3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (9 page)

“Eh?” said Carey.

“Dumfries,” Dodd repeated for him. “Where the best guns in all Scotland are made, though ye’ll pay through the nose for them.”

Carey was staring into the middle distance, at the painted hanging of a siege which warmed the stone wall of his chambers.

“Interesting,” was all he said as he piled the bits into a cloth and wrapped it up, put it in a drawer of the desk.

“Are ye coming to the muster at all, sir?” asked Dodd hintingly.

“Hm? Oh yes.
Barnabus
!”

Dodd went to wait at the foot of the tower while Carey speedily changed out of his black velvet and into his second best cramoisie suit, plus his newly cleaned jack and straightened morion helmet. He came down the stairs two at a time and Dodd fell in beside him as he strode across the yard to where their troop was lining up.

“Do ye think they’re all alike, sir?” Dodd asked in a mutter.

“Almost certainly. I didn’t even look at which calivers I was taking.”

“The pistols too?”

“I think so.”

“But who could have done it?”

“I’ve no idea. Never my brother, nor anyone at court. Maybe not Lowther either.”

“Why not, sir, seeing how he’d laugh if ye was maimed?”

“Because he was so quick to put his man in as acting armoury clerk. If it was him got at the guns, he would have made sure I appointed the clerk.”

“Your man might have spotted the difference.”

“I doubt it. I didn’t. On the outside they look fine.”

“What shall we do?”

“Nothing for the moment, since we’ll be late for church if we don’t move ourselves.”

Most of the men were hungover but relatively clean, their horses groomed and their lances and helmets polished. Dodd still didn’t see what the connection was between good soldiering and the state of your jack, providing it kept off swords, but had to admit it pleased him to see that his troop easily outshone Lowther’s and Carleton’s men who were dingy by comparison. Carey had them line up, checked them over, told one that his tack was a disgrace and so were his boots, complimented their latest recruit on the fact that he already had a morion and a jack and led them down early to the cathedral for Sunday service.

Sunday 9th July 1592, morning

The young King of Scotland rode into the West March town of Dumfries by the Lochmaben Gate at about eight in the morning, to be met by the old Warden, the mayor, the corporation and both major local headmen, Lord Maxwell and young James Johnstone. There was tension in the air between the headmen that would have given good resistance to a battleaxe, mainly because their two families had been at feud for generations and both their fathers had been murdered by the other’s relatives. At the moment, the Maxwells were ahead in the feud, the most powerful and wealthy Surname in the West March of Scotland. For this reason, the Maxwell was wearing a brocade doublet slashed with bright red taffeta, a lace-trimmed falling band and a shining back-and-breast-plate, chased with gold. Behind him were a hundred of his largest men, in their jacks, mounted in two rows of fifty, their highly businesslike lances tricked out with blue pennants.

The young laird of Johnstone was wearing a pale buff jack, a plain red woollen suit, and an anxious expression on his face, mainly because he had only fifty men behind him. The white pennants on their lances fluttered merrily enough, but fifty against a hundred is poor odds at the best of times, never mind what Maxwell could call on from his friends and followers in Dumfries, a town that he owned. At least, thought the Johnstone, most of my lads have good handguns and balls and powder to go with them. And surely even a Maxwell will not plan trickery when he’s to be made March Warden and the King is about, though God help us when the King is gone back to Edinburgh.

Naturally, neither of the two surname-headmen had admitted to knowing anything about the Earl of Bothwell’s raid on Falkland Palace which was the main reason for their sovereign’s sudden arrival with three thousand soldiers behind him. However, both had come in and composed with him, promising in writing to behave themselves, not raid, not feud and not intrigue. Both of them were hoping very much that King James would not find out what they had really been up to.

Trumpets rang out a fanfare for the third time as the cavalcade came up to the gate, led by five hundred footmen from Edinburgh. Behind them on a prime white French-bred horse, came the King. As to his dress, he was not at all a martial sight, wearing a high-crowned black hat with a feather and a multiply slashed and embroidered purple doublet. His linen was somewhat grey. Hats and caps came off raggedly as he passed, a few sorry souls actually bent their knees as if he were the Queen of England. Most bowed dourly.

James Stuart, sixth of that name, was twenty-nine years old, a small man the shape of a tadpole, with powerful shoulders and short, very bandy legs. Luckily he was an excellent horseman. His face had never looked anything other than cautious, canny and slightly self-satisfied. He was the son of Mary Queen of Scots, but had last seen his mother when he was a baby. Certainly he had not remembered her well enough to intervene when Queen Elizabeth of England had decided to execute her five years back. Having been a king since babyhood he was accustomed to deference; having been a king of Scotland, he was well-inured to powerlessness, poverty, kidnapping, ferocious court faction fights and the suicidal lunacy of many of his most prominent nobles.

Everyone in the cavalcade was sweating freely into their fine linen, since the day was dull and heavy with moisture. Ever since the king’s harbingers had arrived in Dumfries in search of lodging, provisioning and entertainment for the King, his court and the three thousand men, the town had been in a ferment, wagons and packtrains of provisions arriving every day, barns being cleared, pretty sons, daughters and cattle being driven up into the hills round about. Food prices had become farcical, what with the bad harvest weather and the press of people into the area.

The desperate trumpeters excelled themselves as the King stopped at the Lochmaben gate, escorted by the outgoing Warden, Sir John Carmichael. The King was feeling the heat as well, the sweat making runnels down the grease on his face. All his clothes were heavily padded because he was, rightly, afraid of daggers. Behind him his courtiers affected the same portly, soft-edged style, not because they themselves were in the least afraid of daggers, but because he was the King.

The King’s heavy-lidded eyes flickered from the Johnstone to the Maxwell and back again. He was waiting, very patiently, for something.

Lord Maxwell came to himself with a start, dismounted, stepped to the King’s stirrup and kissed the long heavily-ringed hand that was stretched down to him.

“Welcome to the West March, Your Highness,” he said.

King James suppressed a sigh. No doubt it was foolish to wish that his subjects would address their monarch with the more respectful ‘Your Majesty’ introduced by the Tudors in England. ‘Your Highness’ would have to do.

“Ay,” said the King. “My lord Maxwell, have ye heard anything of the outlaw Hepburn?”

This was the erratic Earl of Bothwell, nephew of that dashing Border earl who had raped the King’s mother (according to her story) in the tumultuous year after James’s birth. The younger Bothwell had been an outlaw for over a year, but his latest outrage had taken place only a week before when he had raided the King’s hunting lodge three hundred miles away at Falkland, trying to kidnap James.

“No, your highness,” said Lord Maxwell. “Naebody kens where he is.”

“Playing at the football on the Esk in England, last I heard,” said the King drily. “Well, let’s go in.”

Sunday 9th July 1592, morning

Standing at the back of the cathedral while the Bishop of Carlisle battered his way through the Communion service before the serried rows of gentlemen and their attendants, Dodd watched the Courtier out of the corner of his eye. Somewhat to his surprise, he realised Carey was paying full attention to the words he was following in a little black-bound prayerbook.

Dodd was shocked. He hadn’t taken Carey for a religious man and yet here he was, clearly praying. Then obscurely he found the thing reassuring.

After all, if the Courtier had some pull in heaven, that might be no bad thing. And there was no question he was a lucky man, the way he kept giving death the slip: he should have been hanged by the Grahams two weeks before, never mind the knife fight at the inquest and the caliver that morning.

The Bishop began to preach on the text “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.” Dodd listened for a few words in case the Bishop had any new ideas on how to take revenge and then lost track amongst the Latin and Hebrew.

They slipped out early to be ahead of the rush to mount up. The people of Carlisle were streaming towards the Rickersgate, lines of packponies shouldering through the bedlam with barrels and parcels on their backs, storeholders with handcarts shouting at each other and the women with their baskets worse than the rest of them put together.

Scrope had ordered the garrison and townbands to muster in the open space before the Keep, by the orchard. They were first there, and lined up by the fence. Carey watched critically as the rest of the men who were supposed to keep the peace arrived and settled themselves. When Lowther arrived, high coloured and wearing a serviceable back-and-breast-plate, Carey actually put his heels to his horse’s flank and rode over before Dodd could stop him. For all Carey’s elegant bow, Lowther cut him dead and after a couple of attempts Carey rode back again, his lips compressed.

“I could have told ye he wouldnae speak to ye,” said Dodd in an undertone. “What did ye want him for? Ye could likely talk to Carleton just as well.”

“I wanted to discuss firearms with him.”

Dodd’s mouth fell open. “Ye werenae hoping to tell Lowther the guns are rotten, were ye, sir?”

Carey raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Well, but if it’s right he doesnae ken about the guns, all ye need to do is keep your gob shut about it and ye could get yer ain back on Lowther and a’ the trouble he’s caused you…”

Something about Carey’s look made a dew pop out on Dodd’s forehead.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that witless suggestion, Sergeant.”

It was such a lovely opportunity, it was awful to see the Courtier missing a way of paying back Lowther that was neater than anything Dodd had ever seen.

“But, sir…”

Carey turned in the saddle. “Dodd, shut up. I’m not making more cripples like Long George for the sake of scoring off Lowther,” he said.

Offended, Dodd fell sullenly silent. That’s what religion did for you, he thought, made you sentimental. Who the hell cared if Lowther or any one of his kin had his hand blown off? Serve him right for being a bastard.

A group of wives from the castle hurried past them, carrying bundles and baskets, surrounded by squealing running flocks of children. Everyone was in their finery with even the babes in arms wearing ribbons on their swaddling clothes, all treking out to the muster, ready to watch the fine gentlemen and horses in hopes of some major disaster.

“It looks like a fair,” Carey commented to Dodd. He was being pleasant again: Lord, the man’s moods were like a weathercock.

“Ay, sir,” growled Dodd.

“Poor old Barnabus won’t be coming, says he’s too sore and he’d rather have the day off in bed.”

Dodd, who knew that Barnabus had picked up a dose at the bawdyhouse, grunted. That was what venery and immorality got you, he thought, and tried not to speculate on which of the six whores in Carlisle Barnabus had been bedding. It must have been Maria, she was the youngest and juiciest and…

There was the sound of a single trumpet from the Keep and the two drums following. Scrope appeared, Philadelphia behind him, mounted and followed by her women. Carey’s sister looked well on a horse, Dodd had to admit, in black satin and pink velvet, with a pretty beaver hat set perkily on her cap and finished with a long curled feather. Behind them came the Keep servants, all in their best liveries, and at the end an excited looking Young Hutchin Graham in the suit he had been given for the old Lord’s funeral, leading Thunder, Carey’s tournament charger. So it was true the Courtier was entering him in a race to show off his paces. Dodd narrowed his eyes and looked carefully at the gleaming black animal.

Scrope himself was resplendent in his shining back-and-breast, with a plumed morion and a brocade cloak—he had attended church in the Keep chapel. He trotted down under the Queen’s banner and took up position facing the lines of garrison men.

Carey spurred his horse across the green, made his bow lavishly from the saddle and spoke quickly under his breath to Scrope. Scrope smiled reassuringly, patted Carey’s shoulder and shook his head. Carey’s eyebrows did their usual dubious dance, but he bowed again and trotted back elegantly across the cobbles.

“If ye’d asked me, sir,” droned Dodd. “I would ha’ tellt ye we dinnae take the armoury guns out on a muster.”

“Just making sure,” said Carey. “Though isn’t that what a muster’s for, to reckon up the strength of the countryside?”

“Ay, sir,” said Dodd, still as tonelessly as a preacher at bier. “But we ken very well how many guns is in the armoury, sir, we want tae know what’s out in the countryside, and we dinnae want any of our guns…”