‘I was born in London but bred in Berwick,’ he continued in tones of reproach. ‘When I took horse to come north, a southerner friend of mine laughed and said I should find your lances would be rotten, your swords rusted, your guns better used as clubs and your armour filthy. And I told him I would fight him if he insulted Borderers again, that I was as sure of finding right fighting men here as any place in England—no, surer—and I come and what do I find?’ He took a deep breath and blew it out again, shook his head, mounted his horse without touching the stirrups and rode over to where Dodd sat slumped in his saddle, wishing he was in the Netherlands.

‘Sergeant, sit up,’ said Carey very quietly. ‘I find your men are a bloody disgrace which is less their fault than yours. You shall mend it, Sergeant, by this time tomorrow.’

He rode away, while Dodd wondered if it was worth thirty pounds to him to put his lance up Carey’s arse. He had still not found Graham’s body.

Carey came by while they were waiting for the blacksmith to get his fire hot enough for riveting and beckoned Dodd over.

‘Who’s in charge of the armoury?’

‘Sir Richard Lowther...’

‘Who’s the armoury clerk?’

‘Jemmy Atkinson.’

‘Is he here?’

Dodd laughed shortly and Carey looked grim. ‘As soon as you’ve finished, I want to roust out the armoury and see what sins we can find there.’

Dodd’s mouth fell open. Sins? Sodom and Gomorrah came to mind, if he was talking about peculation in the armoury. ‘We’ll not have finished with your orders until this evening, sir,’ he protested feebly.

‘I want to see if your longbows are as mildewed as the rest of your weapons, assuming you have any longbows. The rest can wait.’

‘But sir...’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘It’s locked.’

‘So it is, Sergeant.’

The Lord Warden was there when they went to the armoury in a group, a little before dinnertime, walking up and down, winding his hands together and blinking worriedly at the Captain’s Gate.

‘Yes my lord,’ said Carey briskly, inserting the crowbar in the lock.

‘But Sir Richard...’

There was a cracking ugly noise as the lock broke and the door creaked open. Everyone peered inside.

Carey was the first to move. He went straight to the racks of calivers and arquebuses. Those near the door were rusted solid. Those further from the door... Dodd winced as Carey pulled one down and threw it out into the bright sunlight.

Bangtail whistled.

‘Well, Atkinson’s found a good woodcarver, that’s sure,’ he said.

More dummy weapons crashed onto the straw-covered cobbles, until there was a pile of them. They were beautifully made, carefully coloured with salts of iron and galls to look like metal. Occasionally Carey would grunt as he found another real weapon and put it on the rack nearest the door. Then he went to the gunpowder kegs and opened them, filled a pouch from each, and brought out the least filthy arquebus.

‘Please note, gentlemen,’ he said, taking a satchel from his perspiring servant, ‘this is the right way to clean an arquebus so it may be fired.’

By the time he had done scraping and brushing and oiling, there was an audience gathered round of most of the men of the garrison. Behind him the Carlisle locksmith was working to replace the lock he had broken.

Carey made neat little piles of gunpowder on the ground and called for slowmatch. The boy he had brought with him came running up with a lighted coil. He blew on it and put it to the first pile, which burned sullenly.

‘Sawdust,’ said Carey.

In silence he went down the row of little mounds with his slowmatch. Lord Scrope had his hand over his mouth and was staring like a man at a nest of vipers in his bed. The last pile of gunpowder sputtered and popped grudgingly.

‘Hm. Sloppy,’ said Carey sarcastically, ‘they must have missed this barrel.’

He loaded the arquebus with a half-charge, tamped down a paper wad and used his own fine-grain powder to put in the pan. He then fastened the arquebus carefully on the frame his servant had brought, aimed at the sky, and stepped back.

‘Why...?’ began Scrope.

‘In Berwick my brother had two men with their hands and faces blown to rags after their guns exploded,’ said Carey. The audience immediately moved out of range.

He leaned over to put the fire to the pan, jumped away. The good powder in the pan fizzed and the arquebus fired after a fashion. It did not exactly explode; only the barrel cracked. There was a sigh from the audience.

‘What the devil is the meaning of this?’ roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.

Carey folded his arms and waited as Lowther shouldered his way through, red-faced.

‘How dare you, sir, how dare you interfere with my...’

His voice died away as he saw the pile of dummy weapons and the still feebly smouldering mounds of black powder.

‘Your armoury?’ enquired Carey politely.

Lowther looked from him to the Lord Warden who was glaring back at him.

‘There is not one single defensible weapon in the place,’ said Lord Scrope reproachfully, ‘not one.’

‘Who gave him authority to...’

‘I did,’ said Scrope. ‘He wanted to check on his men’s longbows as part of the preparations for my father’s funeral.’

‘I see no longbows.’

Lowther looked about him. Most of the men in the crowd were grinning; Dodd himself was hard put to it to stay stony-faced and the women at the back were whispering and giggling.

‘Where’s Mr Atkinson?’ he asked at last.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Carey, ‘I was hoping you could enlighten us.’

Lowther said nothing and Carey turned away to speak to the locksmith.

‘Finished?’

‘Ay sir,’ said the locksmith with pride, ‘I did it just like yer honour said.’