“Ye sound like ye’re going on campaign,” Lowther put in again.
Carey sighed. “Clearly,” he said, “Sir Richard has never seen a Royal court on progress, as I have, many times.” Scrope nodded anxiously.
“I might have known ye’d be drooling after the chance to meet the King,” said Lowther. Carey stared at him and wished he could find an honourable excuse to punch the man. The words were bad enough but Lowther’s tone twisted them into an implication of sodomy.
“I have met the King of Scotland,” Carey said with cold patience. “Nearly ten years ago on Walsingham’s embassy.” Lowther sniffed.
“What about the weapons?” Scrope asked, swerving back to the problem at hand. “If you leave tonight you could be sure of telling the King before they can be used against him.”
“Either they are on packponies or they have been moved to wagons. Ponies, I would imagine, they move faster in this part of the world. But the quickest a pony train could go so heavily laden would be about fifteen miles a day, and it’s thirty-five at least to Dumfries. I can get a good night’s sleep and still talk to the King before the guns are likely to get near him.”
“It’s not nearly so far to the Debateable Land.”
“True. But if that’s where they’re going, they’re there already and nothing we can do about it.” Scrope nodded. “I’ll need some kind of excuse for going to the Scottish court as well.”
“Hm? Oh, no problem, Sir Robert. You can take a letter of congratulations to my lord Maxwell on his forthcoming appointment as Warden of the West March of Scotland. It would be polite of me to send one and I want to ask for a Day of Truce, do some justice. That will do, won’t it?”
“Perfectly, my lord.”
“I’ll send the water-bailiff with you, he’s a Graham and he knows the way.”
Lowther scraped his chair back as he stood up. “Ay, it’s a pretty sight,” he sneered heavily. “Ye’ll keep it from Her Majesty the Queen what happened to her own weapons, but ye’ll tell it to the Scotch King to keep him sweet.”
Scrope coughed and tapped his fingers on the table as Lowther marched out. “And now, unless any of you has any useful suggestion on retrieving our weapons…”
There was a pregnant silence. Not even Carey spoke.
“…I think we will end this meeting. No, Mr Bell, I do not require a record of it. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Carey was the last to leave, rapidly totting up what he would need to take with him by way of clothes and supplies and money. He drew Scrope aside once the others had clattered down the stairs and told him that Long George was dead.
“Dear me,” said Scrope, looking concerned. “Was that the man who lost his hand when you ambushed Wee Colin Elliot?”
“Yes. He leaves a wife and four children and they need a pension.”
“Er…well, I’m not at all sure if…”
“My lord, without one they will either starve or turn to theft.”
“Well, yes, but there’s no obligation for us to provide a pension to…”
Carey looked around at the hangings, the wax candles, the softly shining rosewood of the virginals and the silver flagon of wine in the corner. Bad wine, true, but wine.
“Not only an obligation, my lord, but a necessity,” he said through his teeth, something old-fashioned and feudal rising in him at Scrope’s modern stinginess. “If other men see that their families might starve should they be killed in the Queen’s service, how the Devil do you think we shall find men to garrison the Keep?”
“Er…yes. True.”
“Whereas if Goody Little receives a pension, even a small one, the word will get round that we look after our own at least as well as the Grahams.”
That was a hit. Scrope flushed slightly and his jaw set. “Well…if you put it like that, Robin…Yes. Of course, Goody Little must have a pension.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll talk to Richard Bell before I go. There is also the matter of money that I need to take with me into Scotland. I shall need a minimum of ten pounds for bribes, possibly more, some good silver plate and another five pounds sterling for rooms and stabling.”
“Haven’t you got it?”
“No, my lord. To be bald, I haven’t a penny at the moment.”
Scrope blinked at him. “But you brought a large loan from the Queen with you. And you won a considerable amount from Lowther only last week.”
Carey coughed self-deprecatingly. “And I’ve spent it, my lord,” he said. “And…er…lost it.”
“On the horse-racing? On Thunder?”
Carey shrugged. “Not having the sale of the armoury clerkship in prospect, my lord, I felt I needed to raise cash to pay the men next month.”
Scrope wandered over to his beloved virginals, sat down in front of it and began stroking the lid. “Well, er…Robin, I’m very sorry, but I’m in a few difficulties that way myself.”
“But, my lord, your estates yield…”
“Oh, to be sure, to be sure, theoretically. Do you have any idea how much it costs to be March Warden? Especially if I’m to pay pensions to the families of men killed in my service? Let alone burying my father properly? The funeral cost me more than two thousand pounds, most of it cash which I had to borrow. And the Queen has not yet seen fit to send my warrant, nor any of my fees.”
Carey stared at his brother-in-law, half-thinking of Long George being put in the ground by his father as cheaply as a dead dog. Though a peer of the realm was not to be compared with a Border tenant farmer, of course, still the worms would find them equally tasty…
“But, my lord, can you not at least advance me something against my own fees, for travelling expenses?”
Scrope began playing with a faraway expression on his face, something pretty and tinkling, making Carey want to slam the virginals lid shut on his spidery fingers. He shook his head.
“Your sister was…ah…as hopeful of Thunder’s prospects as you were yourself. I’m afraid I have no actual money at all at the moment.”
The perky little tune tweedled up the keyboard and down again and Scrope’s attention was gone with it, far into the realms of music where grubby King Mammon held no sway. Carey bit his tongue on several unwise retorts and strode to the door.
“Um…Robin?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Ah…Thomas the Merchant Hetherington is reliable and not too…um…exorbitant. A penny in the shilling, mainly.”
“Per month?” Carey’s tone was undeniably sarcastic, but Scrope only coughed.
“Er…no. Per quarter.”
Carey shut the heavy door behind him with exaggerated care and the gossamer notes faded into the darkness of the spiral staircase.
“Did ye tell him of the guns?” Dodd asked in the dusky courtyard, after Carey had ordered him curtly to make ready for a journey to Dumfries.
“Good God, no. How on earth could I explain how I knew?”
“We’re going into Scotland.” Dodd stared into the middle distance, looking gloomy. “Ay. Tonight?”
“No, no. Tomorrow. There’s a couple of things I need to do first and I need a good night’s sleep.”
“We’re going into Scotland in braid daylight?” Dodd was shocked and horrified.
Despite his money-worries, Carey grinned at him. “Yes,” he said. “Why not? We’re not planning to lift any livestock, are we?”
“Nay, sir, but…”
“Not that you’ve ever done any reiving in that area yourself, have you, Sergeant?” Dodd’s neck reddened immediately. I really shouldn’t tease him, Carey thought to himself, it’s not fair.
“Er…nay, sir, but…”
“So there wouldn’t be any fear of you meeting any enemies, would there?”
“Well, there would, sir, if ye follow me. There’s the Johnstones for one, and what’ll we do if we meet up with Wee Colin Elliot again?”
Carey gave him a cold blue stare. “Smile sweetly and bid him good day. We’re going to Court, not to a God-damned battle. Make sure you’re in your best jack and your helmet is polished.”
Dodd nodded sadly and went to check on his tack. It was clear he would infinitely have preferred a battle.