P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“Sir Robert, I’m sorry to see ye like this.”

He was expected to respond. How? What would work with Queen Elizabeth might annoy King James and vice versa. On the other hand he would never ever have been brought so easily into the Queen’s presence after a charge of treason had been made. Even in a letter, abject contrition would have been the only course. But this was not a brilliant, nervy, vain and elderly woman, this was a King three years younger than himself, who would almost certainly be King of England one day. King James might be unaccountable, with odd tastes, but he was at least a man.

“Your Majesty, I’m sorry to be like this,” Carey said, trying for a glint of wry humour.

“Ay,” said King James. “No doubt ye are. What the Devil’s happened to your hands?”

Carey looked down at them. The Earl of Mar’s handkerchief splint hid his broken fingers which had settled down to a steady drumbeat throbbing, but the others were swollen and the ones that had felt the thumbscrews were going purple. His last remaining gold ring on his little finger was almost hidden by puffed flesh.

“My Lord Spynie was impatient to hear his tale,” explained the Earl of Mar.

King James’s eyes narrowed. “He’s nae right to torture one of the Queen’s appointed officials, let alone my ain cousin, does he no’ ken that? Why did ye let them take ye, Sir Robert, I had ye down for a man of parts?”

“My Lord Spynie and Sir Henry Widdrington said they had a Royal Warrant. It had your signature on it. Naturally, in Your Majesty’s own realm I had no choice but to surrender.” He omitted the detail of being outnumbered and outgunned.

King James made an odd sniff and snort through his nostrils. “A Warrant?” he said. “With the Privy Seal?”

Carey nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. And your signature.”

The King turned to the Earl of Mar.

“He’s no’ to have access to the Seal nor the signing stamp any more,” he said, “if this is how he uses it.”

The Earl of Mar’s face took on a patient expression.

“Ay, Your Highness.”

“And take the gyves off the man’s legs. He’s never going to attack me with his hands in that condition.”

Mar beckoned to one of the guards, who came over and took the chains off Carey’s ankles. He was not invited to stand, and so he didn’t. No matter, he had knelt for hours at a time while attending on the Queen in one of her moods.

King James went to the carved chair placed under the embroidered cloth of estate and sat down, ignoring the large goblet of wine standing on a table by his hand. His face had somehow become sharper, more canny.

“Now then, Sir Robert. What was it ye were so determined to keep fra my lord Spynie?”

“Your Majesty, may I begin the tale at its right beginning?”

The King nodded. “Take your time.”

Where the hell to start? Carey took a deep breath, and began with the German in the forest and Long George’s pistol exploding.

An hour later he had finished, his throat beginning to get infernally dry and croaky. King James had interrupted only to ask an occasional sharp question. Running out of voice, his knees beginning to ache and his left hand turned into a pulsing mass of misery, Carey finally brought himself into Lord Spynie’s clutches and left the tale there.

“Ye say the German’s down in the winecellar now?”

“His corpse is, Your Majesty.”

“Hmm. And ye say the false guns ye sold to Signor Bonnetti explode at the second firing?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

King James started to laugh. He laughed immoderately, leaning back in his chair, hanging one leg over the arm and hooting.

“Och,” he said, coming to an end at last. “Och, that’s beautiful, Sir Robert, it’s a work of artistry, it surely is. Ay. Well, my lord Earl, what d’ye think?”

The Earl of Mar was stroking his beard. “I think we can believe him, Your Highness.”

King James leaned forward, suddenly serious. “What did ye get for them and where did ye put it?”

Carey’s gut congealed again. “That was what my Lord Spynie was so anxious to know.”

“Ay. So am I.”

Carey coughed, smiled apologetically, spread his throbbing hands. “I gave it to a friend of mine, but I don’t know where he’s gone.”

The atmosphere had cooled considerably. “When did ye give it?”

“When I heard Sir Henry coming and realised he had a warrant.”

“Mf. This friend o’ yourn, did he ken it was gold he was carrying?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

King James looked regretful. “Ay well, nae doubt of it, he’s ower the Border by now.”

“He might be.”

“And ye say ye’re still in search of the right guns for Carlisle, the ones that came fra the Tower o’ London?”

“If I can find where Spynie’s got them hidden, Your Majesty.”

The King was still half-astraddle the chair, gazing out of the portable glazed window, occasionally sipping from his wine goblet. Carey stayed where he was, his face itchily stiff with dried blood, weariness weighting every limb, and his throat cracked down to a whisper. God, for some beer and a bowl of water to wash in.

After what seemed a very long time, King James seemed to come to a decision. He swung his short bandy legs to the floor and stood up.

“My lord Earl,” he said, “have Sir Robert taken to the tapestried chamber upstairs, give him the means to clean himself and a surgeon brought to him, and find him some clothes. When he’s eaten and drunk his fill, bring him back to us.”

“Your Majesty is most merciful,” said Carey humbly, wondering if this would give the King’s men time to comb the streets for Young Hutchin. King James’s eyes narrowed.

“Ay,” he snapped. “Merciful maybe, but I’m no’ daft and if I find out any of this is a lie, ye’ll be begging me to gie ye back to Lord Spynie before the day is out.”

Carey bowed his head. None of it was a lie, he had told strictly the truth, but he had certainly not included any of the things he had learned or guessed from what the German told him. He wasn’t daft either.

He got himself to his feet after the King had rolled from the room, looked at the Earl of Mar and waited. The procession reformed itself. He needed all his concentration to stay on his feet since his brain was spinning with weariness and tension, and he had to keep his head high in case anyone he knew should recognise him.

***

Elizabeth Widdrington was waiting with Young Hutchin Graham and her stepson Henry in an anteroom when they saw the Earl of Mar and the guards go by. She recognised Robin only by his height and the way he moved: his face was a mask of blood with an unhealthy grey tinge underneath. Her first emotion was sheer breathtaking joy that he was alive and could still walk. She stood and followed quietly behind, no longer caring what happened to her afterwards. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Sir Henry would kill her if he got out of this. The King had told her he would be arrested along with Lord Spynie. It was more than likely that he would try to take her down to destruction with him, if he could.

They took Carey to one of the upper rooms, and the key turned in the lock, she could hear it clearly. She waited on one of the narrow landings until the Earl of Mar came by and then she stepped in front of him and curtseyed. He blinked down at her.

“Ay,” he said. “Lady Widdrington.”

“My lord,” she said. Her voice stopped in her throat. What was she going to ask him? To see Carey? For what reason that wasn’t concerned with her unruly heart? And if he let her? What price her honour then? Would she make all Sir Henry’s accusations and suspicions true?

“Hrmhrm,” said the Earl of Mar, old enough to read her sudden dumbness. “If it’s Carey, ye’re after, he’s still under arrest, but the King’s more pleased wi’ him than angry, and I’m to call the surgeon.”