P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“What is it?”

“Sir, sir, I’m sorry, I thought it was Lady Widdrington, not Sir Henry.”

“What? What are you blabbering about? And what the Devil’s that noise?”

Hutchin swallowed hard and fought for control. “It’s Sir Henry Widdrington, Deputy. He’s got a Royal Warrant to arrest someone.”

There was the sound of the gate bolts being opened.

Noticeably, Carey didn’t ask who the warrant was for. His eyes narrowed to chips of ice.

“You’ve been passing information about my doings.”

“Ay, sir,” Hutchin confessed miserably. “To Roger Widdrington. I thought it was for my lady. That’s what he said.”

Carey was out of bed now, peering through the narrow window into the yard where Sir Henry and a large number of men were marching across between the horses and men camping out there, towards the hall door.

“You halfwitted romantic twat,” said Carey, feeling under his shirt and unbuckling a moneybelt. “Pull up your doublet and shirt.”

Mouth open, Hutchin did as he was told. Carey strapped it onto him, where it went round twice.

“Och, it’s heavy, sir,” said Young Hutchin Graham, waking up rather more and now beginning to take on a canny expression.

“It’s gold and a banker’s draft.”

“Christ.”

“Don’t swear. Come with me.”

Carey led the boy out into Maxwell’s solar where there was a trapdoor let into the ceiling. He hauled a linen chest underneath, stood on it, opened the bolts, shoved back the trapdoor and then boosted Young Hutchin up into the dark spaces above.

“What’s happening, sir?” Young Hutchin asked, kneeling at the edge of the hole. “Where does this go?”

“There’ll be an escape route via the roof, no doubt. I never heard of a Border lord yet that didn’t have one. Use it.”

“What about ye, sir?”

“Thanks to you, I think I’m about to be arrested by the King of Scotland.”

“But can ye not come with me?”

“Use your head, Hutchin. This is Maxwell’s bolthole. It’s me they’re after, and if I’m not here, his lordship will know where I’ve gone and they’ll catch both of us. Whereas nobody’s interested in you.”

“Och, Jesus, sir. Will they hang ye?”

“Certainly not. Being of noble blood, I’ve a right to ask for beheading. Here, catch this ring.”

“Whit d’ye want me tae do, sir?”

“You’ve a choice, haven’t you? You could go to Dodd if he’s still at liberty, or try and see Lady Elizabeth Widdrington, herself, in person this time and not through intermediaries. Show her the ring and ask for her help. She might even give it.”

“Or?”

“Or you could pelt off to your cousins and run for the Debateable Land with the gold that’s in that belt. Which might be safer for you in the short term.”

Young Hutchin said nothing.

***

Young Hutchin silently scrabbled at the heavy trap and put it back in its hole. Carey scrubbed the fingermarks off with his shirtsleeve, jumped down, pushed the chest back against the wall, kicked the rucked-up rushes about a bit and ran back to his anteroom, shutting and bolting the door behind him while the dogs milled around him looking puzzled, and the tramp of boots echoed on the spiral stair. First one and then both of the wolfhounds began to bark and growl menacingly, standing to face the door with their hackles up and their teeth bared. Carey patted them both affectionately. If he had wanted to make a fight of it, they would have given their lives for him, but he saw no point in that.

There’s nothing like a bolted door to please a searcher, old Mr Phelippes had told him once, it is so exactly the kind of thing one is looking for. Also the bolt gave Carey time to pull on his hose and boots, before the end of it cracked out of the doorjamb to the multiple kicking. He faced Sir Henry Widdrington and about five other Widdringtons with his sword in his hand. The wolfhounds began baying like the Wild Hunt.

“What in the name of God is going on?” he demanded over the noise.

Sir Henry Widdrington had a loaded wheellock dag in one hand and an official-looking paper in the other. He hobbled forwards a few paces on his swollen gouty feet, his face turned to a gargoyle’s by the torches and deep personal satisfaction. Like a town crier he read out the terms of the warrant in a booming tone.

From behind him Lord Maxwell called his dogs to him and they stopped barking, looked very puzzled, whined sadly at Carey and padded out to their master. Maxwell then, rather pointedly, left.

All was perfectly legal: the King of Scotland had made out a warrant for the arrest on a charge of high treason and trafficking with enemies of the realms of both Scotland and England (nice touch) of one Sir Robert Carey.

“Let me see the seal,” said Carey.

“You’re not suggesting, I hope, that I would forge the King’s Warrant?” said Sir Henry.

“Lord above, Sir Henry, I wouldn’t put anything past you.” Carey was still holding out his left hand for the warrant, his sword en garde between them. Sir Henry reddened and swelled like a frog, then shrugged and gave it to him, the dag’s muzzle not moving an inch from the direction of Carey’s heart. Carey wondered how much insolence it would take from him for the weapon to go off unexpectedly and shoot him dead. Also the seal was genuine.

Carey handed back the warrant and laid his sword down on the truckle bed. He was immediately grabbed by four of Widdrington’s henchmen and his arms twisted painfully up behind his back, which started to make him angry as well as afraid.

“I’ve surrendered to you, Sir Henry,” he managed to say through his teeth. “There’s no need for this.”

Sir Henry answered with a punch in Carey’s belly which almost had him spewing up the sour remains of the aqua vitae he had drunk earlier.

“Ye chose the wrong man to put the horns on, boy,” hissed Sir Henry in his ear as he tried to straighten up. “Any more lip from ye an’ I’ll send ye to the King with your tackle mashed to pulp.”

Carey didn’t answer because he hadn’t got the breath. Somebody was putting wooden manacles on his wrists behind him, some kind of primitive portable stocks.

They propelled him downstairs and through the parlour where Maxwell was standing with his men, watching impassively. Over his shoulder, Carey called to him, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this from you, my lord Warden.”

Maxwell shrugged and looked away, which was not worth the further fist in the gut administered by Sir Henry.

Widdrington’s keeping away from my face, Carey thought, when he could think again, which means he’s been ordered to bring me in unharmed. That’s good. Or is it? Perhaps King James just wants a fresh field for his interrogators to start work on. No, they’re not that subtle.

It was hard to keep his feet as they shoved him along, through the hall, through the courtyard now filled with sleepy watchers, and out into the Town Head. One of the Widdringtons held him up when he missed his footing on the cobbles and would have sprawled full length. Carey caught a glimpse of looming breadth and heroic spottiness and recognised young Henry, Widdrington’s eldest son. Henry was wearing a steady flush and a sullen expression and kept his head turned away from Carey’s as he helped him.

They were hustling him on foot down towards the Mercat Cross and the town lock-up, but that was not where they were going. Instead, before they reached it, Sir Henry and his men turned and went under the arcades of the Mayor’s house, through the side door and into the broad kitchen. There a baker was firing his oven and woodmen beginning the work of relighting the fires on the hearths for cooking, while the older scullery boys still slept near the heat and the flagstones gleamed from washing by the yawning younger ones.