SUNDAY, 9TH JULY 1562, EVENING
The meeting took place in the Council Room that doubled as a dining room, Scrope presiding, Lowther, Carleton, Richard Bell and Carey all present. Carleton’s best jack was still dirty from his hurried ride out with his men to try and catch up with the guns or at least find some kind of trail. He had returned empty-handed, complaining that the number of feet that had trampled round the area made it completely impossible to find a trace.
Barnabus Cooke was holding the floor, answering Scrope’s questions.
‘I was asleep, my lord,’ he whined. ‘I’m sick wiv a fever and I was in my bed in Sir Robert’s chambers, sleeping. I din’t see nothing, din’t hear nothing.’ That was all he would say with such monotonous regret that it was hard not to believe him.
There had only been six people in the Keep altogether, two of whom had been drunk and still were. The other two had been prisoners in the dungeon who hadn’t seen daylight for days and certainly couldn’t be suspected. And Barnabus had been asleep.
Scrope dismissed Barnabus and turned to his wife who was standing at his right hand.
‘Walter Ridley?’
Walter Ridley was Lowther’s cousin, the acting armoury clerk whom Carey had never met and now probably never would. He had been found at the back of one of the stables, knocked out cold.
‘He’s more deeply asleep than anyone I’ve ever seen in my life,’ Philadelphia answered rather quietly. ‘He’s snoring and his colour’s bad. There’s a dent in his skull: I think he’s going to die, my lord, so if you will excuse me I’ll go back to him now.’
She shut the door behind her softly.
‘Why would they kill him if he was helping them?’ asked Scrope in a frustrated voice.
‘To stop him telling who paid him?’ said Thomas Carleton significantly, swivelling his barrel body to look at Sir Richard Lowther.
‘There’s no reason to suppose he was helping them,’ Lowther sniffed. ‘No doubt they hit him on the head to prevent him raising the alarm.’
‘What was he doing up at the Keep in any case?’ asked Scrope.
‘Perhaps counting the weapons to be sure naebody had got at them.’
‘Of course, it’s possible the thieves didn’t intend to kill him,’ said Carey. ‘Perhaps they just wanted to give him an alibi.’
All of them knew they were avoiding the main issue. Scrope had pressed his fingers very tightly together.
‘I need hardly tell you that this is a very serious matter,’ he said pedantically. ‘All of the new weapons in the armoury have disappeared while we were mustering. And most of the ammunition and most of the fine-grain priming powder. How it could have happened is of less importance than finding and returning them... If the Queen got to hear of it...’ His voice trailed off.
There was a moment of dispirited silence while Lowther and Carleton, who had never met her, wondered if all they had heard was true. Carey and Scrope, who knew that the legend was only the half of it, tried not to think of her rage.
‘She simply must not be allowed... she must not be troubled with this,’ said Scrope at last. ‘We must retrieve the weapons and that’s all there is to it. In any case, we can’t possibly ask for more weapons and munitions, so we must get them back. And we must also not let it be generally known what has happened, how weak we are. Or we shall have every reiver in the Scots West March riding south to take advantage.’
Scrope was looking upset, thought Carey, which was understandable. Carleton seemed quietly amused by the whole thing and Lowther... Now Lowther’s attitude was odd.
Carey coughed behind his hand. Scrope turned to him.
‘Do you have something to say, Sir Robert?’ he demanded rather pettishly.
‘No,’ Carey said blandly. ‘Although I think it’s going to be difficult to keep quiet. I also think there’s more to all these goings-on in the armoury than meets the eye.’
It seemed that Scrope didn’t want to hear it. He made an abstracted smile and spoke at large.
‘We are agreed then that the Queen must not be allowed to hear of this and we must therefore make sure that our ambassador in Edinburgh doesn’t hear of it either. We will have to make very discreet enquiries as to what exactly happened and who stole the weapons...’
Carey continued to look bland. ‘My lord,’ he said smoothly, ‘I shall of course bend every effort to finding the guns. But in the meantime—have you informed His Majesty of Scotland?’
‘What?’ Scrope looked more obtuse than seemed possible.
‘Why the Devil should he do that?’ demanded Lowther.
‘King James is in Dumfries with an army to catch the Earl of Bothwell. That was the reason for the muster, if you recall, Sir Richard.’ Carey lifted his eyebrows insolently at Lowther.
‘I recall it, ay.’
‘Surely the likeliest thief of the weapons is Bothwell or one of his friends, since they’d have need of them. They could be planning another attack on the King while he’s in the area.’
‘I thought you said that Bothwell had gone to the Highlands,’ Scrope protested.
Carey spread his hands. ‘I heard that, my lord. I don’t know if it’s true. He could be in the Hermitage in Liddesdale, raising an army to meet King James.’
There was a short silence while they all considered what could be done to the delicate balance of chaos on the Border and in the Debateable Lands by a couple of hundred handguns and barrels of gunpowder. Scrope rubbed his eyes with his fingers and then knitted his knuckles again.
‘I must say, I hadn’t considered that,’ Scrope admitted. ‘Puts a different complexion on the raid, rather. High treason and so on.’
‘Precisely, my lord,’ murmured Carey deferentially.
‘Perhaps we had better tell the King, better to keep... ah... to show him respect.’
Very carefully, Carey did not smile. Scrope was as interested in keeping sweet the King of Scotland and likely future King of England as the Cecils or anyone else for that matter. As was Carey himself. King James in Dumfries, only a day’s ride over the Border, was an opportunity not to be missed, even if he had certain personal reasons for caution at the Scottish court.
‘What? Send a messenger into Scotland wi’ news of the guns being reived?’ demanded Lowther with a sneer. ‘Why not print it up in a pamphlet and sell it at the Edinburgh Tolbooth—it would have more chance of keeping quiet?’
