The Maxwell’s jaw set. Carey was looking at the blisters on his fingers again while Dodd stared at the painted walls of the bowling alley and thought of Long George showing him the gun when they waited to go out on patrol, and how he had been envious at the man’s good luck. Carey smiled at Lord Maxwell.
“Perhaps the Italians know something about it?” he ventured.
“Nay…I doubt it. Jesus,” swore Maxwell again. “Jesus Christ. I wonder…”
Carey sauntered to the silver plates of tidbits laid out on the table for Maxwell’s refreshment, took a small flaky pie and bit into it.
“A number of them?” repeated Maxwell.
“Yes, my lord.”
“All bad like that?”
“Some of them worse. Some burst on the first firing.”
“How d’ye know?”
Carey swallowed, drank some wine, winced and coughed. “A couple of them came into my…er…possession and Sergeant Dodd did the same good deed for me that I did for you, my lord. I took another apart and there’s no doubt of it: the forge-welding’s faulty.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Maxwell monotonously. He was twiddling his moustache around his fingers and tapping his fingers nervously on his empty cup. “But they’ve the Tower mark on them?”
Dodd was having difficulty keeping a straight face and by the grave impassivity of his demeanour, so was Carey. He shrugged.
“It’s a famous mark and I’m sure it’s no more difficult to forge than any other.”
“A number of them?”
“A couple of hundred, my lord. I hope you’ve not been persuaded to buy any weapons for which you do not know the provenance.”
The unctuous concern in Carey’s voice almost had Dodd exploding like a gun. So that was the way, was it? The Maxwell and Lowther between them had raided the Carlisle armoury at some trouble and expense and were now the proud possessors of a heap of scrap iron. Now that was poetical, if you liked. That could restore a man’s faith in God’s impartial providence.
Suddenly the Maxwell waved to one of his liverymen and when the servant ran over, spoke low and urgently into the man’s ear. The servant whitened, and sprinted off in the direction of the stables.
There was something indefinably different about Carey as he allowed one of the Maxwell women to salve his fingers, a deference that Dodd had not seen before. He smiled a lot and peppered his conversation with ‘my lords’, owned himself greatly impressed with the size and appointments of the new bowling alley, and asked flattering questions about the way Maxwell had had his fortified house made strong. Ay, thought Dodd, finally enlightened, this is the Courtier we’re seeing. He didn’t like it. Frankly he found it embarrassing, watching Carey lavishly butter up a Scotch nobleman, and dull, which was worse.
Dodd finally caught Carey’s eye, who raised his brows at him. Dodd coughed.
“Only I was thinkin’ of going and seeing how Young Hutchin was getting along wi’ the horses and all, sir,” he said awkwardly.
“Good idea, Sergeant,” said Carey easily. “See if you can get yourselves some refreshments while you’re at it.”
Dodd nodded his head, trying to hide his fury at being treated like some servant, turned on his heel and marched out.
The horses, Thunder in particular, were not in the courtyard. One of the men hanging around finally told Dodd that they’d been taken to the stables. Dodd hurried to the stables, checked every stall and found his horse and Hutchin’s pony, but no sign of the black charger and no sign of Hutchin either.
Dodd caught a groom as he rushed past with a bucket of feed in each hand.
“The big black stallion that was here with the blond lad,” he said. “Where are they?”
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.