3 A Surfeit of Guns: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (27 page)

“Hope,” he said with mock despair and a lewd gesture.

She gave him his shirt and hose crushingly. “No, Monsieur le Deputé, I think not.”

“And if I can find you some guns?”

Now she smiled. “Who knows?”

He laughed. “If I get you the guns you need, I’ll want more than kisses in recompense.”

“A ten per centum finder’s fee?”

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Done,” Carey said happily, drinking to it.

“Now you must meet my husband.”

***

Giovanni Bonnetti was in a sorrowful state as he sat casting up his accounts. He was a small lightly built, swarthy man with a curled up waxed beard and moustache and very dark bright eyes. Three shirts and a knitted waistcoat under his fashionable orange and black taffeta doublet could not keep out the dank cold of the miserable joke that the Scots called summer. His legs were a perpetual mass of goose-pimples under his elegant black hose and, while the uproar in his bowels had calmed somewhat, he was not a well man. Cursed inefficient northerners, none of them knew what proper plumbing was.

And furthermore he had a stifling head-cold which caused his nose to drip all the time and a sore throat and hardly any of the illiterate savages of Scotland could speak Italian and many of them only spoke halting French with a nasal drawl that would have disgraced a Fleming. A generation ago they had been better cultured, when their alliance with France was strong and they had the wisdom of Mother Church to guide them. The foul heresy of Protestantism had sealed them up in their poor little country to stew in their own juices. And the King was no better than his nobles, though he at least had Italian and French.

But the worst of it, the absolute worst, was that here he was in Dumfries, the centre of gunmaking for the whole of Scotland, being placed in the area of highest demand, and nobody would sell him any handguns, not pistols, nor calivers, nor arquebuses. He might as well have been in London trying to buy munitions from the Tower. The locals looked at him and denied point blank that they owned any guns, ever had owned any guns, even knew what guns were. The gunsmiths he could persuade to talk to him in the first place said their order books were full for the next six months and they could barely keep up with demand. It had seemed such a fine idea from Antwerp. He would make use of his wife’s scandalous liaison with the Lord Maxwell to make contact with the Scottish Court. They would both travel to Scotland with Maxwell and there buy weapons and ammunition to ship on to the Irish rebels and thus help to destroy the Earl of Essex, Elizabeth’s general in Ireland. Perhaps with good weapons for the Irish thrown in the balance, he might be the means of dislodging the heretical English grip on Ireland completely. And Ireland, as the Queen of England and the King of Spain both knew very well, was the back door into England. His elaborate and painfully written proposal had gone through the many layers of Spanish bureaucrats and officials and finally returned with the tiny mincing script of the King of Spain in the top righthand corner: fiat, let this be done.

Their children had not exactly been taken in ward, only the officials had made it clear that they would come to Antwerp and remain there, as security for Philip II’s investment. Giovanni had triumphantly taken his Medici bank drafts and converted some into gold to defray his expenses and buy wine as samples. He had taken ship with his minx of a wife and her noble Scottish bandit of a lover, closing his eyes firmly to her antics and solacing himself with one of his maids, all within the last few months.

And now here he was, on the verge of the biggest coup of his life, and nobody would sell him guns. The King was no help, insisted that he hadn’t enough firearms himself, though he bought and drank every drop of the wine Bonnetti had brought as his cover-story: the powder he had been promised at a swingeing price would, no doubt, be bad and his time was running out before the autumn gales closed the seas between Scotland and Ireland. Also the wine that the Scottish nobility drank was appalling. If he could only pull off his coup, he might indeed set up as a vintner, supplying the barbarians with something a little better. He drank some more, the cloves and nutmeg completely failing to hide the fact that it had been pressed from the last sweepings of third-rate Gascony vineyards, watered, adulterated and brought in foul leaky barrels.

There was a knock at the door of the miserable back room of the alehouse he had rented as a makeshift office to take orders for wine.

“Prego,” said Bonnetti, gulping down the rest of his vinegar.

His wife appeared at the door with a man behind her, though not, unfortunately, the Lord Maxwell. He had been furious with her when she had quarrelled with her Scottish lover; her wilfulness had brought their whole enterprise in danger. He had known what she was doing to find another contact and it made him no happier.

This one was a new barbarian, elegantly dressed in black, with dyed hair. Extremely tall, even for the Scots, and with the national tendency to loom menacingly.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” said the barbarian in excellent French, making the merest fraction of a bow. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Votre nom, monsieur?”

“Sir Robert Carey, Deputy Warden of Carlisle.”

Every ounce of self-control Bonnetti possessed was needed to stop him from leaping out of his seat and jumping from the window. He stared and croaked for a moment with his heart thumping and his hand behind the table, stroking the hilt of the little knife he had strapped to his wrist for emergencies. Meanwhile his wife smiled sweetly and triumphantly at him, and modestly withdrew. The Englishman stood at ease with his left hand tilting the pommel of his sword and his right propped on his fashionable paned hose. He said nothing, simply smiled and waited for Bonnetti to recover. As Bonnetti became capable of thought again, he realised he had actually heard something of the Careys from his brother in London: the nearest thing to Princes of the Blood Royal that the feeble Tudor line possessed, much favoured cousins of the Queen. This particular one he had not come across by name, but the fact that he was Deputy Warden of the English West March was bad enough. Nothing of their mission could possibly be accomplished if the infernal English knew about it: they might not have been able to stop him buying weapons in Scotland, but they could and would send ships to prevent him transporting them to Ireland.

“Please, don’t be afraid,” continued the Englishman softly. “I came because I heard you were interested in buying firearms.”

Deny it? No, the man was too sure of himself. No doubt his little whore of a wife had been blabbing.

“I might be,” Bonnetti admitted cagily. “Please sit down.”

The Englishman sat on the chair for potential customers, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle.

“Excellent,” said Carey. “I have eighteen dozen handguns, mainly calivers with some pistols, that I might be willing to sell to you. If you happen to be buying.”

It must be a trap. This was too extraordinary. An English official selling him weapons to fight the English in Ireland? It was certainly a trap.

“I am not buying weapons,” said Bonnetti. “I am not even interested in weapons. I am here to negotiate for the sale of Italian wine with the Scottish court.”

“Oh,” said the Englishman, without a trace of discomfiture. “Have you any samples? I might be interested in buying some myself.”

“The Scottish court has drunk them all.”

Carey grinned. “Isn’t that a surprise? Well, Signor Bonnetti, I’m sorry to hear you aren’t interested in my suggestion, since the Signora was quite sure you would be. You must know that nobody in Dumfries or anywhere in Scotland will sell weapons to you because you are a Papist and a foreigner. The King of Scotland will very soon lose patience with you, take your money anyway and probably you will end up with a dagger in your back. Never mind. Not my affair. Good day to you.”

“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 northeast 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.