‘One moment,’ said Bonnetti. ‘You are an English official. What you are doing is therefore treason.’
‘Treason?’ said the man blankly. ‘I understood the weapons are to take into Sweden. Why would selling you weapons meant for the Swedes be treason?’
Bonnetti’s head was spinning, but at least it was clear that his wife had not gossiped about where the weapons were intended to go. He heard the threat in what Carey said about the King; no doubt the English Deputy had men who could put daggers into backbones, just as much as the King of Scots.
And the English were the most avaricious and unprincipled nation on earth, everyone knew that. Perhaps the offer was a genuine one. Perhaps the Englishman would take his money one way or the other. Perhaps there was even something in what he said.
Bonnetti coughed, blew his nose. ‘What kind of weapons would these be?’ he asked. ‘And how much would you want for them?’
The price was outrageous. Carey wanted sixty shillings each for the weapons. Argue as he might, Bonnetti could not get him below fifty, in gold and bankers’ drafts, half in advance and half on delivery, plus a sum of money he delicately referred to as a finder’s fee. On the other hand, now Bonnetti had had time to get his breath back, there might be a great benefit in buying the weapons off a Carey, even at an inflated price. By blood, he was close to the Queen; blackmail might well make him very useful. In fact, as a coup for gaining control of one of the Queen’s closest relatives, this weapons dealing could be only the beginning of a glorious new career for Bonnetti. His brother had dabbled a little in espionage: Giovanni was not at all sure precisely what had happened, but he suspected that Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, had caught him and turned him. This would be a much greater triumph, a fitting revenge. And he did have the money for it.
With typical barbarian lack of finesse, Carey insisted on half his fifteen per cent bribe in advance, in gold, as well as a banker’s draft for half the price of the guns. If he had not been desperate, Bonnetti would never have agreed, but he had no choice, as the Englishman blandly pointed out. Without some good faith from him, Carey had no reason to take any risks to help him.
THURSDAY, 13TH JULY 1592, NOON
Roger Widdrington had been sitting at the crowded alehouse waiting for the tow-headed Graham boy to meet him for at least an hour and a half. The boy finally appeared, at the trot, looking flushed and excited and in a tearing hurry.
‘I canna stay long, Sir Robert sent me out for a pie and I must be back. Ye can tell her ladyship that Sir Robert’s got to make friends with my lord Maxwell again, to fetch Red Sandy and Sim’s Will out of gaol, and so he’s gonnae buy a big load of guns off him. He’s going out to Lochmaben to get them.’
‘Where is he getting the money from?’ Roger Widdrington asked.
‘I wouldnae ken that,’ said Hutchin.
‘Did he bring it with him?’
‘Nay, he couldn’t have, he had to pawn some rings for travelling money, or so Red Sandy said. He’s got it here in Dumfries but who knows how?’
‘Anything to do with the Italian woman he’s been paying court to?’
Hutchin’s face became so craftily noncommittal, Roger almost laughed.
‘I wouldnae ken. Any road, I must go. Will ye tell my lady that she mustnae put too much on the Italian woman, he couldnae help it for she all but flung herself at his head.’
Roger nodded gravely, not trusting himself to speak, and paid the boy a shilling. He had heard different but there was no reason to argue. He watched Hutchin Graham hurry away to find a pie-seller and as soon as he was safely out of sight, he went back to report to his father.
***
Signor Bonnetti fully expected the Deputy Warden never to reappear again, but to his astonishment he was back within the hour, slightly flushed and looking very pleased with himself.
‘They are in wagons in the forest, five miles north east of Dumfries,’ he explained. ‘Would you like to come and inspect them, Signor Bonnetti?’
Bonnetti had the feeling of being watched as he rode on the mean little soft-footed long-coated mare behind Carey and his young golden-haired pageboy. His heart had not yet stilled its thumping: the Englishman could simply be inveigling him out to the forest the better to put a knife in him, though the King’s protection might possibly help him... No, not in a forest. But if what this cousin of the Queen of England said was right, then Giovanni Bonnetti had done what he had set out to do and might even see Rome again by the end of the year. Assuming the shipment to Ireland went well...
The wagons full of armaments were in a clearing under guard by some Scots wearing their native padded jacks—miserably poor as they were, they could not afford breastplates. Carey was in a jocular mood: he made some incomprehensible comment as he handed over a letter and a ring as identification to one of the thugs who greeted them and the man laughed shortly.
Giovanni examined the guns. They seemed well enough, but then you never knew unless you fired one.
‘Fire this one for me, monsieur,’ he said to Carey in French.
‘What about the noise?’
Giovanni shrugged. ‘I will certainly not buy any weapons without seeing at least one of them fired first.’
Carey bowed, loaded and primed the caliver with long fingers that seemed slightly clumsy about it, borrowed slowmatch from one of the men and lit the gun’s match. It hissed, lighting his face eerily from below.
‘What shall I shoot?’ he asked.
‘The knot in the middle of that oak over there.’
Carey smiled a little tightly, raised the caliver to his shoulder, brought it down and fired.
Giovanni went to inspect the hole left by the bullet while Carey cleaned the gun. The long fingers were shaking again, which reassured Giovanni: it was right and proper for a man probably committing high treason out of greed to be nervous.
‘Good,’ he said, coming back. ‘It fires a little to the left, I see.’
‘Perhaps my aim was off.’
‘You are modest, monsieur.’
Giovanni took the caliver, which was still hot, examined the pan and the barrel and then nodded.
‘The shape of the stock is unusual,’ he said. ‘Almost a German fashion.’
‘I understand that some Germans work for the Dumfries armourers,’ said Carey.
‘And this is from Dumfries?’
‘Indirectly.’
