P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“I told you to hold still. Barnabus, where are you going?”

“I was only getting a fresh shirt from the laundry.”

“Bring bandages and the St John’s wort ointment from the stillroom and small beer and some bread and cheese too.”

“I’m not hungry, Philly.” She bit her lip worriedly and felt his forehead, her gesture exactly like their mother. “No, I’m not sickening. I’m not as delicate as you think me. It’s Long George. He had to have his right hand cut off this morning. His pistol exploded and took most of the fingers from it.”

“I don’t see what Long George’s hand has got to do with you not eating,” said Philly, with deliberate obtuseness, getting out her hussif from the pouch hanging on her belt and cutting a length of silk. “Are you feeling dizzy, seeing double?”

“No, no,” said Carey. “I’m perfectly all right, Philadelphia.” She stepped back and stared at him consideringly. In truth he looked mainly embarrassed at having fallen asleep over his work, like some nightowl schoolboy. “Can you send out some laudanum to Long George’s farm? And some food?”

Her face softened a little. “Of course.” Carey nodded, not looking at her and she frowned again.

“I think you should be in bed so your cut can heal,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, anyway, I’m going to sew the edges up and then bandage it again to try and stop it from taking sick and don’t argue with me. Don’t you know you can die from a little cut on your finger, if it goes bad, never mind a great long slash like that? Go on. Sit on the bed and lean over sideways so I can get at it.”

She looked a great deal like her mother when she was determined, despite her inevitable crooked ruff. Sighing, her brother did what he was told. Barnabus shambled back with supplies from the stillroom and then went away again to fetch food. Philadelphia threaded her needle and put an imperious hand on his ribcage.

“Now stay still. This is going to hurt, which is no more than you deserve.”

It did, a peculiarly sore and irritating sharp prickle and pull as the needle passed through. Carey tried to think of something else to stop himself from flinching, but wasn’t given the chance.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to get yourself hurt, you know,” Philadelphia said accusingly as she stitched. “What with the muster tomorrow and King James coming to Dumfries and all. Don’t twitch.”

Before he could protest at this unfairness, Barnabus came limping back with a tray and a fresh shirt. Philadelphia knotted and snipped.

“About time,” she sniffed, putting her needle carefully away and picking up the pot of ointment and the bandages. “Up with your arms, Robin.”

Trying not to wince while she dabbed the cut with more green ointment, Carey asked, “What did you come to see me about, Philly?”

For answer she tapped irritably at a scar on his shoulder. “When did this happen?”

“In France. A musketball grazed me. It got better by itself.”

“You were lucky. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What for? So that you and mother could worry about it?”

“Hah. Hold this.”

Holding the end of the bandage with his elbow raised and his other arm up, Carey said again, patiently, “What did you want me for?”

She blinked at him for a moment and then her face cleared with recall, and switched instantly to an expression of thunder. “I assume you know that my lord Scrope has appointed an acting armoury clerk to replace Atkinson?”

“WHAT?”

“And the guns from London came in at dawn this morning while you were prancing about poaching deer on the Border and they’ve been unpacked and stored already and Lowther’s changed the lock on the armoury door again… Will you stay still or must I slap you?”

“God’s blood, what the Devil does your God-damned husband think he’s playing at…?”

“Don’t swear.”

“But Philly…OUCH.”

“Stay still then.”

“But what’s Scrope up to? Does he want me out? What is he doing ?”

“You weren’t here when the guns came in. Lowther was. Scrope was panicking about who was going to keep the armoury books and Lowther said his cousin could do it for the moment and Scrope agreed. He must have forgotten that the office should be one of the Deputy Warden’s perks.”

“The man’s a complete half-witted…”

“And as far as I know, Lowther’s cousin didn’t even pay anything.”

Carey was now tucking his shirt tails into the tops of his trunkhose and he winced when he moved incautiously. “Atkinson paid fifty pounds for it, damn it.”

“I know. And the armoury clerkship has always been in the gift of the Deputy Warden. I checked with Richard Bell and he agreed with me, but when I talked to my lord Scrope all he would say was that the appointment was only temporary and you could have the sale of it later.”

Carey shrugged into his old green doublet and snapped his fingers impatiently at Barnabus to do up the points to his hose at the back.

“God damn it,” he muttered. “I was relying on selling the clerkship to pay the men next month.”

For once Philadelphia did not tell him off for swearing. Her small heartshaped face was bunched into a worried frown. “It’s worse that Lowther has the keys to the new lock and you haven’t,” she pointed out. “I’m sure he’ll find reasons not to let you have any of the new weapons.”

Carey went into his little office and sat down at his desk again, ignoring the bread and cheese Barnabus had laid out for him. He propped his chin on his fist and stared into space.

“Has the Newcastle courier gone yet?”

Philadelphia looked blank at the sudden change of subject. Barnabus coughed modestly. “No, sir,” he said. “He was in Bessie’s, last I saw.”

“And where the Devil were you, Barnabus?”

“Well, I…”

“I don’t ask much of my servants, just that they occasionally be present to serve me. Nothing elaborate.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Shall I fetch the courier for you, sir?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, Barnabus.”

Barnabus limped out the door muttering under his breath about his water being sore and his master being sarcastic and life in the north being even worse than he expected. Carey continued to stare into space for a moment and then shrugged, took a fresh sheet of paper and a small leather notebook out of a locked drawer in his desk.

“What are you going to do, Robin?”

“Finish writing to London. I’ll ask Burghley to try and persuade the Queen to pay my salary direct to me, and to do it quickly, and try to find me some funds for paying informers as well. I’m deaf and blind round here at the moment.”

“Are you going to tell him about my lord Scrope and the clerkship?”

Carey looked at her seriously. “Do you want me to?” he asked. “The Queen thinks little enough of your husband as it is, and she hasn’t sent his warrant yet. He’s not even officially Lord Warden. Do you want to give her excuse for delay?”

Philadelphia scowled and shook her head. She watched as Carey’s long fingers took up the pen and began the tedious business of ciphering his letter.

“Will you go to bed when the courier’s gone?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Well, I…”

“Only I want you fresh for this evening.” Carey stopped writing and glanced at her warily.

“Why?”

“I want you to come to the dinner party I’m giving for Sir Simon Musgrave, who brought the convoy in, and some of the other local gentlemen who have come for the muster.”

“Must I?”

“Yes. If the Deputy Warden isn’t there, people will begin to wonder if my lord is planning to take your office away, especially when they hear about the armoury clerkship.”