3 A Surfeit of Guns

by P. F. Chisholm

  “Ay,” said King James. “No doubt ye are. What the Devil’s happened to your hands?”

  Carey looked down at them. The Earl of Mar’s handkerchief splint hid his broken fingers which had settled down to a steady drumbeat throbbing, but the others were swollen and the ones that had felt the thumbscrews were going purple. His last remaining gold ring on his little finger was almost hidden by puffed flesh.

  “My Lord Spynie was impatient to hear his tale,” explained the Earl of Mar.

  King James’s eyes narrowed. “He’s nae right to torture one of the Queen’s appointed officials, let alone my ain cousin, does he no’ ken that? Why did ye let them take ye, Sir Robert, I had ye down for a man of parts?”

  “My Lord Spynie and Sir Henry Widdrington said they had a Royal Warrant. It had your signature on it. Naturally, in Your Majesty’s own realm I had no choice but to surrender.” He omitted the detail of being outnumbered and outgunned.

  King James made an odd sniff and snort through his nostrils. “A Warrant?” he said. “With the Privy Seal?”

  Carey nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. And your signature.”

  The King turned to the Earl of Mar.

  “He’s no’ to have access to the Seal nor the signing stamp any more,” he said, “if this is how he uses it.”

  The Earl of Mar’s face took on a patient expression.

  “Ay, Your Highness.”

  “And take the gyves off the man’s legs. He’s never going to attack me with his hands in that condition.”

  Mar beckoned to one of the guards, who came over and took the chains off Carey’s ankles. He was not invited to stand, and so he didn’t. No matter, he had knelt for hours at a time while attending on the Queen in one of her moods.

  King James went to the carved chair placed under the embroidered cloth of estate and sat down, ignoring the large goblet of wine standing on a table by his hand. His face had somehow become sharper, more canny.

  “Now then, Sir Robert. What was it ye were so determined to keep fra my lord Spynie?”

  “Your Majesty, may I begin the tale at its right beginning?”

  The King nodded. “Take your time.”

  Where the hell to start? Carey took a deep breath, and began with the German in the forest and Long George’s pistol exploding.

  An hour later he had finished, his throat beginning to get infernally dry and croaky. King James had interrupted only to ask an occasional sharp question. Running out of voice, his knees beginning to ache and his left hand turned into a pulsing mass of misery, Carey finally brought himself into Lord Spynie’s clutches and left the tale there.

  “Ye say the German’s down in the winecellar now?”

  “His corpse is, Your Majesty.”

  “Hmm. And ye say the false guns ye sold to Signor Bonnetti explode at the second firing?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  King James started to laugh. He laughed immoderately, leaning back in his chair, hanging one leg over the arm and hooting.

  “Och,” he said, coming to an end at last. “Och, that’s beautiful, Sir Robert, it’s a work of artistry, it surely is. Ay. Well, my lord Earl, what d’ye think?”

  The Earl of Mar was stroking his beard. “I think we can believe him, Your Highness.”

  King James leaned forward, suddenly serious. “What did ye get for them and where did ye put it?”

  Carey’s gut congealed again. “That was what my Lord Spynie was so anxious to know.”

  “Ay. So am I.”

  Carey coughed, smiled apologetically, spread his throbbing hands. “I gave it to a friend of mine, but I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  The atmosphere had cooled considerably. “When did ye give it?”

  “When I heard Sir Henry coming and realised he had a warrant.”

  “Mf. This friend o’ yourn, did he ken it was gold he was carrying?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  King James looked regretful. “Ay well, nae doubt of it, he’s ower the Border by now.”

  “He might be.”

  “And ye say ye’re still in search of the right guns for Carlisle, the ones that came fra the Tower o’ London?”

  “If I can find where Spynie’s got them hidden, Your Majesty.”

  The King was still half-astraddle the chair, gazing out of the portable glazed window, occasionally sipping from his wine goblet. Carey stayed where he was, his face itchily stiff with dried blood, weariness weighting every limb, and his throat cracked down to a whisper. God, for some beer and a bowl of water to wash in.

  After what seemed a very long time, King James seemed to come to a decision. He swung his short bandy legs to the floor and stood up.

  “My lord Earl,” he said, “have Sir Robert taken to the tapestried chamber upstairs, give him the means to clean himself and a surgeon brought to him, and find him some clothes. When he’s eaten and drunk his fill, bring him back to us.”

  “Your Majesty is most merciful,” said Carey humbly, wondering if this would give the King’s men time to comb the streets for Young Hutchin. King James’s eyes narrowed.

  “Ay,” he snapped. “Merciful maybe, but I’m no’ daft and if I find out any of this is a lie, ye’ll be begging me to gie ye back to Lord Spynie before the day is out.”

  Carey bowed his head. None of it was a lie, he had told strictly the truth, but he had certainly not included any of the things he had learned or guessed from what the German told him. He wasn’t daft either.

  He got himself to his feet after the King had rolled from the room, looked at the Earl of Mar and waited. The procession reformed itself. He needed all his concentration to stay on his feet since his brain was spinning with weariness and tension, and he had to keep his head high in case anyone he knew should recognise him.

  ***

  Elizabeth Widdrington was waiting with Young Hutchin Graham and her stepson Henry in an anteroom when they saw the Earl of Mar and the guards go by. She recognised Robin only by his height and the way he moved: his face was a mask of blood with an unhealthy grey tinge underneath. Her first emotion was sheer breathtaking joy that he was alive and could still walk. She stood and followed quietly behind, no longer caring what happened to her afterwards. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Sir Henry would kill her if he got out of this. The King had told her he would be arrested along with Lord Spynie. It was more than likely that he would try to take her down to destruction with him, if he could.

  They took Carey to one of the upper rooms, and the key turned in the lock, she could hear it clearly. She waited on one of the narrow landings until the Earl of Mar came by and then she stepped in front of him and curtseyed. He blinked down at her.

  “Ay,” he said. “Lady Widdrington.”

  “My lord,” she said. Her voice stopped in her throat. What was she going to ask him? To see Carey? For what reason that wasn’t concerned with her unruly heart? And if he let her? What price her honour then? Would she make all Sir Henry’s accusations and suspicions true?

  “Hrmhrm,” said the Earl of Mar, old enough to read her sudden dumbness. “If it’s Carey, ye’re after, he’s still under arrest, but the King’s more pleased wi’ him than angry, and I’m to call the surgeon.”

  Her heart thundered stupidly; she had seen him walking, why panic? But still her voice shook.

  “Is…he…is he badly hurt?”

  “Nay,” said the Earl kindly enough. “He’ll need splints on a couple of his fingers for a few weeks and his thumbs will be sore enough for a while, but he’s no’ half so bad as he looks.”

  She nodded silently, enraged with her husband for hurting Robin, perversely also furious with Robin for making it so easy for him. She wanted even more to see him, was hoping the Earl of Mar would ask a question that made it possible for her to ask, and also hoping that he would not.

  Her second prayer was answered, he did not. He made a courteous bow to her, which she returned, and when she had stood aside he carried o
n down the stairs, leaving two of his men on guard by the door.

  She went back to where Henry was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did you see him?”

  If she spoke she would certainly weep. What was wrong with her? His hands would get better, given the chance. She shook her head, tilting her face so that the unshed tears would stay in her eyes, led the way brusquely back to the anteroom, where she waited to find out what would become of her husband and if she would have another audience with the King.

  “Was he…” Henry began, stopped himself and began again as he hulked along beside her. “Did they…er…”

  “Torture him?” Her voice came out metallic in her determination not to break down. “I think they had started but the Earl of Mar reached them in time.”

  Henry clearly had many more questions to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to ask any of them. Instead he nodded, dropped his hand from her arm.

  “Lady Widdrington.” It was the Earl of Mar’s voice again, austere and somehow colder than it had been.

  She turned and curtseyed.

  “His Highness the King asks if you will consent to tend to Sir Robert Carey,” said the Earl, “since it appears the surgeon is drunk.”

  For a moment she stood there stupidly. Should she risk it? But what the King asked, even in Scotland, was a command. She could hardly say no.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said gravely.

  “Your stepson and page must stay here.”

  Henry stepped back beside Young Hutchin, looking nervous. He was still too gawky to be entirely happy at being on his own, surrounded by the nobility of Scotland. She must send him to London soon, so he could get some polish. The roguish Young Hutchin Graham looked far more poised and at home than he did.

  Once more she followed the Earl of Mar, through the over-crowded rooms of the best house in Dumfries, full of nobles dressed in French fashions or sober dark suits, and their multiple armed hangers-on, up the stairs, between the guards in the narrow second storey passage lined with rooms, and the Earl unlocked the door again.

  “My lord,” she said. “I may need bandages and salves and the like.”

  “Knock on the door and call through what you need,” said the Earl stiffly. “It will be brought.”

  The door opened: it was an irregularly-shaped room, very small, with a bed in it and a table, and unexpectedly bright tapestries on all the walls, full of complex erotic doings of the Olympian gods, swans and bulls and cupbearers and the like. The light streamed in through a small window. Carey was standing by the table, trying ineffectually to wash his face in a bowl of water. He straightened up at the first sound of their coming in, and he stood there now, a comical expression of horror and dismay under the water and blood on his face. Lord Above, he was embarrassed, his face was flushed. Elizabeth swallowed the tender smile that would have offended him mortally. Why were men so vain?

  She stood and looked at him for a moment until she could speak without a tremor and then turned sharply to the Earl.

  “My lord, I want two bowls of water, one hot, one cold with comfrey or lovage in it, and at least four clean white linen cloths. I want any comfrey ointment you might have in the place, I want a good store of clean bandages and a clean shirt and hose for him and…”

  “I’ll see it done, my lady,” said the Earl of Mar, his face masklike.

  “I may also need splints: send in at least four withies, about this thick and so long and a knife to cut them with.”

  “No knife.”

  “My lord, please don’t be ridiculous. I will be responsible for the knife.”

  “Hrmhrm.”

  “Do you have laudanum in the house?”

  “I dinna ken.”

  “If you have, I would like some. You say the bonesetter’s drunk?”

  “The surgeon. Ay.”

  “Well, I shall do my best, my lord.”

  She marched into the room, heard the door shut and lock behind her and could have kicked herself for forgetting to ask for an older lady to act as chaperon. Well, no matter, she had done enough already to enrage her husband: merely confirming all his suspicions might even cheer him up.

  The silly goose had tucked his hands behind his back. His shirt, which was one of Philadelphia’s making, she saw, was in a revolting mess, stained to ruination with mud, blood, sweat, and something pink, and torn in several places. His hose were black and so less obviously disgraceful, but still disgusting. He smiled crookedly at her because his mouth had swollen, though much of the blood had come from his nose and some cuts on his forehead and cheeks.

  “Have mercy, my lady,” he said trying for rueful charm. “Don’t be angry with me.”

  She simply could not think what to say to him, since what she wanted to do was run to him and hold him tight and kiss him and then slap him as hard as she could. Instead she walked to the bowl of water, looked at it for a moment, carried it to the tiny window and carefully tipped it out. Dirty water splattered its way down the roofs below. The silence between them was very awkward.

  Somebody knocked on the door: one of the guards opened it, and two boys came in, each carrying a bowl of water and a man followed them with his arms piled high.

  “The hot water on the table,” she snapped. “Cold water on the floor. Where is the comfrey that should be in the water?”

  “The Earl says we havenae got none.”

  “Very sloppy. Do you have splints?”

  The man produced several withies, some too wide, and a very small but sharp knife and put it on the table. Elizabeth took the clothes, cloths and bandages from him and laid them out on the bed.

  “Out,” she snapped. “And tell the Earl I want a woman to come in here with me, to protect my reputation.”

  “Ay, my lady,” said the man, hiding a grin. If she had been at home, Elizabeth would have cuffed his ears for the knowingness of it.

  “You, wait,” she said imperiously as the boys trotted out again. “So I do not get my hands dirty, would you please take Sir Robert’s boots off him? Take them away and get them cleaned.”

  For a moment the man looked mutinous, then as Carey sat still smiling on the bed and stuck out a foot, he did as he was told, walking out with them held well away from his smart cramoisy suit. The door locked behind him.

  “Stay there,” Elizabeth ordered Carey, who made a wry face and also did as he was told, sitting meekly on the edge of the bed with its half-tester above him.

  She took one of the white cloths and wrapped it round her waist for an apron so as not to spoil the expensive grey wool of her kirtle, took another cloth, dipped it in the hot water and began dabbing carefully at his face in silence. When that was clean at last, she came close and examined the cuts on his head.

  “Where’s Hutchin?” he whispered at once.

  “Downstairs with Young Henry. I thought it better to keep an eye on him.”

  Carey smiled in obvious relief, making her wonder what was so important about the boy.

  “That’s good. Where’s Dodd?”

  “I believe he’s gone to the Johnstones.”

  “Hm.”

  “And what made these cuts?” she demanded.

  “A dagger’s jewelled pommel, wielded by an enraged minion.”

  She sniffed. “None of them are bad, I’ll leave them as they are. There’s blood on the side of your shirt,” she added. “What happened there?”

  Carey looked down in surprise. “Oh,” he said. “I took a cut there a week ago and I suppose it must have opened again. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Did Philadelphia bandage it?”

  “Yes, after she sewed it up.”

  “Have you changed the bandage since then or had the stitches out?”

  “Er…no.”

  She put her fists on her hips. “Is it hurting, throbbing?”

  “Not much. Mostly it itches.”

  “Show me your hands.”

  He didn’t want to,
he put them further behind his back. Elizabeth tapped her foot and glared at him and so he brought them out again and let them rest on his thighs, palms up.

  “Thumbscrews?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn them over.”

  He did, wincing slightly. At the moment, they were no longer such beautiful hands, Elizabeth thought, forcing herself to be dispassionate; they looked as if they had been slammed in several doors. Very gently she examined the right hand.

  “I think you’ll lose the thumbnail anyway, and perhaps the two fingernails as well, although there is something I can do about that. Are they broken?”

  Carey was looking at them as well as if seeing them properly for the first time.

  “I don’t think so,” he said absently. “I think they’re just bruised. I can move them.”

  Elizabeth pointed at the fingers still splinted together. “These two are broken.”

  “Yes.”

  “My husband, no doubt.”

  “And Lord Spynie.”

  “I expect despicable behaviour from Lord Spynie.”

  Carey looked up at her woefully, the expression in his blue eyes exactly like a little boy who has fallen out of a tree he was forbidden to climb. Damn him, she wanted to kiss him again.

  “Are you very angry with me, sweetheart?”

  Honestly, why was it he could melt her so easily? She took a deep breath and told him the truth.

  “I am extremely angry,” she said. “With my husband, with Spynie and with you.”

  She straightened up and went to look around the various bottles that the boy had brought. There was an elderly bottle marked ‘Comfrey bonesetting ointment’ half full of something that smelled just about useable. The bottle marked laudanum had some sticky substance at the bottom and nothing else.

  “There’s no laudanum,” she said to herself in dismay.

  “Oh.”

  “Can you take your own shirt off, or will I do it for you?”

  “If you undo the ties, my lady.”

  She did so, not looking in his face, nursing her anger so she could be cold enough to help him properly. He struggled the shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, and she kicked it into a corner. It was not the first time she had seen him stripped to the waist. She remembered nursing him alongside Philadelphia when he came back from Tilbury in a litter after fighting the Armada, not wounded, but completely off his head with a raging gaol-fever caught aboard ship. Against all the advice of the doctors they had fought to cool him down. That had been easier than this was going to be, because it was comforting for him to be sponged, even in his delirium. Still, she tried not to look at him too much because it unsettled her, and made her long to run her hands down the muscles of his shoulders and back…