3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (17 page)

The groom shrugged. “I dinna ken.”

Dodd didn’t let go. “I think ye do,” he hissed. “Or I think ye’d better guess.”

The groom looked at Dodd’s hand on his arm. “And who the hell are ye?” he wanted to know.

For a moment Dodd was on the brink of saying he was Sergeant Henry Dodd of Gilsland, which in those parts would have put the fat well and truly in the fire, but thought better of it. “I’m with the Deputy Warden of the English West March. The beast’s his own, and he’s presently sitting at my lord Maxwell’s table and talking about guns. D’ye want me to fetch him and say ye’ve let his tournament charger be reived under the neb of my lord Maxwell? Eh?”

The groom paused. “A courtier came to the blond lad and asked him if he’d show the animal to my lord Spynie.”

Dodd’s eyes narrowed. “And he went? Just like that? I dinna think so. Ye come wi’ me and we’ll talk to yer headman…”

The groom coughed. “Well, the courtier gave the lad some money for it, not to make a fuss.”

“Och, God. Put the buckets down, man, and come wi’ me.”

Reluctantly, the groom obeyed.

Carey, Maxwell and some of Maxwell’s cousins were in the great hall of the Castle, at table under the war banners, eating a haggis with bashed neeps, some baked pheasants and a boiled chicken.

“What’s the matter, Dodd?” asked Carey, catching Dodd’s expression and then seeing the struggling groom.

Dodd glowered with satisfaction at being proved right so quickly. “According to this man, Young Hutchin’s gone off with one of Lord Spynie’s men and taken Thunder to show him. Little bastard. Nae doubt of it, the lad’s planning to sell Thunder for ye, pocket the cash and run for it to the Debateable Land. That one wants his hide tanned for him.”

Carey put down his spoon with a worried frown.

“Gone off? When?”

Dodd shrugged again.

“Damn.” Carey was up off the bench and reaching for his swordbelt.

“Ay,” Dodd said with mournful satisfaction. “Put a Graham in charge of a prime piece of horseflesh like your bonny Thunder and what d’ye expect, it’s putting the wolf in charge of the sheepfold, that’s what it is for sure…”

“For God’s sake, Dodd, stop blethering; it’s not the bloody horse I’m worried about, it’s the boy.”

“What does he look like?” asked Maxwell.

“Blond, blue eyes.”

Maxwell laughed coarsely. “Well, he’ll thank ye for it once his arse heals up. They’ll pay him well enough.”

“Can I borrow a few of your men, my lord?”

Maxwell’s face became serious. “Och, why bother? He’s only a boy and a Graham to boot.”

Carey didn’t seem particularly surprised at this rebuff. He smiled sweetly at Maxwell. “Never mind the men, my lord. Where do you think they might have gone with him?”

“Och, wherever. Spynie’s with the King, down by the market place in the Mayor’s bonny house with the arches. I heard tell his friends were lodging in the Red Boar beside it, that has the hole in the wall, but what’s the hurry…”

Carey was already striding through the hall. Over his shoulder he called, “My lord, if you want to borrow one of my dags for the shooting competition, I’ll have to find Thunder first because they’re in a case on his back.”

Maxwell had his mouth full and was still chewing, with a comical expression of annoyance.

Dodd followed Carey through the crowds as he marched down the muddy street to the Red Boar, looking uncommonly grim. With some effort Dodd caught up with him just under the painted sign and asked, “Will I fetch Red Sandy and Sim’s Will, sir?”

Carey paused, opened his mouth to answer and stopped.

There was the sound of shouting and a boy’s shrieking of insults, suddenly muffled, from the upstairs private room. Carey put his head back and listened. Dodd heard a soprano yell of “Liddesdale!” followed by a couple of dull thuds, a crash as furniture went over, a deep-voiced cry of pain and more thuds and crashes.

“No time, damn it,” said Carey. Some large lads were sitting stolidly by the inn door, playing dice and ignoring the commotion. Carey passed by them boldly, set his foot into the lattices on the wall, tested it for strength and before the lads could do more than stare, was climbing up to the first floor like a monkey on a stick. Dodd watched with his mouth open, as did the diceplayers. Carey kicked open the double window that the sounds were coming from, and disappeared inside. His broad Scots roar echoed down the street.

“Get away from that boy, you God-rotted sodomites!”

There was a confused babble of voices, followed by the crack of a fist on somebody’s flesh and a dull thud, no doubt of a boot landing somewhere soft.

Dodd was already amongst the diceplayers, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. The lad who was just scooping up dice unwisely tried to draw his sword and Dodd booted him in the face. The only other one who seemed interested in a fight became suddenly less interested when Dodd put the point of his sword against his neck and grinned.

There was some nasty work going on upstairs as crashes and the clattering of plate reverberated, but there was nothing Dodd could do about it except what he was doing. If Carey got himself killed in a sordid brawl over a pageboy, it would do no more than serve him right for not bringing enough henchmen with him to Dumfries. Still holding the diceplayers at bay with sword and dagger. Dodd cautiously toed open the inn door. The commonroom was full of men, caught in mid-move, staring at him and beyond him. Dodd wondered what they could see at his back but didn’t dare take his eyes off the diceplayers long enough to look.

Almost to Dodd’s disappointment, there was the crash of an upstairs door flung open and footsteps. Carey appeared at the top of the stairs with a scarlet and dishevelled Young Hutchin in front of him. He came down sideways, with his sword holding a brightly dressed young man at bay. Young Hutchin had his dagger in his hand as well and had the squint-eyed look of a Graham about to kill something.

“Out to me, Hutchin,” Dodd called. It seemed Carey had managed to avoid bloodying his sword and seeing this was King James’s court and these were some of King James’s best-liked hangers-on from the glamour of their clothes, that might be a good thing to continue. Hutchin stumbled forwards, ducked by the staring diceplayer still on the verge of death from Dodd’s sword, and stood behind Dodd with his chest heaving and his mouth working.

Carey backed out to the door, silently daring the company to attack him. It wasn’t at all that the young courtiers following him down the stairs or the liverymen in the commonroom were cowards; it was only that Carey looked as if he positively hoped they’d try an attack so that he could kill them. Nobody wanted to be the first to take on a lunatic Englishman, they were all waiting for someone else to try it first. It showed you the sad corruption of the court, Dodd felt; most Scotsmen he had ever met would have taken the both of them without even thinking about it. Dodd kicked the nearest diceplayer’s kneecaps hard enough so he fell backwards and they both came away and into the street.

Maxwell was standing there with fifteen of his men, shaking his head and grinning. For the first time in his life Dodd found himself warming to a Scot. Another Maxwell came hurrying out of the little vennel by the side of the inn, leading the big black horse almost as wide as the passage. Carey caught sight of this all in the one moment and started to laugh.

“Ay, it’s true what I heard,” said Maxwell. “Ye’re an education and an entertainment, Sir Robert.”

Carey bowed with a flourishing salute of his sword.

A handsome young man in gorgeous padded purple and green brocade was leaning out of the window with spittle on his lips.

“King James’ll hear of this, ye bastard Englishman! I’ll hae ye strung up for treason…”

Both Carey’s knuckles were grazed. He sucked the left one and looked up at this and his face darkened with instant rage.

“Come anywhere near me or mine again, my lord Spynie,” he bellowed, “and I’ll cut off your miserable little prick and stuff it down your neck.”

A gaggle of women were tutting behind Dodd, an interested crowd was forming.

“Ye dinna sceer me…” sneered the young man, although he had recoiled a little, no doubt from the sheer volume of noise.

“And then I’ll stick you on a pole and shoot at you like a popinjay,” finished Carey, calming down enough to be witty.

“King James will…”

“Isn’t the King’s bed enough for you, my lord?” Carey asked in a voice that drawled insinuatingly. “Do you want fresher meat than His Majesty’s? I’m sure he’d be very interested to hear it.” With a theatrical turn, Carey tutted and shook his head sadly. Lord Spynie flushed and he pulled his head back in again.

The crowd laughed knowingly and some of them began haranguing the young men about the door for the court’s sinfulness in the sight of the Lord. Some of them were well-educated enough to begin quoting Leviticus at length. Carey sheathed his sword, turned and strode back in the direction of Maxwell’s Castle, with the Lord Maxwell on his left, Thunder being led by Young Hutchin on his right and Maxwell henchmen in an almost reassuring bunch around them. Dodd tagged along, still keeping a weather eye open for Scotch ambushes and wondering whether it would still be possible to get out of town unscathed now Carey had put the King’s favourite against him. Probably not. Which would be better? Rejoin Red Sandy and Sim’s Will with Sir John Carmichael, or send for them both to come and take refuge with the new Lord Warden? Better stick with the new, now Carmichael had no official power. On the other hand, could Maxwell be trusted?

They had no trouble coming to Maxwell’s Castle, overflowing with Maxwell’s cousins and Herries kin as well. In the courtyard, Maxwell exclaimed over the beauty of Thunder and felt his legs and looked in his mouth, all the while Carey solemnly denied that he was interested in selling the beast at all.

Hutchin held the horse’s bridle as if it was a mooring in a storm and said nothing. When Maxwell had gone back into the hall, Carey looked at the boy and raised his eyebrows.

“The man said he was fra the King and give me a shilling to come and show Thunder for him,” Hutchin answered in a sullen mutter. “How should I ken what they wanted?”

Dodd waited for Carey to shout at Hutchin, tell him what a fool he was for believing any man with a tale like that, perhaps give him a beating for being so gullible. Hutchin’s face was still working with rage and humiliation. He had gripped his dagger so tight in his hand. Dodd could see blood on his palms, coming in half-moons from where his nails had bitten.

“Scum,” said Carey to Young Hutchin gravely. “They’re scum. There’s dregs like that at every court but there are more here because the King…The King is soft on his followers.”

Tactfully put, Dodd thought.

“They try it with every unprotected boy they find and they’ll do the same with every girl and the reason why is that they’re evil bastard scum and they think they’ll get away with it.”

Hutchin was still shaking with rage.

“I’ll mind them,” he managed to whisper. “I’ll mind every one o’ their faces.”

“You do that, Young Hutchin,” said Carey. “I’ll look forward to hearing the tale of how you kill them all when you’re grown.”

“I marked one of them this time,” said Hutchin fiercely. “I hope he dies screamin’ o’ the rot.”

“So do I,” said Carey. “Go and see what’s to eat in the kitchens and then stay close to us. If you have trouble again, give your family warcry…What is it?”

“L-Liddesdale.”

Carey smiled wryly. “I’ll come to it and so will Dodd. Off you go now.”

Dodd’s mouth was open with outrage. When Hutchin had trotted off, he gasped, “But sir, will ye no’ thump him for nearly losing ye the horse?”

Carey laughed softly. “Lord, Dodd, what could I do to him that would be worse?”

“But he’ll no’ respect ye…”

“Oh, the hell with the bloody horse, Dodd, there’s no chance Spynie could keep Thunder, any more than Maxwell could. And I think the boy will be more careful now.”

“Sir, how did ye guess so fine what they were after?”

“Come on, Dodd, you know I’ve been at King James’s court before? Though I have to say it wasn’t this bad then.”

Dodd shut his gaping mouth before he said something he would regret. Wild speculation and surmise began to crowd through his mind. He managed to nod stolidly.

“Ay,” he said. “Will I go and fetch Sim’s Will and my brother now?”

Carey considered this. “No,” he answered. “Not on your own, not yet. I’ll get my lord Warden to send one of his servants with a letter to Carmichael and a couple of his men as backup.”

Dodd nodded approvingly at this. The two of them took Thunder round to the stables and settled him in the best stall which had been cleared by Maxwell’s head groom. Carey unstrapped the dag-cases and slung them on his shoulder.

“More shooting, sir?” Dodd asked sadly.

“My lord wants to win the shooting match and I promised him the loan of my dags for it, though I think he’d be better off with a longer barrel. Come on. You can have a few shots too, if you like.”

“No thank ye, sir,” said Dodd with dignity. “I dinna care for firearms.”

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