3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm Page B

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?”
    Scrope was looking round the room in the way he had, his fingers fluttering on the table unconsciously as his gaze roamed past the covered virginals in the corner. Carey forced himself to sit still and keep his mouth shut. Would Scrope do it? It was an obvious course of action, but Carey had a strong suspicion that if he showed himself too eager, Scrope would shy away from the idea.
    “We should send someone to the King with a verbal message for him alone,” Scrope pronounced at last. “Someone discreet that the King would be certain to receive.” His restless froggy eyes rested on Carey. “Whom the King already knows, perhaps?”
    Lowther frowned. “My lord, I see no necessity…”
    “Then you do know who stole the weapons, Sir Richard?” Carey snapped at him.
    “No, I do not.”
    “Enough, gentlemen,” put in Scrope with unwonted firmness. “I will have no…no disputes. Sir Robert, would you be willing to ride to Dumfries and speak to the King?”
    Carey inclined his head. “Of course, my lord.”
    Even Scrope’s face was cynical. “You could start tonight…”
    “No, my lord,” Carey said. “Not tonight. I don’t know the area and I might be mistaken for a reiving party crossing into Scotland. I would want to take three men with me…”
    “What for?” sneered Lowther. “To protect ye?”
    “Yes, Sir Richard,” said Carey sneering back. “I know the Scottish court and a man with no followers there is of no account at all. Three men is enough for respect.”
    “You could take your whole troop.”
    “No need, my lord, and in any case, I doubt I could find them anywhere to sleep. Also we will need to take supplies for us and the horses…”
    “Ye sound like ye’re going on campaign,” Lowther put in again.
    Carey sighed. “Clearly,” he said, “Sir Richard has never seen a Royal court on progress, as I have, many times.” Scrope nodded anxiously.
    “I might have known ye’d be drooling after the chance to meet the King,” said Lowther. Carey stared at him and wished he could find an honourable excuse to punch the man. The words were bad enough but Lowther’s tone twisted them into an implication of sodomy.
    “I have met the King of Scotland,” Carey said with cold patience. “Nearly ten years ago on Walsingham’s embassy.” Lowther sniffed.
    “What about the weapons?” Scrope asked, swerving back to the problem at hand. “If you leave tonight you could be sure of telling the King before they can be used against him.”
    “Either they are on packponies or they have been moved to wagons. Ponies, I would imagine, they move faster in this part of the world. But the quickest a pony train could go so heavily laden would be about fifteen miles a day, and it’s thirty-five at least to Dumfries. I can get a good night’s sleep and still talk to the King before the guns are likely to get near him.”
    “It’s not nearly so far to the Debateable Land.”
    “True. But if that’s where they’re going, they’re there already and nothing we can do about it.” Scrope nodded. “I’ll need some kind of excuse for going to the Scottish court as well.”
    “Hm? Oh, no problem, Sir