P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

Carey dismounted and led his horse to one group, spoke softly and handed over some coins. The Dodd brothers, Sim’s Will Croser and Young Hutchin watched hopefully until they saw the sneers.

Carey came back to them shaking his head.

“Sir?” asked Dodd, mentally girding his loins for a night in the open.

“I am reliably informed that the lad might have some chance of lodging,” Carey replied drily, “but none of us do.” If Young Hutchin understood what the Courtier meant by that, he gave no sign of it.

“If we go out of town a little way there might be a dry place we could light a fire…” Dodd said, preparing to make the best of it and hoping Carey would not sleep a wink on the hard cold ground.

Carey smiled. “One more place to try.”

They trailed back through the crowds and tents and horses, picking their way over the dung that already lay in heaps at street corners, to one of the smaller inns at the corner of Cavart’s Vennel.

Again Carey dismounted and spoke to one of the men lolling by the door picking his teeth, handed over some more money. They waited while the ponies behind stamped their feet tiredly, and ugly-looking men in jacks passed by eyeing the supplies and livestock. Dodd eyed them right back.

At last the servingman came back, shrugged and gestured. Carey smiled, led them forwards under the low arch, where men were already settled down for the night, bundled up in their cloaks with a little fire in a corner, and into the inn’s tiny yard. It was clogged with horses, tethered in rows and looked after by harassed grooms.

“Red Sandy, Sim’s Will and Hutchin, take care of the horses,” Carey ordered. “Unload the packs, pile them up and have a man guarding them at all times, no matter what happens. I’m going to see the old Warden.”

Sir John Carmichael was finishing a late supper in the tiny common room, seated at the head of one of the trestle tables, with his followers packed tight on the benches. He had his court clothes on which made him look incongruously gaudy in gold and red brocade, and a broad smile on his face.

“God’s blood,” he boomed as Carey walked in, followed by Dodd. “It’s Mr Carey.”

Carey smiled and made his bow, which Sir John returned.

“I’m Sir Robert now, my lord Warden,” he said. “And my father sends his best regards.”

“Ay, and how is he? How’s his gout? Och, sit ye down, and Jimmy, will ye go ben and fetch vittles for the Deputy. Ay, that’s fine, shove up, lads, make room.”

Dodd had never been so close to so many Scots in his life unless he was killing them, and certainly not in their own land. He sat down gingerly on the bench where a space appeared and wondered if there was any hope at all of getting out if they turned nasty. Carey perched on the end next to Carmichael and smiled.

“And also either his congratulations or his commiserations, depending on your mood, at your resignation from the Office of West March Warden,” Carey continued in the complicated way he could command without a tremor.

“Congratulations?” shouted Carmichael, his round red face beaming. “I wis never sae glad to get shot of an office in my life. D’ye ken what the King pays? Ain hundred pound Scots, that’s all, and I spend more than that on horsefeed in a season.”

Carmichael had a vigorous tufting of white hair all over his head, and broad capable hands, and his face had an almost childlike straightforwardness about it.

Carey winced sympathetically. “I had heard tell the place was ruination for anyone but a magnate,” he said.

“Ay, it’s the truth. And not a hope of justice fra the scurvy English either,” Carmichael added with a fake glower. “Ye’re Deputy Warden now under Scrope, I hear. How d’ye find it?”

“More complex than I expected,” Carey answered. “And harder work.”

“They do say peddling gie’s a man a terrible thirst,” said Carmichael with a grin. Carey had the grace to grin back and accept a horn mug filled with beer. To his surprise, Dodd was given one as well. The beer was sour. “By God, that was a good tale I heard about you at Netherby. Jock o’ the Peartree held prisoner in his own brother’s tower…Nae doubt that’s when Bothwell’s ruffians found out about the horses at Falkland.”

“It was. I can’t think how I let it slip out.”

Carmichael barked a laugh. “Ye did me an ill turn there, ye ken, lad. My cousin Willie Carmichael of Reidmire at Gretna’s in an awful taking about a black horse that was stolen that night and he reckons Willie Johnstone of Kirkhill’s got it.” Carey raised his brows and said nothing. “See, the horse is the devil of a fine racer, though he’s only a two year old, he’ll bear away the bells at every meet he goes to next year if Cousin Willie can get him back and he’s writing me letters every week giving me grief about it like an auld Edinburgh wifie. I’ve written to Scrope about it, but can ye do aught for me?”

“I’ll try,” said Carey. “You know what it’s like with horses.”

“Och, ye canna tell me anything about it. I mind the time some Dodds hit us for our stables, once, stripped out the lot of them.”

“Did they?” said Carey neutrally, not looking at the Sergeant. “What did they get?”

“Och, it was a while back, a fair few years now, but they were nice horses-there was Penny, and Crown, and Farthing and Shilling…”

Dodd buried his nose in his beer. Was the old Warden teasing him?

“Dodds and English Armstrongs it was, a nice clean job of it too. We never got them back nor a penny of compensation.”

Carey coughed. “I’m very sorry to hear of it, Sir John. I’m afraid I can’t help you with them, but I’ll see what I can do about your cousin Willie’s black horse. What’s it called?”

“Blackie, I expect,” said Carmichael. “The man’s got nae imagination.” He tossed a chicken leg at a pile of dogs in the corner which promptly dissolved into a growling fight. “Meantime, what can I do for ye, Sir Robert?”

“Tell me about your successor as Warden.”

“Lord Maxwell.” Carmichael nodded and smoothed out his white moustache. “He’s clever and he’s got something in the wind.”

“Against the Johnstones?”

“Of course. Who else? He was uncommon willing to be made Warden, which means he’ll use his Wardenry against Johnstone, and he’s rich and he’s cunning. I dinna like the man myself, ye ken, but he’s a good soldier.”

“Catholic too, I understand.”

“Ay, and that’s another matter. Ye may mind the trouble he caused hereabouts in the Armada year?”

“Didn’t the King arrest him for backing the Spanish?”

“Ay, and executed a couple of dozen of his kin.”

Carey whistled. “And he’s going to be made the new Lord Warden?”

Carmichael shrugged. “The King’s a very forgiving prince when he wants.”

“Must be.”

“Ay, well, Maxwell’s been in Spain and France and all over, brought home some fancy foreign tastes. A while back he had his ain personal wine merchant fra foreign parts, and his ain personal wine merchant’s wifie as well.” Carey raised his eyebrows quizzically and Carmichael barked with laughter. “Ye wait till ye see her, lad. She’s moved on fra the Maxwell now, dropped him like an auld glove once the Earl of Mar showed an interest in her. Even the King tolerates her and God knows, he’s no love o’ women nor foreigners.”

“Spanish?” asked Carey.

Carmichael shook his head. “Italians.”

“How very cosmopolitan of the Maxwell.” Carmichael snorted and finished his beer. “Tell me, my lord Warden,” Carey went on, “any Germans about the Court at the moment?”

This produced an interesting result. Carmichael drew back and went still.