“Och, I heard tell there were barrels full o’ something heavy delivered this morning and barrels of gunpowder and all, but I never heard anyone had seen the guns broken out of the barrels.”
There was a short thoughtful silence.
“I saw Sir Simon Musgrave testing a caliver in the yard.”
“I heard him too, the bastard.”
Strictly speaking Carey should have reprimanded Dodd for talking about one of the Queen’s knights so rudely, but he didn’t like Musgrave either.
“You know he’s one o’ Sir Henry Widdrington’s best allies,” Dodd added.
“Hmm.”
“And I know he proved two calivers, but naebody saw any of the other guns save Sir Richard Lowther and his cousin, the new armoury clerk. And they was mighty quick to change the locks again, so ye couldnae see them yourself, sir.”
“Hmm.”
Carey said nothing more because he was thinking. At the foot of the Queen Mary Tower he turned and smiled at Dodd.
“Could you manage to stay moderately sober tonight, Sergeant?”
“I might.” Dodd was watching him cautiously.
“Good. Meet me by the armoury an hour after the midnight guard-change.”
“Sir, I didnae mean…”
“Excellent. I’ll see you there, then.”
Dodd shut his mouth since Carey had already trotted up the spiral stairs and out of sight. “Och, Jesus,” Dodd said to himself sadly. “What the Devil’s he up to now?”
Saturday, 8th July 1592, evening
Philadelphia sat at her table in the dining room that presently doubled as a council chamber and stewed with mixed rage and hilarity. This supper party was clearly not going to be an unqualified success. All down the table were ranged the higher ranking of the local gentlemen who had come in for the muster, and some of the hardier wives and women-folk. They were talking well, their faces flushed with spiced wine and the joys of gossip, hardly tasting their food as they thrashed out the two most recent excitements: the inquest into the previous armoury clerk’s death and the raid on Falkland Palace the previous week. Seated with infinite care according to rank and known blood-feuds between them, they were settled in and looked like being no trouble.
However there was trouble brewing right next to her where her husband sat, his long bony face struggling to appear politely interested. At his right sat Sir Simon Musgrave, and facing Sir Simon was Scrope’s younger brother Harry, who had brought his young wife. The silly girl was tricked out to the nines in Edinburgh fashion, halfway between the German and the French styles, bright green satin stomacher clashing horribly with tawny velvet bodice and a yellow-starched ruff. She was also flirting outrageously with Robin who was next to her and courteously swallowing a yawn.
Sir Simon was booming away to Scrope about some tedious argument between the Marshal of Berwick and the Berwick town council. Sir Simon was firmly on the side of the town council. This was tactless of him because the Marshal of Berwick was Sir John Carey, elder brother of Robin and herself.
“It’s ridiculous,” opined Sir Simon for the fourth time. “Yet cannot let your garrison troops run wild in the town and then expect the mayor and corporation to pay for them…”
Scrope nodded sagely, while young Harry Scrope, who was even less bright than his brother, but had the sense to know it, kept his mouth shut.
Meanwhile Harry’s wife Mary cooed at Philly’s favourite brother, “Oh, Sir Robert, tell me more, it must be so exciting to serve the Queen at Court.”
“It certainly can be,” said Robin, being courageously polite. Philadelphia felt sorry for him. It was essential that he be seen there, but he looked more than ready for his bed and there was the cut in his side which must be hurting. Perhaps she could think of some excuse for him to leave. Then she saw him smile and lost all sympathy. Weary or not, he simply could not help being scandalously conspiratorial with Mary Scrope, who clearly thrilled to it. “It’s particularly exciting when the Queen takes against something you’ve done and throws her slippers at you,” he said.
Mary Scrope gasped and her breasts threatened to pop loose. She tilted a little so Robin could get the full benefit of them.
“Oh! What do you do then, Sir Robert?”
“Duck,” said Carey, picking up his goblet and drinking.
Philly noticed he had eaten practically nothing but that the page had refilled his drink three times. The continuing drone from beside her caught her ear briefly.
“…Sir John’s never been any good as Marshal, you know, my lord, he hasn’t got the grasp of Border affairs. I’d niver say nothing against his father, mind, but the…
Mary Scrope batted her eyelashes: she was a sandy sort of girl, Philly thought unkindly, sandy hair, sandy eyebrows, sandy complexion and whoever had recommended tawny had done her no favours.
“I can’t think what you could do to offend her.”
Carey smiled with a slightly sardonic turn. “It depends on your sex and your activities,” he said, letting his gaze wander all over Mary’s willing chest. His voice dropped. “A woman might offend her by dressing too well or misplacing a gem.”
Good God, Robin, thought Philadelphia, you’re not going to allow yourself to be seduced by Mary Scrope of all people, are you?
Robin cut a choice piece from the dish of mutton in front of him, placed it delicately on Mary Scrope’s plate with the tip of his knife, smiled winningly again with his eyes half-hooded.
“And a man might offend her by marrying or sed…”
Philly kicked her brother.
“Or not knowing what he was talking about,” she said brightly with a warm smile at Mary “That sort of thing offends her seriously.”
“Oh,” said Mary Scrope coolly. “Have you been at Court, Lady Scrope?”
“She’s one of Her Majesty’s favourite ladies in waiting,” said Robin, a reproachful glance on the oblique to Philly. “So much so that the Queen even forgave her when she married my lord Scrope.”
“So it’s true Her Majesty doesn’t like her courtiers to marry,” breathed Mary Scrope, with her breasts in desperate danger now as she leaned sideways. “Have you ever had that trouble, Sir Robert?”
Robin swallowed and smiled. “Not yet.”
On impulse Philly dropped her napkin and took a peep under the table: Robin had now tucked his long elegant legs awkwardly to the side, while Mary had one foot at full stretch trying to find his knee to touch. Philadelphia wondered where the various limbs had been before she kicked him. Honestly, men were impossible creatures. Imagine flirting with Scrope’s sister-in-law, as if his position weren’t delicate enough as it was. There was also a small lapdog, who had crept in somehow and was snuffling about on the rushmat for droppages.
Pink with suppressed emotion, Philadelphia took her seat again. Carey gave her a knowing look, but Mary Scrope hadn’t noticed, still being intent upon her prey.
“What else do you do at Court, Sir Robert?” she was asking.
“Oh, we dance and we stand around in antechambers playing cards and waiting to be sent on errands and we…”
“Seduce the maids of honour,” boomed Sir Simon who had finally noticed that nobody except Lord Scrope was listening to his stories about the politics of Berwick. “Isn’t that right, Sir Robert?”
Nobody could escape the edge of hostility in his voice. It was also the first time he had actually spoken directly to Carey.
“Not all of us, Sir Simon,” said Robin mildly. “Some of us have better things to do.”
Lord, thought Philly admiringly, that was a good barefaced lie, Robin.
“Ay,” sniffed Sir Simon. “I’ll be bound. Run around Netherby tower in disguise and borrow horses from other people’s wives, eh? That have no business lending ‘em, poor silly woman.”
“You’ve heard about Robin’s little adventure, then?” said Lord Scrope, reedily trying to deflect Sir Simon.