P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“Damn.”

“And besides everyone in the country wants to meet the dashing knight who solved Atkinson’s murder, never mind what he was up to the week before last-of which I have heard at least five different versions, and none of them as ridiculous as the truth.”

Carey rolled his eyes at the sarcasm in her voice.

“I have nothing fit to wear.”

Philly looked withering. “This isn’t London, you know. The only people who dress fine around here are the headmen of the big blackrenting surnames, like Richie Graham of Brackenhill. I’ll make sure Barnabus has mended your velvet suit by then; but your cramoisie would do well enough.”

Carey grunted and continued counting letters under his breath. Philly came and kissed him on the ear.

“Do say you’ll come, Robin.”

“Oh, very well. So long as you don’t expect me to do anything except feed my face and smile sweetly at people.”

“That would be perfect.”

***

The boom of gunfire woke him up. Carey found himself halfway to the window with a dagger in his hand before he was fully awake. He peered out into the castle yard and saw a small crowd of garrison folk gathered around a cleared space. He smiled at himself, thinking back to his time in France the year before when he had been similarly on a hairtrigger. As he watched, a thickset middle-aged man in a worn velvet suit and Scottish hat lined up a caliver with a well-earthed target and squeezed the trigger. Carey nodded. Typical. Not only had they unloaded the weapons without him, now they were testing them while he had a much-needed rest.

Muttering to himself he went back to bed, drew the curtains and tried to go back to sleep in the stuffy dimness. Eventually he did.

Awakened once more by Barnabus, Carey decided to dress early and go and talk some sense into Lord Scrope.

The Lord Warden of the English West March was nowhere to be found, however, until Carey thought to go round to the stables to see how Thunder his black tournament horse was faring. There he ran Scrope to earth, deep in conference with four local gentlemen.

“Ahah,” said Scrope, raising a bony arm in salute as Carey wandered round the dungheap which was being raked and trimmed by three of the garrison boys. “Here he is. Sir Robert, come and give us some advice, would you?”

Carey coughed and with difficulty, managed a politic smile at his brother in law.

The gentlemen were debating horse-races. Specifically, they were insistent that a muster of the West March could not possibly be held without a horse race or three and were even willing to chip in for the prize money. They had already decided on one race for three year olds and two for any age, and a ten pound prize for each.

“No,” said Carey in answer to one of the gentlemen. “Thunder’s not a racehorse, he’s a tournament charger.”

“Might be useful in the finish,” said the gentleman. “Twice the leg length of a hobby and good bones. Be interesting to see how he ran. How does he do in the rough country hereabouts?”

Carey raised eyebrows at that. “I never use him on patrol, he’s too valuable.”

“Oh quite so, quite so,” said the gentleman. “Still. Got a mare might come into season, you know.”

“I wouldn’t put Thunder to a hobby,” Carey said. “The foal might be too big.”

“Well, she’s a bit of a mixture, not a hobby really, got hobby blood so does well on rough ground, but still…”

“Sir Robert couldn’t ride him in the race,” put in Scrope. “He’s the Deputy Warden, he has to maintain order at the muster. Can’t have him breaking his neck in the race as well.”

“Put someone else up,” suggested another gentleman with a florid face, who had been feeding the horses carrots.

“That’s an idea,” said Carey, warming to the notion. If Thunder won a race, it would at least put the stallion’s covering fees up. “Who would you suggest? He’s not an easy animal to ride.”

“Find one of the local lads,” said a third gentleman. “Little bastards can ride anything with four legs, practically born in the saddle.”

There was a flurry on the top of the dungheap, fists swung and then a sweaty mucky boy scrambled down to land in front of Carey.

“Me, sir!” he was shouting. “I’ll ride him, let me ride him, I’ll bear the bell away for ye, sir!”

Carey squinted at the boy, and finally recognised Young Hutchin Graham under the dung.

Another boy, one of the steward’s many sons, leaned down from the top of the heap, holding a puffy lip and sneered, “Ay, ye’ll bear it away on yer bier, ye bastard, ye canna ride better than a Scotch pig wi’ piles…”

Young Hutchin ignored this with some dignity, and stood up, brushing at himself ineffectually.

“I can so,” he said to Carey. “I’ve rid him at exercise and he…”

Carey stared fixedly at the boy as the gentlemen listened with interest.

“…he’s a strong nag, an’ willing,” Hutchin finished after an imperceptible change of course. “And I’d be willing, sir, it’d be good practice.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed if he proved slower than you expected,” said Carey gravely.

“Och, nay, sir, I wouldnae expect him to win, not wi’ Mr Salkeld’s bonny mare in the race and all,” said Young Hutchin, all wide blue eyes and innocence.

Mr Salkeld was standing beside Carey and gave a modest snort.

“Well, she shapes prettily enough,” he admitted. “Prettily enough, certainly.”

“Hm,” temporised Carey artfully. “I’m not sure it would be worth it.”

Mr Salkeld took out his purse.

“Sir Robert,” he said with a friendly smile, “I can see ye’re too modest for your own good. How about a little bet to make it worth your while?”

“Well…”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give ye odds of two to one that my pretty little mare can beat your great Thunder.”

“Now I think you’re being modest, Mr Salkeld.”

“Three to one, and my hand on it. Shall we say five pounds?”

They shook gravely while Carey wondered where he could find five pounds at short notice if he had to.

After that nothing would do but that Scrope must show the gentlemen his lymer bitch who had pupped on the Deputy Warden’s bed at the beginning of the week. There was little to see at the back of the pupping kennel, beyond yellow fur and an occasional sprawling paw, while the bitch lifted her lip at them and growled softly. Carey waited while the rest of them went off to examine some sleuth-dog puppies, then put his hand near her muzzle. She sniffed, whined, thumped her tail and let him pat her head.

“I should think so,” said Carey, pleased. “Where’s your gratitude, eh? I want that big son of yours, my girl, and don’t forget it.”

“Sir Robert,” hissed a young voice behind him and Carey turned to see Young Hutchin slouching there. He smiled at the boy who smiled back and transformed his truculent face into something much younger and more pleasant.

“Now then,” Carey said warily.

Hutchin drew a deep breath. “When I take Thunder out for his evening run, will I let anybody see him?”

“Certainly,” said Carey. “Let them see he’s no miracle.”

Young Hutchin nodded and grinned in perfect understanding.

Scrope and his party returned and Carey tagged along while they wandered down to the Captain’s gate to look at the alterations and refurbishments being done to the Warden’s Lodgings in the gate-house. Finally the gentlemen went off into Carlisle town which was already getting noisy and Carey at last had Scrope to himself.

Scrope, however, did not want to talk about the armoury clerkship or the weapons. He chatted about horses, he held forth on Buttercup the lymer bitch’s ancestry and talents, he spoke hopefully that some of the falcons might be out of moult soon, he congratulated Carey on the venison his patrol had brought in and the sheep which was being butchered even now, and he regretted at length the sad news about Long George.