‘Did you enjoy the feast, Sergeant?’ he asked.
Dodd shook his head. ‘Is that what ye do at court, sir?’ he asked. ‘All the time?’
‘Pretty much.’ Though it was interesting to contemplate what King James’s court at Westminster would be like if the King was habitually drunk in the evenings.
‘It wouldna suit me, sir.’
‘You can get used to it.’
‘Ay, sir,’ said Dodd, disapproving and noncommittal. ‘Nae doubt.’
THURSDAY, 13TH JULY 1592, MORNING
Dodd was still in a bad mood the next morning, along with every single man in Maxwell’s entire cess. Finding the hall where he had slept before so packed with men rolled in their cloaks that it was hard to pick your way among them, he, his brother and Sim’s Will had dossed down in the stable next to Thunder. He neither knew nor cared where the Deputy Warden had slept since he thought the man deserved to sleep on the floor, and Young Hutchin had curled up by the hall fire in a pile of pageboys all sleeping like puppies. It was very different from what he had imagined about court life. And what were they doing, still there anyway?
Carey came striding into the stable the next morning, a whole hideous hour before sunrise, looking fresh and not at all hungover. He was wearing his jack and morion. Behind him was a red-eyed silent Hutchin and outside in the courtyard there was a brisk feeding and watering and saddling of horses.
‘What now?’ moaned Dodd, leaning up on his elbow and picking straw out of his hair. Beyond the stable door he could see that it was spitting a fine mizzle.
‘My lord Maxwell is very anxious for us to ride out to Lochmaben and inspect his guns,’ said Carey cheerfully. ‘Good God, what’s wrong with you, Dodd? You didn’t drink much yesterday.’
‘Och,’ said Red Sandy, sitting up and scratching, ‘he’s allus like this, he hates mornings. Always has. Will ye be wanting us too, sir?’
‘No. I want you and Sim’s Will to go and do some drinking on my behalf.’
Red Sandy brightened up at that.
‘Ay, sir.’
‘I want you to spend time with the men around town, buy a few drinks, and see if you can catch any hint of a sudden influx of good firearms anywhere. Just listen for rumours, or envious complaints and take good note of who’s talking and who they’re talking about. That clear?’
Red Sandy was on his feet and so was Sim’s Will, both looking much encouraged. Sim’s Will nodded and went out to see who had taken their feed bucket, while Red Sandy brushed down two of the hobbies and put their saddles on.
Carey handed over several pounds in assorted Scots money to Red Sandy while Dodd sat up and fumbled for his boots.
‘Do you think you could do that work for me without getting roaring drunk or into any fights with the Scots?’ Carey asked. Red Sandy was offended.
‘Ay, o’ course, sir.’
‘Young Hutchin, you have to stay either with me or Red Sandy. Which do you prefer?’
Young Hutchin swallowed stickily and looked at the ground.
‘I’d prefer to stay with Red Sandy, sir,’ he said. ‘Ah... the Maxwells are at feud wi’ the Grahams, sir; Dumfries is well enough with the King here and all but it might be better for me not to go to Lochmaben.’
Carey lifted his eyebrows at the boy. ‘Is there any Border family your relations are not at feud with?’ he asked.
Hutchin looked offended. ‘Ay, sir, we’re no’ feuding with the Armstrongs or the Johnstones, nor never have.’
‘And that’s all? Has it never occurred to your uncles that merrily feuding with every surname that offends you in any way might not be a good long-term policy, especially if you have the King of Scotland after your blood as well?’
Hutchin looked blank. ‘What else can we do, sir?’ he asked. ‘Be like the Routledges, every man’s prey?’
Carey sighed. ‘Stay with Red Sandy and Sim’s Will and try to keep out of trouble.’
‘Ay, sir.’
***
Lord Maxwell looked no happier than any of his relatives or attendants, and seemed to have cooled towards Carey as well. They broke their fast hurriedly on stale manchet bread and ale, and then followed him out of the Lochmaben Gate of Dumfries and north east along the road to his castle. They struck off the road after about four miles, into a tangle of hills and burns, until they met with a number of angry-looking Maxwells, gathered about three battered wagons whose wheels bit deep into the soft forest track. Lord Maxwell’s steward came forward and spoke urgently into his ear, at which Lord Maxwell’s face became even grimmer.
He waved at the wagons.
‘There ye are, Sir Robert,’ he said. ‘See what ye can make of them.’
‘Are we not going into the castle?’ Dodd questioned under his breath.
‘It seems my lord Warden wants to be able to deny the weapons are anything to do with him,’ Carey answered softly. ‘Count your blessings, he’s not going to be a happy man.’
Carey slid from his horse, squelched over to the nearest wagon and climbed onto the board next to the driver. He pulled out a caliver or two, turned them upside down, grunted and threw them back. The last one he examined more carefully and then shook his head.
‘Well?’ demanded Maxwell impatiently.
‘They’re all faulty,’ said Carey simply. ‘The barrels are all badly welded, the lock parts have not been case-hardened and some of them are cracked already. If you use these in battle, my lord, your enemies will laugh themselves silly.’
‘One of my cousins has been blinded by one and another man had his hand hurt.’
‘There you are then, my lord. If you like we could prove a couple.’
