P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

She blinked up at him, bewildered that he didn’t yet know of her world-shattering disaster.

“He died in the night,” she said bleakly. “The surgeon said if he saw the dawn, he’d likely be well enough. But he didnae. He went to sleep and he died. He were stiff as a board this morning.”

Carey shut his eyes briefly. “I’m very sorry to hear of it,” he said. “My condolences, goodwife.”

“Whit about his wages?”

“I haven’t the money on me now.”

“Well, what do I do about getting it?”

Carey struggled to make his thoughts behave themselves. He kept thinking how the little girl’s feet had twisted themselves together under her kirtle.

“I’m not sure I can help you myself at the moment,” he said. “Do you need shroud-money for the burial?”

Goodwife Little sniffed. “He’s in the ground already, his dad did it this morning. I need the money for the blackrent to Richie Graham of Brackenhill, or they’ll burn us out again.”

For a moment Carey stood still, thinking of Long George being buried in unconsecrated ground like a dog or a suicide, wondering if his ghost would walk. He shook himself, felt inside his doublet and shirt and found his purse which had a couple of shillings in it, his entire fortune.

“That’s all I have, goodwife,” he said, handing it to her. “I’ve troubles of my own at the moment, but I’ll try and see what I can do for you.”

She curtseyed again, muttered her thanks as she took the purse and ran off into the crowd. Hitching Sorrel to the fence and ducking under the poles, Carey found Thunder in the middle of an admiring circle of boys and men, mainly English Grahams, with Young Hutchin holding his bridle and enlarging on the wickedness of that poxed pig of a Lowther that tipped him out of the saddle. Thunder whickered and nuzzled Carey. There was no question that Hutchin had kept him in beautiful condition, his coat gleamed and felt like warm damask, and he hardly seemed tired by his race. Nor was it Hutchin’s fault that his uncle was one of the worst gangsters on the Border. Carey gave him the rest of the day off.

It was soothing to Carey to ride Thunder back to the castle at the head of his troop, patting his withers while the big animal shook his head and pranced a little. Dodd, who had drunk enough at the end of the day to be imaginative, could have sworn the animal looked embarrassed and puzzled not to be wearing the victor’s bell. Dodd himself was weary and miserable and his stomach queasy with the after-effects of four meat pies, a strawberry turnover and a gallon or two of beer.

However there was no rest in prospect once they got back to the Keep. Something was happening in the courtyard when they rode in through the golden evening. It was full of shouting men carrying lanterns and torches, with Lord Scrope standing wringing his hands in the middle.

Carey frowned and looked in the same direction as the Lord Warden. Then he checked his horse and sat completely still, his lips parted as if he was about to say something and had forgotten what.

Dodd followed his gaze and thought, that armoury door is a mess, will ye look at it, bust apart and off its hinges…Je-esus Christ!

Somebody had raided the armoury while the Carlisle garrison was at the muster. In broad daylight, under the noses of the Warden, Deputy Warden and all the defensible men of the March, they had raided it and emptied it of every single caliver and pistol that it contained.

The meeting took place in the Council Room that doubled as a dining room, Scrope presiding, Lowther, Carleton, Richard Bell and Carey all present. Carleton’s best jack was still dirty from his hurried ride out with his men to try and catch up with the guns or at least find some kind of trial. He had returned empty-handed, complaining that the number of feet that had trampled round the area made it completely impossible to find a trace.

Barnabus Cooke was holding the floor, answering Scrope’s questions.

“I was asleep, my lord,” he whined. “I’m sick wiv a fever and I was in my bed in Sir Robert’s chambers, sleeping. I din’t see nothing, din’t hear nothing.” That was all he would say with such monotonous regret that it was hard not to believe him.

There had only been six people in the Keep altogether, two of whom had been drunk and still were. The other two had been prisoners in the dungeon who hadn’t seen daylight for days and certainly couldn’t be suspected. And Barnabus had been asleep.

Scrope dismissed Barnabus and turned to his wife who was standing at his right hand.

“Walter Ridley?”

Walter Ridley was Lowther’s cousin, the acting armoury clerk whom Carey had never met and now probably never would. He had been found at the back of one of the stables, knocked out cold.

“He’s more deeply asleep than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life,” Philadelphia answered rather quietly. “He’s snoring and his colour’s bad. There’s a dent in his skull: I think he’s going to die, my lord, so if you will excuse me I’ll go back to him now.”

She shut the door behind her softly.

“Why would they kill him if he was helping them?” asked Scrope in a frustrated voice.

“To stop him telling who paid him?” said Thomas Carleton significantly, swivelling his barrel body to look at Sir Richard Lowther.

“There’s no reason to suppose he was helping them,” Lowther sniffed. “No doubt they hit him on the head to prevent him raising the alarm.”

“What was he doing up at the Keep in any case?” asked Scrope.

“Perhaps counting the weapons to be sure naebody had got at them.”

“Of course, it’s possible the thieves didn’t intend to kill him,” said Carey. “Perhaps they just wanted to give him an alibi.”

All of them knew they were avoiding the main issue. Scrope had pressed his fingers very tightly together.

“I need hardly tell you that this is a very serious matter,” he said pedantically. “All of the new weapons in the armoury have disappeared while we were mustering. And most of the ammunition and most of the fine-grain priming powder. How it could have happened is of less importance than finding and returning them…If the Queen got to hear of it…” His voice trailed off.

There was a moment of dispirited silence while Lowther and Carleton, who had never met her, wondered if all they had heard was true. Carey and Scrope, who knew that the legend was only the half of it, tried not to think of her rage.

“She simply must not be allowed…she must not be troubled with this,” said Scrope at last. “We must retrieve the weapons and that’s all there is to it. In any case, we can’t possibly ask for more weapons and munitions, so we must get them back. And we must also not let it be generally known what has happened, how weak we are. Or we shall have every reiver in the Scots West March riding south to take advantage.”

Scrope was looking upset, thought Carey, which was understandable. Carleton seemed quietly amused by the whole thing and Lowther…Now Lowther’s attitude was odd.

Carey coughed behind his hand. Scrope turned to him.

“Do you have something to say, Sir Robert?” he demanded rather pettishly.

“No,” Carey said blandly. “Although I think it’s going to be difficult to keep quiet. I also think there’s more to all these goings-on in the armoury than meets the eye.”

It seemed that Scrope didn’t want to hear it. He made an abstracted smile and spoke at large.

“We are agreed then that the Queen must not be allowed to hear of this and we must therefore make sure that our ambassador in Edinburgh doesn’t hear of it either. We will have to make very discreet enquiries as to what exactly happened and who stole the weapons…”