P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“And a man might offend her by marrying or sed…”

Philly kicked her brother.

“Or not knowing what he was talking about,” she said brightly with a warm smile at Mary “That sort of thing offends her seriously.”

“Oh,” said Mary Scrope coolly. “Have you been at Court, Lady Scrope?”

“She’s one of Her Majesty’s favourite ladies in waiting,” said Robin, a reproachful glance on the oblique to Philly. “So much so that the Queen even forgave her when she married my lord Scrope.”

“So it’s true Her Majesty doesn’t like her courtiers to marry,” breathed Mary Scrope, with her breasts in desperate danger now as she leaned sideways. “Have you ever had that trouble, Sir Robert?”

Robin swallowed and smiled. “Not yet.”

On impulse Philly dropped her napkin and took a peep under the table: Robin had now tucked his long elegant legs awkwardly to the side, while Mary had one foot at full stretch trying to find his knee to touch. Philadelphia wondered where the various limbs had been before she kicked him. Honestly, men were impossible creatures. Imagine flirting with Scrope’s sister-in-law, as if his position weren’t delicate enough as it was. There was also a small lapdog, who had crept in somehow and was snuffling about on the rushmat for droppages.

Pink with suppressed emotion, Philadelphia took her seat again. Carey gave her a knowing look, but Mary Scrope hadn’t noticed, still being intent upon her prey.

“What else do you do at Court, Sir Robert?” she was asking.

“Oh, we dance and we stand around in antechambers playing cards and waiting to be sent on errands and we…”

“Seduce the maids of honour,” boomed Sir Simon who had finally noticed that nobody except Lord Scrope was listening to his stories about the politics of Berwick. “Isn’t that right, Sir Robert?”

Nobody could escape the edge of hostility in his voice. It was also the first time he had actually spoken directly to Carey.

“Not all of us, Sir Simon,” said Robin mildly. “Some of us have better things to do.”

Lord, thought Philly admiringly, that was a good barefaced lie, Robin.

“Ay,” sniffed Sir Simon. “I’ll be bound. Run around Netherby tower in disguise and borrow horses from other people’s wives, eh? That have no business lending ‘em, poor silly woman.”

“You’ve heard about Robin’s little adventure, then?” said Lord Scrope, reedily trying to deflect Sir Simon.

“Oh, ay. Widdrington’s not best pleased by it, I can tell you. The nags were exhausted by the time she got them back to Hexham, and one of them gone lame. The fool woman’ll no’ make that mistake again if I know Sir Henry.”

Interesting, thought Philadelphia, feeling sorry for Elizabeth and the nape of her neck prickling at the sudden sense of boiling rage coming from her brother. Robin’s gone white. He has got it badly, I wonder what he’ll do?

To everyone’s astonishment, the unregarded Harry Scrope spoke up.

“But in the process didn’t Sir Robert manage to persuade the Borderers on Bothwell’s raid to steal the King’s horses at Falkland Palace, rather than kidnap the King himself?” he said nervously. “That’s what I heard.”

“Maybe,” grunted Sir Simon. “But that’s not all that I heard, eh, Sir Robert?”

Robin sat for half a heartbeat, as if considering something very seriously. Then he finished his wine, stood up and made his most courtierly bow to Lord and Lady Scrope.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sir Simon,” he said with freezing civility in a voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “but I’m afraid I’m thick-headed at the moment. I was fighting reivers most of yesterday night and so if you will forgive me, my lord, my dear sister, I’ll go to my bed.” Philadelphia managed a gracious nod and a bright smile. “Good night, Mr Scrope, Mrs Scrope. God speed you back to Berwick, Sir Simon.”

Mary watched him stalk out of the council chamber with regret written all over her face: it was perfectly true, Philly thought affectionately, her brother was a fine figure of a man in his (as yet unpaid-for) black velvet suit, though his hair was presently shaded between black and dark red from the dye he had used for his Netherby disguise. Who could blame Mary Scrope if she wanted a spot of dash and romance to liven her life in the dull and practical north?

It was Sir Richard Lowther’s turn to patrol and he had long gone. Once again the night was sultry and dark with cloud, though the rain still refused to fall. Solomon the gate guard was sitting and knitting a sock with his one arm, one needle thrust into a case on his belt to hold it steady, a second ticking away hypnotically between his fingers and the other two dangling. He was away from his usual lookout on the Captain’s Gate, sitting quietly by the north-western sally-port where he could see into the castle yard. There was a stealthy sound to his left and he turned to look.

Two men crept out of the Queen Mary Tower, one tall and leggy, the other short and squat. The tall one was carrying a dark lantern, fully shuttered so only occasional sparkles of light escaped. His face made a patch of white against darkness as he looked up at Solomon, who lifted his shortened upper arm and nodded.

Carey hadn’t felt it necessary to explain why he had paid Solomon to keep watch, but it was no surprise that he and his short henchman padded quietly to the Armoury door. Carey was trying a key in the lock, but it seemingly no longer fitted. He stepped aside and the smaller man took something in his hand and jiggled it into the keyhole. Shortly afterwards there was a stealthy sequence of clicks and the door opened.

There was a sound from the barracks. The taller man tensed, touched his companion on the shoulder. Out of the barracks door came the unmistakable slouching rangy form of Sergeant Dodd. He padded across the courtyard, there was a low conversation and then they all disappeared inside the armoury.

Solomon nodded to himself. He had served under the new Deputy’s father, Lord Hunsdon, during the revolt of the Northern Earls, and he remembered Carey as a boy of about nine, perpetually in trouble, normally hanging about the stables and kennels while his tutor searched for him. The boy was father to the man there, no doubt about it. He grinned reminiscently. On a famous occasion, the young Robin had decided to try reiving for himself, along with his half-brother Daniel. The thing had ended unhappily, with Lord Hunsdon having to pay for the beast and the boys eating their dinners standing up for days afterwards.

Down in the armoury, Carey carefully unshuttered the horn-paned lantern and looked about at the racks.

“Well, they’re here at least,” he said to Dodd softly, as dull greased metal gleamed back at him from all around.

“Ay, sir,” whispered Dodd. “Shall we go now?”

“Not yet, Sergeant.”

Carey nodded at Barnabus who carefully took down the nearest caliver and handed it to him. “We’re going to mark them, carve a cross at the base of the stocks.”

“All of them, sir?”

“That’s right.”

“But it’ll take a’ night…”

“Not if we get started now.”

“Ay, sir,” said Dodd with a sigh.

There was quiet for a while, with the occasional clatter of a dropped weapon and a curse when somebody’s hand slipped. At the end of an hour and a half, Dodd put his knife away.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Hm? Yes, I think so. Barnabus, did you bring those calivers I gave you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give them here then.”

Carey took two guns at random from the middle of the rack and replaced them with Barnabus’s weapons. He held up the lantern and although the replacements had darker-coloured stocks, they would likely not be noticed by someone who was simply counting weapons.