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

where the archery butts and the new shooting range were set up.
    It turned out that what Carey really wanted was to see how well Dodd could shoot with the Courtier’s own wheel-lock dags. Dodd thoroughly disliked firearms, and once he had warmed a little to the argument was a stout defender of longbows.
    “See ye, sir,” he said, as Carey demonstrated how to wind up the lock which spun a wheel against the iron pyrites in the clamp, making the sparks that supposedly lit the fine powder in the pan and thus fired the gun. “See ye, an arrow kills ye just as deid as a bullet and I can put a dozen in the air while ye’re fiddling about with yer keys and all, sir.”
    “Well, try it anyway, Sergeant.”
    “Och, God,” said Dodd under his breath, who hated loud noises in the morning. He took the dag, sighted along the barrel to the target and fired. The kick was not as brutal as a caliver, but the boom and the smell of gunpowder made his eyes water. Carey had the armoury caliver and was loading it briskly, lit the match in the lock, put the stock on his shoulder, took a sideways stance and aimed the gun. The roar nearly blew the top of Dodd’s head off and a hole appeared in the target, irritatingly close to the bull. Dodd’s bullet had puffed sand and sawdust a yard below the target.
    Behind them the market traders from the city were setting up their stalls ready for the muster, being chivvied into their proper pitches by harassed aldermen’s servants. They had looked up at the sound of guns, but turned back to their own affairs once they saw that nobody was attacking.
    “Firearms are the future, Sergeant,” said Carey didactically, while Dodd carefully swabbed, charged, loaded and wound up the dag again. “Anyone who’s fought on the Continent knows that.”
    “The future?” repeated Dodd, thoroughly confused.
    “It takes five years to make a longbowman and six weeks to make an arquebusier, it’s as simple as that. This time remember it isn’t a bow, you don’t need to aim low at this distance. Think of a straight line from the muzzle to the bull.”
    While he talked he was reloading the caliver, each movement precise, identical and rhythmic. Dodd watched, recognising something new in the way he did it. Carey smiled.
    “Dutch drill,” he explained as he finished. “I’m planning to teach it to you and the men once we get hold of the guns.” He stood square to the target, lifted and lowered the caliver to his shoulder and squinted as he aimed.
    “ Christ !” yelled Dodd and made a wild swipe with his arm which knocked the weapon out of Carey’s hands. It clattered to the ground and the match fizzed on the spilled powder.
    “What the Devil do you think you’re doing…?” Carey demanded, cold and furious.
    Dodd stamped on the match end with the toe of his boot and then picked up the caliver gingerly. He could feel his knees shaking and his stomach turning.
    “Look, sir,” he said, trying not to stammer. “There’s a crack in the barrel.”
    Carey looked and his face went white. He took the caliver out of Dodd’s hands, and turned it, traced the death-dealing weakness all along the underside of the gun.
    “Thank you, Henry,” he said at last, in the whisper of someone whose mouth has gone completely dry. “I see it.”
    Dodd turned, aimed the dag he was still holding and discharged it, this time at least hitting the target now he wasn’t trying. Carey was staring at the caliver which had nearly blown his hands and face to shreds. It was still charged. Dodd put the dags back in their case on Carey’s horse, as Carey began very carefully using the ramrod to scrape out the wad and bullet and shake the gunpowder onto the ground. When it was empty he blew out his breath gustily and small blame to him if he had been holding it in.
    “And that’s something else ye have nae fear of wi’ longbows,” Dodd added, unable to resist making the point.
    “True,” admitted Carey very softly. “True