carey made a self-deprecating half-bow from the saddle. “It might not be so bad,” he suggested. “Perhaps you and my lord Scrope could even agree on a Day of Truce and clear up some of the bills that have been accumulating for the past sixteen years.”

  Maxwell glowered at him. “Good God, whatever for?”

  “For peace, my lord. For the rule of law.”

  The sneer on Maxwell’s handsome features was magnificently comprehensive. “While I’ve my men at my back, I’ll make my ain laws and my ain peace.”

  Carey said nothing. Maxwell was silent for a time which seemed very long to Dodd’s stretched nerves. Carey sat patiently, seeming intent on the stitching of his riding gloves, the growth of the nearest tree.

  Maxwell jerked his horse round and came close to him.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?” said Carey softly.

  “I want my money back.”

  “What?”

  “Ay.” Maxwell leaned on his saddle horn and spat words. “The Deputy Warden of Carlisle sold me a pile of scrap-iron that half-killed my cousin, and I want my money back.”

  “Not this Deputy Warden,” said Carey.

  Maxwell shrugged. “Who cares. Ye get me my money back. I want it and it’s mine.”

  “From Lowther?”

  “I never said that. From whoever. D’ye understand me?”

  There was something almost amusing about one of the richest lords in the Scottish West March demanding his money back like an Edinburgh wife waving a bad fish at a stallholder, almost but not quite. The fact that the whole thing was ludicrously irrational and unjust hardly mattered when they were surrounded by Maxwell’s kinsmen and Maxwell himself looked like a primed caliver ready to go off at any minute. Dodd began praying fervently. Please God, let the Courtier keep a civil tongue in his head, please God…

  “I’ll do my best, my lord,” Carey said, prim as a maiden.

  “Ye’d better.”

  Maxwell turned his horse foaming back towards the wagon and shouted orders, then whipped the beast to a canter in the direction of the road to Dumfries. Perforce, Carey and Dodd rode with them, less escorted than guarded now.

  ***

  They returned quickly to Maxwell’s townhouse, recipients of a double-edged hospitality. Carey strode into the stall where Thunder stood stamping and tossing his head impatiently and found Hutchin there already.

  When the boy turned to greet him, they saw a magnificent black eye, a bust lip and pure rage.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Carey, wearily stripping off his gloves. “What happened? Did Lord Spynie…”

  The boy spat. “Red Sandy and Sim’s Will got intae a fight.”

  “How?”

  “Wee Colin Elliot was in the Black Bear wi’ some of his kin and when Red Sandy come in, Wee Colin asked him if he’d lost any sheep lately and Red Sandy went for him. An’ they’re both in the town lock-up now. It wasnae my fault,” finished Hutchin self-righteously.

  “Who’s in the lock-up? Wee Colin as well?”

  “Nay, sir. Just Red Sandy and Sim’s Will, of course.”

  Carey glared at Dodd as if it was his fault his brother was an idiot.

  “That’s all I bloody need,” said Carey. “Come on, we’ll go and see them.”

  They were stopped at the gate to Maxwell’s Castle by a stern-faced Herries.

  “Ye canna all go out,” he said to Carey. “My lord Maxwell says one of ye must stay here.”

  “As a hostage,” said the Courtier, coldly.

  “Ay, if ye wantae put it that way.”

  Carey looked at Dodd and Hutchin, calculating. “Then it’s you, Dodd, I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do to bail your brother.”

  Dodd wanted to protest at being left in the middle of a heaving mass of Maxwells, but could see there was no point. It was better for Carey to have freedom of action since he at least had some friends among the Scots. Hutchin was a bit young to play the hostage and a Graham furthermore. It had to be him. He nodded gloomily.

  “Ay,” he said. “I’ll be wi’ the horses.”

  Carey hurried down the street, Hutchin trotting at his heels, until he came to the small round lock-up by the Tolbooth. As expected, it was packed full of brawlers, half of them still drunk, and it took a while for Sim’s Will to struggle out of the crowd and peer through the little barred window.

  “Well?” said Carey, furious at this complication.

  “Ah…Sorry, sir,” said Sim’s Will, looking very sheepish. He was battered, though not too badly, considering the idiocy of taking on a pack of Elliots on their own ground.

  “How’s Red Sandy?”

  “No’ so bad. He lost a tooth but he found it again, and he’s put it back now and his nose stopped bleeding a while ago,” Sim’s Will said.

  “Tell me how the fight started.”

  Sim’s Will recounted a very pathetic tale in which Wee Colin Elliot had snarled scandalous and wounding insults about Red Sandy and Sim’s Will, impugning their birth, breeding, courage and wives. To this unprovoked attack Sim’s Will and Red Sandy had responded with mild reproach, until the evil Wee Colin had sunk so low as to attack the sacred honour of the Deputy Warden, at which point, driven beyond endurance, Red Sandy had tapped him lightly, almost playfully, on the nose and…

  Carey rolled his eyes. “Red Sandy hit Wee Colin Elliot first.”

  In a manner of speaking, allowed Sim’s Will, you could say that, although the way Wee Colin Elliot had been ranting you could see it was only a matter of seconds before…

  “I don’t suppose you found out anything of use before that, did you?” Carey asked.

  Sim’s Will Croser’s face was blank for a moment before, rather guiltily, recollection returned. “Ah. No, sir,” he said.

  “No rumour of somebody suddenly having quite a lot of guns where before they had none?”

  “Nay, sir. Nothing like that. And we did ask before we met…”

  “Wee Colin Elliot. God’s truth. Well, you can tell Red Sandy I’ll do what I can to bail you out of there, but since the matter’s ultimately a decision for the Lord Warden of this March, I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Ay, but is that not Lord Maxwell?” said Sim’s Will. “Red Sandy said ye’re friends wi’ him.”

  “Well, I was. I’ll see what I can do.”

  An attempt to talk to the King at the Mayor’s house produced the information that His Majesty was out inspecting some of his cavalry and likely to go hunting after that.

  And so Carey found himself heading for the alehouse known as The Thistle, as crowded as any of the others with the King’s attendants and minor lords. The common room was a bedlam of arguing, dicing and drinking and as no one stopped him, he and Hutchin quietly went and climbed the stairs to the next floor. Four doors off a narrow landing faced him and after listening for a moment, he tried the one on his right. No answer, so he tried the next one and heard Signora Bonnetti’s voice answer, “Chi é? Who is?”

  “C’est moi, Emilia,” said Carey, trying the latch and finding the door bolted.

  A moment later it opened a crack and Carey stepped through, firmly stopping Hutchin with a hand on the chest.

  “Sit at the top of the stairs and shout if someone tries to come in,” said Carey and Young Hutchin grinned with understanding beyond his years. “And if I catch you listening or peeping at the latch-hole, I’ll leather you, understand?”

  “Ay, sir,” said Hutchin.

  In fact, Hutchin managed to restrain his curiosity for nearly twenty minutes until the muffled noises coming through the door told him he was safe enough. He put his eye to the latch-hole and was rewarded by the sight of two pairs of legs on
a bed playing the old game of the two-backed beast. For all his efforts at squinting and seeing through wood, he could see nothing else and had to use his imagination. Fortunately he had more than most.

  The red feather mask had flattered Signora Emilia Bonnetti because it had hidden the fine tracery of lines around her magnificent dark eyes. Carey no longer doubted that she had borne children, for she had the marks of it on her belly and her deliciously dark and pointed nipples. He didn’t care. He had always preferred older married women for dalliance and not simply because, at the Queen’s Court in London, to meddle with the virgin Maids of Honour was to risk the Queen’s fury and a ruinous stay in the Tower. His first woman had been a much older and more experienced French lady in Paris, and he had never got over his awed pleasure at finding the truth in the saying that women burned hotter the older they got.

  Now he lay full length in the little half-curtained bed and watched sleepy-eyed as Emilia, full of vigour and mischief, poured him wine and chatted to him in French and Italian mixed.

  It seemed he could do her some great service, if he chose. Ah, he thought, we’re coming to the point at last now. Ten years before he might have been disappointed that sheer desire for him had not been Emilia’s motive after all. No more. He had long ago decided that women rarely had fewer than four different motives for anything they did.

  He took the goblet of wine and drank as Emilia pulled a white smock over her head and disappeared briefly, still talking.

  At first he wasn’t certain he had heard right. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want to buy firearms,” repeated the Signora. “You know, guns.” She said the word in English to be sure he could understand.

  Mind working furiously, he watched her and waited for her to explain herself.

  “Signor Bonnetti has a commission to buy at least twelve dozen calivers and twelve dozen pistols, with perhaps more later. It has been very difficult, we came to Dumfries full of hope to buy them here where so many are made, but now we find that so many are used here as well the gunsmiths are fat and lazy, and they will not sell to us.”

  “Who are the guns for?”

  She shrugged her creamy shoulders and made a moue of disdain. “I do not know; for the Netherlanders perhaps, or the Swedes. Even the French Huguenots might want them; Signor Bonnetti has not told me.”