P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“Och,” said Red Sandy, sitting up and scratching, “he’s allus like this, he hates mornings. Always has. Will ye be wanting us too, sir?”

“No. I want you and Sim’s Will to go and do some drinking on my behalf.”

Red Sandy brightened up at that.

“Ay, sir.”

“I want you to spend time with the men around town, buy a few drinks, and see if you can catch any hint of a sudden influx of good firearms anywhere. Just listen for rumours, or envious complaints and take good note of who’s talking and who they’re talking about. That clear?”

Red Sandy was on his feet and so was Sim’s Will, both looking much encouraged. Sim’s Will nodded and went out to see who had taken their feed bucket, while Red Sandy brushed down two of the hobbies and put their saddles on.

Carey handed over several pounds in assorted Scots money to Red Sandy while Dodd sat up and fumbled for his boots.

“Do you think you could do that work for me without getting roaring drunk or into any fights with the Scots?” Carey asked. Red Sandy was offended.

“Ay, o’ course, sir.”

“Young Hutchin, you have to stay either with me or Red Sandy. Which do you prefer?”

Young Hutchin swallowed stickily and looked at the ground.

“I’d prefer to stay with Red Sandy, sir,” he said. “Ah…the Maxwells are at feud wi’ the Grahams, sir; Dumfries is well enough with the King here and all but it might be better for me not to go to Lochmaben.”

Carey lifted his eyebrows at the boy. “Is there any Border family your relations are not at feud with?” he asked.

Hutchin looked offended. “Ay, sir, we’re no’ feuding with the Armstrongs or the Johnstones, nor never have.”

“And that’s all? Has it never occurred to your uncles that merrily feuding with every surname that offends you in any way might not be a good long-term policy, especially if you have the King of Scotland after your blood as well?”

Hutchin looked blank. “What else can we do, sir?” he asked. “Be like the Routledges, every man’s prey?”

Carey sighed. “Stay with Red Sandy and Sim’s Will and try to keep out of trouble.”

“Ay, sir.”

***

Lord Maxwell looked no happier than any of his relatives or attendants, and seemed to have cooled towards Carey as well. They broke their fast hurriedly on stale manchet bread and ale, and then followed him out of the Lochmaben Gate of Dumfries and northeast along the road to his castle. They struck off the road after about four miles, into a tangle of hills and burns, until they met with a number of angry looking Maxwells, gathered about three battered wagons whose wheels bit deep into the soft forest track. Lord Maxwell’s steward came forward and spoke urgently into his ear, at which Lord Maxwell’s face became even grimmer.

He waved at the wagons.

“There ye are, Sir Robert,” he said. “See what ye can make of them.”

“Are we not going into the castle?” Dodd questioned under his breath.

“It seems my lord Warden wants to be able to deny the weapons are anything to do with him,” Carey answered softly. “Count your blessings, he’s not going to be a happy man.”

Carey slid from his horse, squelched over to the nearest wagon and climbed onto the board next to the driver. He pulled out a caliver or two, turned them upside down, grunted and threw them back. The last one he examined more carefully and then shook his head.

“Well?” demanded Maxwell impatiently.

“They’re all faulty,” said Carey simply. “The barrels are all badly welded, the lock parts have not been case-hardened and some of them are cracked already. If you use these in battle, my lord, your enemies will laugh themselves silly.”

“One of my cousins has been blinded by one and another man had his hand hurt.”

“There you are then, my lord. If you like we could prove a couple.”

“Ay,” said Maxwell, rubbing his thumb on the clenched muscles in his cheek. “Do so.”

Although he knew as well as Dodd that it was unnecessary, Carey went through the motions, rigged a caliver to a tree stump and spattered it all over the clearing.

There was a kind of contented sigh from the Maxwells standing about. Carey left the wagon, came back to his horse and mounted up again in tactful silence. They waited, finding the paths all blocked by Maxwells.

The tension rose, broken by wood-doves currling at each other through the trees and anxious alarm calls from the jackdaws.

Finally Maxwell flung down his tall-crowned hat and roared, “God damn it! Bastard Englishmen, bastards and traitors every one, by God…”

He swung suddenly on Carey and at the motion the Maxwell lances seemed to lean inward towards the Deputy Warden and Sergeant Dodd. “And what d’ye ken of this, eh, Sir Robert? Sitting there so smarmy and clever and telling me I canna do what I plan because the guns are nae good…”

“Would you have preferred me to keep silent and let you use them against the Johnstones, my lord?” asked Carey levelly. “I could have done that.”

Ay, thought Dodd viciously, wondering how many of the lances were aimed at his back, and why didn’t you, you interfering fool?

“Ye’re in it wi’ Scrope and Lowther and the Johnstones, aren’t ye, aren’t ye?” yelled Maxwell, forcing his horse over close to Carey and leaning in his face. “And a clever plot it was too, to gi’ the advantage to the pack of muirthering Johnstones.”

“Nothing to do with me, my lord,” said Carey steadily.

“Lord Scrope’s yer warden, ye’d do what he tellt ye.”

“I might,” allowed Carey. “If he had mentioned this to me, of course. In which case I would hardly have come here with you, would I? But I don’t think it was him.”

“And who was it then?”

“From whom did you buy the guns, my lord? Ask yourself that and then ask who did you the favour of stopping you firing one of them.”

Oh, thought Dodd as a great light dawned on him. So that’s what the interfering fool’s about, is he? Well, well. It took most of his self-control not to let a wicked grin spread itself all over his face. That night spent tediously marking all the guns in the armoury with an x before we even knew there was anything wrong with them, it was time well-spent. And now we’ve found them again and we can go home.

Maxwell’s face was working. He seemed to be thinking and calming down.

“Ye came to find these, did ye no’?” he said at last.

Carey shrugged. “I knew we had lost the guns during the muster on Sunday, and I knew someone must have put a big enough price on them for…someone to want to take the money and embarrass Scrope at the same time.” Noticeably he did not mention the previous theft on the road from Newcastle, when the Tower-made guns had been swapped for the deathtraps now owned by Maxwell.

“The bastard,” breathed Maxwell repetitiously. “God damn his guts.”

“Amen,” answered Carey piously.

“I paid good money for this pile of scrap iron.”

Carey tutted. “Who to, my lord?” he asked casually.

Maxwell’s lowering face suddenly became cunning. “I canna tell ye that, Sir Robert.”

Carey sighed at this sudden niceness. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “Will you say what you paid?”

“Twenty-five shillings a gun, English, and we were to send them back once we’d had the use of them.”

Up went Carey’s eyebrows at this unexpected titbit. “Really?” he said slowly. “Is that so?”

“The usual arrangement, ye ken, only we wanted more of them. And for longer. Sir Ri…He was to find them at Lammastide in an old pele-tower near Langholm, ye follow.”

“Ah yes, I understand. And take the credit for it. Hmm. Well, what will you do with them now, my lord?”