P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

Carey continued to look bland. “My lord,” he said smoothly, “I shall of course bend every effort to finding the guns. But in the meantime-have you informed His Majesty of Scotland?”

“What?” Scrope looked more obtuse than seemed possible.

“Why the Devil should he do that?” demanded Lowther.

“King James is in Dumfries with an army to catch the Earl of Bothwell. That was the reason for the muster, if you recall, Sir Richard,” Carey lifted his eyebrows insolently at Lowther.

“I recall it, ay.”

“Surely the likeliest thief of the weapons is Bothwell or one of his friends, since they’d have need of them. They could be planning another attack on the King while he’s in the area.”

“I thought you said that Bothwell had gone to the Highlands,” Scrope protested.

Carey spread his hands. “I heard that, my lord. I don’t know if it’s true. He could be in the Hermitage in Liddesdale, raising an army to meet King James.”

There was a short silence while they all considered what could be done to the delicate balance of chaos on the Border and in the Debateable Lands by a couple of hundred handguns and barrels of gunpowder. Scrope rubbed his eyes with his fingers and then knitted his knuckles again.

“I must say, I hadn’t considered that,” Scrope admitted. “Puts a different complexion on the raid, rather. High treason and so on.”

“Precisely, my lord,” murmured Carey deferentially.

“Perhaps we had better tell the King, better to keep…ah…to show him respect.”

Very carefully, Carey did not smile. Scrope was as interested in keeping sweet the King of Scotland and likely future King of England as the Cecils or anyone else for that matter. As was Carey himself. King James in Dumfries, only a day’s ride over the Border, was an opportunity not to be missed, even if he had certain personal reasons for caution at the Scottish court.

“What? Send a messenger into Scotland wi’ news of the guns being reived?” demanded Lowther with a sneer. “Why not print it up in a pamphlet and sell it at the Edinburgh Tolbooth-it would have more chance of keeping quiet?”

Scrope was looking round the room in the way he had, his fingers fluttering on the table unconsciously as his gaze roamed past the covered virginals in the corner. Carey forced himself to sit still and keep his mouth shut. Would Scrope do it? It was an obvious course of action, but Carey had a strong suspicion that if he showed himself too eager, Scrope would shy away from the idea.

“We should send someone to the King with a verbal message for him alone,” Scrope pronounced at last. “Someone discreet that the King would be certain to receive.” His restless froggy eyes rested on Carey. “Whom the King already knows, perhaps?”

Lowther frowned. “My lord, I see no necessity…”

“Then you do know who stole the weapons, Sir Richard?” Carey snapped at him.

“No, I do not.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” put in Scrope with unwonted firmness. “I will have no…no disputes. Sir Robert, would you be willing to ride to Dumfries and speak to the King?”

Carey inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”

Even Scrope’s face was cynical. “You could start tonight…”

“No, my lord,” Carey said. “Not tonight. I don’t know the area and I might be mistaken for a reiving party crossing into Scotland. I would want to take three men with me…”

“What for?” sneered Lowther. “To protect ye?”

“Yes, Sir Richard,” said Carey sneering back. “I know the Scottish court and a man with no followers there is of no account at all. Three men is enough for respect.”

“You could take your whole troop.”

“No need, my lord, and in any case, I doubt I could find them anywhere to sleep. Also we will need to take supplies for us and the horses…”

“Ye sound like ye’re going on campaign,” Lowther put in again.

Carey sighed. “Clearly,” he said, “Sir Richard has never seen a Royal court on progress, as I have, many times.” Scrope nodded anxiously.

“I might have known ye’d be drooling after the chance to meet the King,” said Lowther. Carey stared at him and wished he could find an honourable excuse to punch the man. The words were bad enough but Lowther’s tone twisted them into an implication of sodomy.

“I have met the King of Scotland,” Carey said with cold patience. “Nearly ten years ago on Walsingham’s embassy.” Lowther sniffed.

“What about the weapons?” Scrope asked, swerving back to the problem at hand. “If you leave tonight you could be sure of telling the King before they can be used against him.”

“Either they are on packponies or they have been moved to wagons. Ponies, I would imagine, they move faster in this part of the world. But the quickest a pony train could go so heavily laden would be about fifteen miles a day, and it’s thirty-five at least to Dumfries. I can get a good night’s sleep and still talk to the King before the guns are likely to get near him.”

“It’s not nearly so far to the Debateable Land.”

“True. But if that’s where they’re going, they’re there already and nothing we can do about it.” Scrope nodded. “I’ll need some kind of excuse for going to the Scottish court as well.”

“Hm? Oh, no problem, Sir Robert. You can take a letter of congratulations to my lord Maxwell on his forthcoming appointment as Warden of the West March of Scotland. It would be polite of me to send one and I want to ask for a Day of Truce, do some justice. That will do, won’t it?”

“Perfectly, my lord.”

“I’ll send the water-bailiff with you, he’s a Graham and he knows the way.”

Lowther scraped his chair back as he stood up. “Ay, it’s a pretty sight,” he sneered heavily. “Ye’ll keep it from Her Majesty the Queen what happened to her own weapons, but ye’ll tell it to the Scotch King to keep him sweet.”

Scrope coughed and tapped his fingers on the table as Lowther marched out. “And now, unless any of you has any useful suggestion on retrieving our weapons…”

There was a pregnant silence. Not even Carey spoke.

“…I think we will end this meeting. No, Mr Bell, I do not require a record of it. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Carey was the last to leave, rapidly totting up what he would need to take with him by way of clothes and supplies and money. He drew Scrope aside once the others had clattered down the stairs and told him that Long George was dead.

“Dear me,” said Scrope, looking concerned. “Was that the man who lost his hand when you ambushed Wee Colin Elliot?”

“Yes. He leaves a wife and four children and they need a pension.”

“Er…well, I’m not at all sure if…”

“My lord, without one they will either starve or turn to theft.”

“Well, yes, but there’s no obligation for us to provide a pension to…”

Carey looked around at the hangings, the wax candles, the softly shining rosewood of the virginals and the silver flagon of wine in the corner. Bad wine, true, but wine.

“Not only an obligation, my lord, but a necessity,” he said through his teeth, something old-fashioned and feudal rising in him at Scrope’s modern stinginess. “If other men see that their families might starve should they be killed in the Queen’s service, how the Devil do you think we shall find men to garrison the Keep?”

“Er…yes. True.”

“Whereas if Goody Little receives a pension, even a small one, the word will get round that we look after our own at least as well as the Grahams.”

That was a hit. Scrope flushed slightly and his jaw set. “Well…if you put it like that, Robin…Yes. Of course, Goody Little must have a pension.”