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.
At last Carey’s patience cracked. “My lord,” he said, breaking into a long reminiscence about a tiercel bird Scrope had hunted with five years before. “Will you be issuing the new weapons for the muster?”
“Oh ah, no, no, Robin, not at all, never done for a muster, you know.”
“But for God’s sake, my lord, even the Graham women have bloody pistols and my men are only armed with longbows.”
“Never done, my dear chap, simply never done. Now don’t huff at me…”
“I would have taken it very kindly if you had waited to consult me over the temporary clerk to the…”
“Quite so, quite so, I’m sure you would.” Scrope beamed densely. “Very patient of you, bit of a mix up over the armoury clerkship, and once it’s all sorted out, we’ll look into the matter, of course, but in the meantime, if you could…ah…be kind enough to leave it with me? Eh?”
Carey took breath to say that he was not patient and was in fact highly displeased, but Scrope beamed again, patted his shoulder with irritating familiarity and said, “I would love to carry on chatting, Robin, but I simply must go up to the keep and change or Philadelphia will skin me, bless her heart.”
Carey could do no more than growl at the Lord Warden’s departing back.
“Ay,” said a doleful voice behind him and Carey turned to see Sergeant Dodd standing there. “Valuable things, guns. So I heard.”
Carey’s lips tightened with frustration. “Well, Sergeant, thanks to my Lord Warden. I’ve lost the sale of a fifty pound office and you’ve lost about ten pounds in bribes from hopeful candidates trying to get you to put in a good word for them.”
It hardly seemed possible but Dodd’s face became even longer and more mournful, which gave Carey some satisfaction.
“Och,” said Dodd, sounding stricken, “I hadnae thought of that.”
Carey snorted and turned to go back to the Queen Mary Tower to see how much money he could raise for backing Thunder the next day. Dodd fell into step beside him.
“Lowther’ll gi’ us none of them,” Dodd predicted.
Carey snorted again.
“If they’re there at all,” added Dodd thoughtfully.
“What?”
“If they’re there…”
“Are you saying the guns might not have been delivered?”