Read Online 3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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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.
“Oh, ay. Widdrington’s not best pleased by it, I can tell you. The nags were exhausted by the time she got them back to Hexham, and one of them gone lame. The fool woman’ll no’ make that mistake again if I know Sir Henry.”
Interesting, thought Philadelphia, feeling sorry for Elizabeth and the nape of her neck prickling at the sudden sense of boiling rage coming from her brother. Robin’s gone white. He has got it badly, I wonder what he’ll do?
To everyone’s astonishment, the unregarded Harry Scrope spoke up.
“But in the process didn’t Sir Robert manage to persuade the Borderers on Bothwell’s raid to steal the King’s horses at Falkland Palace, rather than kidnap the King himself?” he said nervously. “That’s what I heard.”
“Maybe,” grunted Sir Simon. “But that’s not all that I heard, eh, Sir Robert?”
Robin sat for half a heartbeat, as if considering something very seriously. Then he finished his wine, stood up and made his most courtierly bow to Lord and Lady Scrope.
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sir Simon,” he said with freezing civility in a voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “but I’m afraid I’m thick-headed at the moment. I was fighting reivers most of yesterday night and so if you will forgive me, my lord, my dear sister, I’ll go to my bed.” Philadelphia managed a gracious nod and a bright smile. “Good night, Mr Scrope, Mrs Scrope. God speed you back to Berwick, Sir Simon.”
Mary watched him stalk out of the council chamber with regret written all over her face: it was perfectly true, Philly thought affectionately, her brother was a fine figure of a man in his (as yet unpaid-for) black velvet suit, though his hair was presently shaded between black and dark red from the dye he had used for his Netherby disguise. Who could blame Mary Scrope if she wanted a spot of dash and romance to liven her life in the dull and practical north?
Saturday 8th July 1592, night
It was Sir Richard Lowther’s turn to patrol and he had long gone. Once again the night was sultry and dark with cloud, though the rain still refused to fall. Solomon the gate guard was sitting and knitting a sock with his one arm, one needle thrust into a case on his belt to hold it steady, a second ticking away hypnotically between his fingers and the other two dangling. He was away from his usual lookout on the Captain’s Gate, sitting quietly by the north-western sally-port where he could see into the castle yard. There was
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.
“Oh, ay. Widdrington’s not best pleased by it, I can tell you. The nags were exhausted by the time she got them back to Hexham, and one of them gone lame. The fool woman’ll no’ make that mistake again if I know Sir Henry.”
Interesting, thought Philadelphia, feeling sorry for Elizabeth and the nape of her neck prickling at the sudden sense of boiling rage coming from her brother. Robin’s gone white. He has got it badly, I wonder what he’ll do?
To everyone’s astonishment, the unregarded Harry Scrope spoke up.
“But in the process didn’t Sir Robert manage to persuade the Borderers on Bothwell’s raid to steal the King’s horses at Falkland Palace, rather than kidnap the King himself?” he said nervously. “That’s what I heard.”
“Maybe,” grunted Sir Simon. “But that’s not all that I heard, eh, Sir Robert?”
Robin sat for half a heartbeat, as if considering something very seriously. Then he finished his wine, stood up and made his most courtierly bow to Lord and Lady Scrope.
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sir Simon,” he said with freezing civility in a voice loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, “but I’m afraid I’m thick-headed at the moment. I was fighting reivers most of yesterday night and so if you will forgive me, my lord, my dear sister, I’ll go to my bed.” Philadelphia managed a gracious nod and a bright smile. “Good night, Mr Scrope, Mrs Scrope. God speed you back to Berwick, Sir Simon.”
Mary watched him stalk out of the council chamber with regret written all over her face: it was perfectly true, Philly thought affectionately, her brother was a fine figure of a man in his (as yet unpaid-for) black velvet suit, though his hair was presently shaded between black and dark red from the dye he had used for his Netherby disguise. Who could blame Mary Scrope if she wanted a spot of dash and romance to liven her life in the dull and practical north?
Saturday 8th July 1592, night
It was Sir Richard Lowther’s turn to patrol and he had long gone. Once again the night was sultry and dark with cloud, though the rain still refused to fall. Solomon the gate guard was sitting and knitting a sock with his one arm, one needle thrust into a case on his belt to hold it steady, a second ticking away hypnotically between his fingers and the other two dangling. He was away from his usual lookout on the Captain’s Gate, sitting quietly by the north-western sally-port where he could see into the castle yard. There was
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