Read Online 3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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approaching. The once amateur reiver turned Deputy Warden loomed over him in the darkness, smelling of black velvet, metal and gunoil.
A small purse made a pleasant chink on the ground beside him.
“Are ye satisfied, sir?” asked Solomon when he was safely past the tricky bit in his knitting.
“Hm? Yes, for the moment. Will you be at the muster tomorrow?”
“Ay, sir, I’m on the strength after all. Garrison, non-combatant.”
“Anything or anyone I should watch out for?”
Solomon’s sniff was eloquent. “Where should I start?”
Carey laughed softly. “I know I’m not popular.”
“Ay. Ye can say that. What was ye at wi’ the guns, sir?”
There was a long silence while Carey considered this. After a moment Solomon realised why and chuckled again.
“Och, sir, ye’ve no need to fear my tongue. Who was it opened the gate for ye when ye and yer half brother brought back that cow?”
Carey coughed. “Lord,” he said, “I’d forgotten that.”
“Had ye? Yer dad failed his purpose then, which wouldnae be like him.”
Apart from a reminiscent snort, Carey didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve marked the guns so that if I ever capture a reiver carrying one of them, I’ll know where it came from.”
Solomon almost dropped a stitch as he choked with laughter.
“Ay,” he said. “Ay, ye’ll know.”
Carey thought this was tribute to his ingenuity. There was smugness in his voice as he went back to the ladder.
“Good night, Solomon.”
“Ay, sir,” wheezed the gate guard, shaking his head.
Sunday 9th July 1562, before dawn
Dodd found Carey was either up before him, or more likely hadn’t bothered to try and snatch an extra two hours’ sleep at all. Probably very sensible of him, Dodd thought sadly to himself as he tottered over to the well to slake his thirst in the dark blue predawn. He hated drinking water in the morning, especially from a bucket, but it was too early for the buttery in the Keep to be open and he was desperate. One of the stable lads was waiting in the courtyard, holding two of the horses from the stables, who were stamping and shaking their heads unco-operatively. The boy was yawning enough to split his face.
“Now then,” croaked Dodd.
“Morning, Sergeant,” said the boy with a cheeky grin.
Dodd grunted and washed his face, shivering at the coldness and slimy taste of the water, dried himself on his shirt-tails. He had slept in his hose after their midnight raid on the armoury, which always left him feeling ugly, quite apart from his sorely-missed rest.
“Ahah,” said Carey, appearing at the door of the Queen Mary Tower with his dags in their case and Barnabus behind him with a heavy bag no doubt containing the borrowed calivers. “Good morning, Dodd. If you can get yourself dressed in time, you can come with us.”
He strapped the firearms onto the hobby in front of the saddle, and checked the girth. There were already ten leather flasks of gunpowder slung over the pony’s back. Dodd went back into the new barracks for his clothes, wondering what demon it was that got into the Courtier early in the morning and how he could kill it. Carey jumped into the saddle, just as Dodd slouched out of the barracks once more with his blue woollen statute cap pulled down to protect his eyes, lacing up his jerkin and hating people who were happy at dawn.
“How long will this take, sir?” moaned Dodd.
“Only an hour or so,” Carey explained, blowing on the glowing end of the coil of slowmatch he had slung over his shoulder. “I’m doing some target shooting. Are you coming or not?”
Dodd supposed he had to now. “Ay, sir.”
“Well, hurry up, I don’t want a mob going with me.”
They went out through the sally-port to which Carey had the key and rode round to the fenced-off racecourse. Dodd had lost more money there than he cared to think about.
They left their horses at the other end of the course, securely tied. Then they went down to the end
A small purse made a pleasant chink on the ground beside him.
“Are ye satisfied, sir?” asked Solomon when he was safely past the tricky bit in his knitting.
“Hm? Yes, for the moment. Will you be at the muster tomorrow?”
“Ay, sir, I’m on the strength after all. Garrison, non-combatant.”
“Anything or anyone I should watch out for?”
Solomon’s sniff was eloquent. “Where should I start?”
Carey laughed softly. “I know I’m not popular.”
“Ay. Ye can say that. What was ye at wi’ the guns, sir?”
There was a long silence while Carey considered this. After a moment Solomon realised why and chuckled again.
“Och, sir, ye’ve no need to fear my tongue. Who was it opened the gate for ye when ye and yer half brother brought back that cow?”
Carey coughed. “Lord,” he said, “I’d forgotten that.”
“Had ye? Yer dad failed his purpose then, which wouldnae be like him.”
Apart from a reminiscent snort, Carey didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve marked the guns so that if I ever capture a reiver carrying one of them, I’ll know where it came from.”
Solomon almost dropped a stitch as he choked with laughter.
“Ay,” he said. “Ay, ye’ll know.”
Carey thought this was tribute to his ingenuity. There was smugness in his voice as he went back to the ladder.
“Good night, Solomon.”
“Ay, sir,” wheezed the gate guard, shaking his head.
Sunday 9th July 1562, before dawn
Dodd found Carey was either up before him, or more likely hadn’t bothered to try and snatch an extra two hours’ sleep at all. Probably very sensible of him, Dodd thought sadly to himself as he tottered over to the well to slake his thirst in the dark blue predawn. He hated drinking water in the morning, especially from a bucket, but it was too early for the buttery in the Keep to be open and he was desperate. One of the stable lads was waiting in the courtyard, holding two of the horses from the stables, who were stamping and shaking their heads unco-operatively. The boy was yawning enough to split his face.
“Now then,” croaked Dodd.
“Morning, Sergeant,” said the boy with a cheeky grin.
Dodd grunted and washed his face, shivering at the coldness and slimy taste of the water, dried himself on his shirt-tails. He had slept in his hose after their midnight raid on the armoury, which always left him feeling ugly, quite apart from his sorely-missed rest.
“Ahah,” said Carey, appearing at the door of the Queen Mary Tower with his dags in their case and Barnabus behind him with a heavy bag no doubt containing the borrowed calivers. “Good morning, Dodd. If you can get yourself dressed in time, you can come with us.”
He strapped the firearms onto the hobby in front of the saddle, and checked the girth. There were already ten leather flasks of gunpowder slung over the pony’s back. Dodd went back into the new barracks for his clothes, wondering what demon it was that got into the Courtier early in the morning and how he could kill it. Carey jumped into the saddle, just as Dodd slouched out of the barracks once more with his blue woollen statute cap pulled down to protect his eyes, lacing up his jerkin and hating people who were happy at dawn.
“How long will this take, sir?” moaned Dodd.
“Only an hour or so,” Carey explained, blowing on the glowing end of the coil of slowmatch he had slung over his shoulder. “I’m doing some target shooting. Are you coming or not?”
Dodd supposed he had to now. “Ay, sir.”
“Well, hurry up, I don’t want a mob going with me.”
They went out through the sally-port to which Carey had the key and rode round to the fenced-off racecourse. Dodd had lost more money there than he cared to think about.
They left their horses at the other end of the course, securely tied. Then they went down to the end
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