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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett

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BOOK: The Game of Kings
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“Do you think I did her any harm!” exclaimed the Master. “But for your meddling she was perfectly secure!”

“I remember,” said Scott. “You don’t like red hair.”

The untamed face stared into his. “She was one of your four women, was she? Then it certainly seems that she lost security, reputation and peace of mind through one of us today. Who else?”

“The Countess of Lennox.”

“Lady Margaret was responsible for the fiasco at Heriot which nearly cost your father his life. Who else?”

“Your brother’s wife.”

“You know the truth of that as well as I do.”

“Do I?” said Scott. “I was stinking drunk on the floor of your room at the time, as I remember.”

“All right. I leave you to work out why, having seduced my sister-in-law and slaughtered my nephew, I should keep coy silence while you shuffle downstairs at three in the morning with that bantling-brained romantic done up in an oatsack?”

For one dumb moment, Scott sympathized with the man who disgorged a sponge into water and found his throat cut. He recovered. “Because you wanted rid of her, I expect. As with your young sister.”

“As with my young sister,” agreed Lymond. Like the sun in eclipse, the candle at his back rimmed his unregenerate head; he held himself lightly and easily, the poised Roc pitying the elephant. “I should have warned you. I can wrestle with one arm as well as with two.”

The light in Scott’s pale eyes was contemptuous. “It won’t be necessary. I know enough about you. I don’t want to know any more.”

Lymond said delicately, “What are you afraid of?”

“Me? Nothing!” exclaimed Scott. “If you want to fight, I’ll fight.”

“But not with ideas? You’re beating drums and brass kettles, Scott. Thick skin and prejudice won’t keep the dragons away.”

“I’m tired of a landscape with dragons,” said Scott violently.

“What, then? Retreat underground into hebetude: retreat under water like a swallow: retreat into a shell like a mollusc: retreat into the firmament like some erroneous dew.…”

“I don’t retreat.”

“You don’t progress much, either.”

“I scotch the dragons.”

“And how,” said Lymond precisely, “do you know a dragon when you see it?”

Despite every endeavour, Scott was trembling. He said, “Because I’m a human being, not a toy, a familiar, a piece of unconsecrated wax to malign your enemies with. I know you. I didn’t mean Turkey to die. I wouldn’t intentionally have hurt the girl, but it’s done, and if it had to be done again it would be worth it. You know all about the law of talion: you’ve hunted Harvey, poor devil, like a thing from beyond the grave. You’re a master—my God, don’t I know it—of the art of apposite punishment. I made damned sure you’d get a taste of both before you got out of my reach. You won’t get over the Border to kill Harvey now.”

“Teaching you to speechify is another thing I should have my throat cut for,” said Lymond. “My appointment is broken; I may be said vaguely to be aware of that. Your intentions were majestic. To teach me to sing re, my fa, sol, and when I fail, to bob me on the noll. Only the field is now littered with other bobbed and blameless nolls and I am left, as it happens, singing ut to Johannes, which should delight you indeed. Why are you here?”

There was a pause. Scott said nothing, and the blue eyes suddenly narrowed. “Is this, by any chance, a modest silence? Good God!” Lymond sat down. “Have you been protecting your former colleagues?”

“I had no quarrel with them.”

Continuing to stare at him, the Master gave a hoot of derisive laughter and sat back, nursing his injured arm. “My only success, and I was too damned preoccupied to watch it coming to the boil. Who locked you up here? Oh, your father, of course.”

And, stretching like a cat, Lymond lay down. Mysteriously, the chill of animal danger had gone; mysteriously, there was an unwilling amusement about his mouth. “I have licked you like the cow Audhumbla from the salt of your atrocious upbringing, and am watching the outcome with a fearful joy.… Your father, as you no doubt realize,
will have to argue himself into fits to get you accepted at Court again: you should tell him that the dispatches which you copied for me so resentfully in your own inimitable hand will do precisely that for you, mentioned in the right quarters. They are all in Arran’s possession. They got there, by the way, through a very wily gentleman called Patey Liddell, who should not be involved. He would in any case be deaf to questions—you’ve no idea how deaf.”

There was a startled silence. Scott said, “Is that true?” And, quickly: “It’s a trick of some sort.”

“It’s blackmail. I want something in return.”

“What?”

“Undo some of the feckless damage you did today,” said Lymond, and held his eyes. “Pull the girl clear. Drive it home to every gossiping fool that whatever Christian says, she didn’t know what she was doing when she gave me refuge. Conjure up Shamanism and the Black Mass if you like. Anything. But get it about that she was not responsible for her actions. Understand?”

“I should do it in any case. It won’t help you,” said Scott.

“Nothing ever does. That’s why I help myself so frequently.”

There was another pause. “Those letters,” said the boy. “Much good they’ll do me when they find out we’ve been selling copies to England as well. In my writing.”

“In that case it’s lucky for you that we haven’t.”

“Haven’t traded with England? For God’s sake, I copied them myself!”

“And for God’s sake, I tore them up.”

“What!” Scott was halfway across to the other trestle when Lymond snapped at him. “Go back and lie down. I don’t want your coddled features singing Kassidas over me. What the hell does it matter? You’ve done your job.”

Scott walked back. He sat on the edge of the boards and repeated: “You tore them up. If you tore them up, why did we trouble to capture them?”

“For sixty avid reasons. Mercenaries are exceedingly mercenary, you know. And suspicious. Also, curiosity on my part.”

“But you tore them up. Why?”

“Because I’m on your side, you damned fool,” said Lymond.

The cellar was very quiet. The Master’s face, closed, offered nothing to Scott’s strained scrutiny. After a moment the boy collected
his own limbs and stretched back slowly on the bed. “That would be your story in Edinburgh, of course,” he said eventually. “Can you prove it?”

There was a brief pause. “From here?” asked Lymond sardonically. “No, Mr. Scott. I have no proof now, nor am I likely to have.”

Out of the dark and disastrous muddle, a fragment of pattern asserted itself. Scott swallowed. “Harvey? Harvey had something to do with it?”

“I rather think so. Perhaps not. In any case, it’s too late now, isn’t it? Look at the stars.” Lymond’s eyes were on the high windows. “I offered them to you once before, on a celebrated occasion. Forth quenching go the starris, one by one; and now is left but Lucifer alone … And what can Lucifer do, with a bolt and a bar and over a hundred horseless miles between him and his illusions?—It’s a sad world, and the candle is going; so unless like Al-Mokanna you can cause moons to issue from our well, we are destined to sorry together in the dark. Good night. You’re a damned nuisance and a public danger, but so is your father. It’s a thrawnness in the vitals of the body politic which will either kill it or save it yet.”

The voice was resigned, but not unfriendly. The light from the candle, a weak conspirator, searched the face of Scott’s celebrated prisoner, touching for a moment on its secretive ironies; and then went out.

*  *  *

Will Scott had been right in thinking that the Master of Maxwell would move not an inch to help a man of the notoriety of Lymond. Maxwell and his wife were at one of their lodges, hunting, when Hunter’s message arrived. Maxwell sent a congratulatory reply making Sir Andrew and Buccleuch free of his castle and its prisons until the following morning, and continued to hunt. He did, however, dispatch his wife home, as was fitting, to see that his guests, voluntary and involuntary, were comfortably housed.

At eleven o’clock that night, Agnes Herries stalked into the hall at Threave, making a dozing Buccleuch jump like a rabbit over a somnolent game of prime; and demanded to know whether he was out of his senses, locking up his son with a desperate man like the Master.

As was due to his hostess, he explained his reasons, succinctly. She questioned them. He explained, more fully. She contradicted him. At midnight Buccleuch, grousing, unbolted the trap door in the light of the torch held by Agnes Herries and called down. “Will! Are ye all right?”

“Of course!” replied his son’s voice, rudely.

“Then ye might as well come up,” said Sir Wat ungraciously, and abandoning the trap to Lady Herries, stumped off without waiting for the sight of his heir.

Will Scott crossed the cellar stiffly. Lymond’s buried head did not stir. For a moment the boy stopped, looking down at him; then he turned and ran quickly up the wooden staircase.

At the top, the trap door was held open by Agnes Herries. Beyond her, he saw that three men still stood guard in the kitchen and passage, but that the guard had changed, and none of them was a Scott. He hesitated.

“Gracious!” said Lady Herries. “After all the trouble I’ve taken to get you out, can you not walk a little quicker than that? I want to go to bed.” Her eyes under the heavy brows met his with a vigorous impatience, and as the young man set foot on the kitchen floor she dropped the trap with a thud that shook the pans on their shelves, and the bolts rattled. She straightened. “Well?”

“All right,” said Scott, making up his mind, rather to his own surprise. “I’m half asleep, that’s all. I’m sorry. Lead on. It was very good of you to …”

And in ten minutes he was in bed, although it was a long time before he fell asleep.

*  *  *

Long before he woke, Christian Stewart left the castle with her retinue, riding as fast as Sym would allow her. It had taken her a good part of the night to accept the fact that she must leave; and Buccleuch, who had no liking for playing the jailer or the spy, was relieved to see her go.

At six o’clock, a fist crashed on Scott’s door, and a roar summoned him to fling on a robe and meet his father in the hall. He did so, and found a room full of cowed servitors, his hostess in a state of fluent resignation, and his father in a temper.

“Ho!” said Buccleuch, when his son appeared. “Ho! So it’s come to it that ye canny even snib a bolt behind ye, now. Or didn’t ye mean to snib it?”

With his new arts, Will Scott kept surmise and recollection out of his face. “What bolt?”

“What bolt!” snarled Sir Wat. “The wee snib on the back yett to the kennels. The trap door in the kitchen, ye gomerel. They found it this morning, as free as Hosea’s wife, and yon three stookies littered in the passages with their heads dunted.”

Scott’s mouth opened. “Then Lymond’s gone?”

His sire was sarcastic. “Well, he didna pop out of the hole, bash three fellows on the head and pop back in again, just for the devil of it. Of course he’s gone! There’s half Threave out hunting him, but deil knows the start he’s got. And it’s your fault, ye damned fool!”

This was a surprise. Scott said indignantly, “How?”

Agnes Herries said severely, “I told you to bolt that trap properly. How you could be so careless!”

Scott stared at her. “You told me … ?”

She stared back. “Sleepy you may have been, but not too sleepy to forget that, I hope. Even my three men remember it quite distinctly. So if the trap wasn’t properly fastened, you have only yourself to blame.”

It was no use protesting. Having turned the other cheek, Will Scott submitted, with as much tranquillity as he could muster, to having it slapped. He mounted with his father and spent the rest of the daylight hours scouring the countryside for the escaped man, without any success whatsoever.

*  *  *

At Midculter, Sybilla occupied herself that Friday and Saturday in turning out cupboards and making long and superfluous lists of her gold plate. Mariotta, who had been straying restlessly from room to room ever since Janet Buccleuch left, burst into ill-considered speech. “How can you sit there and do that?”

They had heard nothing since the news that Lymond was to be trapped: nothing of Will; nothing of Hunter; nothing of Sir Wat. Listening to Mariotta’s hand-wringing tirade Sybilla, who was rather pale, sat back on her heels and reached a decision. “Look,” she said incisively. “I try not to interfere, but we may as well be honest with
one another. Whom are you afraid for? You’ve cast off Richard, and you find my other son detestable.”

Mariotta said indistinguishably, “I don’t want any harm to come to him.”

“Who?” said the Dowager sharply. “Incidentally, if it interests you, my guess is that Lymond hardly knows you exist.”

“I meant Richard,” said the girl.

“I see. Well, Richard for all his flummery, worships his wife. Unhappily, neither of you knows what the other is dreaming about half the time.”

She said defensively, “He’s not easy to understand.”

“And yet you rather expected Richard to read your mind, didn’t you? You thought he pictured you encysted forever with pots and pans—A woman is a worthy thing; they do the wash and do the wring. And so on. Whereas—”

“Of course I did. No other thought crossed his mind.”

“Heaven forbid,” said the Dowager crossly, “that I should tattle over other folks’ errors like an unemployed midwife; but look. Wat Scott is like that. With Wat it’s sew Tibet, knit Annot and spin Margerie and no nonsense. He’d think it a downright insult to his manhood to clatter of his affairs in the house.”

Mariotta sat down, prepared to argue in spite of herself. “But Janet seems to me to know everything that’s going on.”

“Exactly. What’s more, in her wrangling way, she makes sure that Wat knows her opinion on everything that matters. In other words, she uses her own methods of informing herself on everything Wat’s interested in, and half the time he’s acting exactly as Janet is making him act.

“You want Richard to be interested in the minutiae of your day: it works both ways. Do you ever wonder what Richard is doing with these building experiments of his? Did you ever get him to tell you of the time he carried off all the prizes at Kilwinning? Did you know, for example, that he’s probably the best swordsman in the country, and that he sometimes teaches, for Arran, when some of the nobler scions turn out to need a little polish?”

BOOK: The Game of Kings
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