The Disorderly Knights (73 page)

She might have done nothing either if Sue Bligh of Bamburgh hadn’t gone to market at Hexham to spend her regular allowance from Wat Kerr, and the handsome danger money she had got since Hadden Stank from Wat Scott of Buccleuch, and retailed, slightly overtaken in liquor, the latest gossip from the north.

It came to Kate’s ears, carried lovingly, the very next day, and after breaking two flower pots and coughing herself silly trying to spread sawdust up the garden alleys in a gale, Mistress Somerville marched indoors and said to her imprisoned daughter, ‘You’re going to look a grand sight following Joleta up the aisle with Cheese-wame Henderson here in full armour in your wake.’ And as Philippa, naturally, looked astonished, her mother said with irritation, ‘It’s hardly surprising, is it? Francis Crawford is marrying Joleta, they say. She’ll want you there, I expect. You are the only creature of her own sex and age she has troubled to consort with.’

There was a long pause. ‘When?’ said Philippa carefully, at length.

‘Rumour doesn’t say.’

‘Why?’

Kate Somerville turned her head slowly and looked her daughter in the eye. ‘
That
is an odd question. Am I mistaken, or do I remember you informing Sir Graham Malett in London that it would be wonderful if Lymond and his sister faced life, hand in hand together? We were all sobbingly moved.’

‘Yes. But,’ said Philippa, moving quickly to essentials, ‘didn’t Sir Graham say they didn’t take to one another?’ And with the clear, perfidious gaze that Kate could recognize with her eyes shut, the girl added, ‘Unless she’s
converted
him. Has she?’

‘No,’ said Kate. And after a moment, with reluctance, ‘In fact, it’s the other way round.’

There was no need to spell things out with Philippa. She got rather pale, which Kate was sorry to see, and then said, endearingly, ‘I didn’t guess or I wouldn’t have forced you to tell me. He
has
to marry her?’

Kate Somerville, who had been playing with Philippa’s pigtails, dropped the long brown ropes suddenly and turned the girl gently to face her. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘What?’ It had seemed, to Philippa, the height of tact. She flushed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You said,’ said Kate slowly, ‘so
he
has to marry
her
. Surely it isn’t
Lymond
you pity?’

Philippe’s face, already red, burned to a deeper scarlet. ‘No. Oh, no,’ she said. ‘They deserve each other. That’s what I think. Don’t you think?’

Struggling between kindness and honesty, Kate’s unremarkable face was a picture. ‘No.…’ she said at length. ‘I don’t think I think. Let’s consider the subject exhausted except for choosing the wedding gift. Something tasteful with poison in it, perhaps. Although I can’t think which of them deserves it the more.’

Two mornings later, entering her daughter’s room, Kate was struck by the flatness of the bed, and then by the sight of a folded paper laid dead centre of the untenanted pillow. Unfolded, it proved to be a witty and delightfully-written apology from her daughter for upsetting the household, coupled with the information that, having some business of vital importance to transact north of the Border in the immediate future, she had taken the liberty of leaving for a few days without permission, as she just knew that Kate would make a fuss and stop her. She would be back directly with some heather, and Kate was not to worry and not to speak to any strange men. She had, Philippa concluded, taken Cheese-wame Henderson with her: thus becoming the only known fugitive to persuade her bodyguard to run away, too.

It was a typical Somerville letter, and in other circumstances Kate no doubt would have been charmed by the spelling alone. As it was, she roused the neighbourhood for ten miles around, and there was no able-bodied Englishman within reach of Flaw Valleys who slept in his own bed that night or the next.

To no avail. With perfect thoroughness, Philippa had managed to vanish. And riding back and forth, frightened, on her grim, fruitless search, Kate Somerville saw, but did not comprehend, that the big tinker who had spent the summer mending ironware under a huddle of rags in her meadow had now picked up his belongings and gone.

Philippa Somerville disappeared on the Feast of the Holy Cross and was missing still next day, the 15th September, the day on which Jerott Blyth rode north to bring Joleta home to her brother.

On that day also Cormac O’Connor called at St Mary’s, in unwilling response to a sharp summons from Gabriel himself, and brought with him as a peace offering a special cartload from his contraband warehouse at Leith.

*

By then, a hundred miles north at Boghall, Lymond’s coldly purposeful attack on Graham Malett had reached its inevitable end.

‘We are gathered here today,’ he had said, ‘for the purpose of destroying Sir Graham Reid Malett,’ and their ensuing deliberations
began with the crash of a chair as Lord Culter thrust himself upright. ‘
By God, are we?
’ said Lymond’s brother, and Sybilla’s quick breathing faltered. Beside Alec Guthrie, unmoving, Margaret Erskine’s eyes filled with tears.

It was Fergie Hoddim, next to Thompson’s comfortable solidity, who said drily, ‘It’ll all come out in the evidence, man. We’re none of us all that simple that we’ll condemn a man out o’ malice—either one man or the other. Let him have his head. There’ll be no hope for St Mary’s else.’

‘Sit down, Richard,’ said Lymond without looking up. ‘You have quite adequate support, as you see. The onus is on me to convince you. I am attempting to do this now because time is against me. I have three somewhat depressing handicaps. I do not have the goodwill of any of the Knights of the Order, who might otherwise have been here to substantiate Gabriel’s actions in Malta. De Nicolay is the only detached observer I can offer, if he will allow himself so to be used. Secondly, I do not at present have all the evidence I need to overthrow Graham Malett. If I had, I should be speaking now to the Queen Dowager, and not to you. And thirdly, I have, by my own history, every possible motive—personal, religious, professional—for wanting Graham Malett out of the way at any cost, which will in itself discredit nearly everything I say.

‘You may conclude from that,’ said Francis Crawford, looking up without change of expression, ‘that knowing the risks, I am putting before you something I think is more important than individual failure, or even individual life and death. And that if by any chance at the end of this meeting you are convinced’—a smile fleetingly appeared in his eyes—‘you can rest assured that against these odds, your decision must be correct.’

It was an impressive opening, thought Adam Blacklock, sheltering his eyes behind one long, big-knuckled hand. And then Janet Beaton’s voice, deeply unimpressed, said, ‘Well, one way or the other, ye’d all better make up your minds. He wants to marry Grizel.’

‘
Tu dis!
’ Nicolas de Nicolay, listening open-mouthed, was startled into speech. ‘But the vows of celibacy, those?’

‘Churchmen
may
marry nowadays, you know; isn’t it interesting?’ said Sybilla unexpectedly. ‘And if he can’t get back to Malta while Juan de Homedès is Grand Master, he may well settle for a secular state. And in any case, as Francis is dying to point out.…’

‘By marrying Will Scott’s widow, he will have control of his children, and of all the Buccleuch lands, should Wat die. It is logical,’ said Lymond courteously, ‘if you note that he already has virtual control of the Order’s possessions in Scotland. Sir James Sandilands is ill and lazy and most unwilling to speak, but I have learned that
the Queen Dowager is being given some of the revenues already, as a sop. With the Queen Dowager’s support, with the revenues of the Hospitallers, or even a tenth of them; with the lands and offices of Buccleuch in his hands, and with the weapon of St Mary’s behind him, Sir Graham Malett has, it can be agreed I would think without any prejudice, the prospect of becoming a major power in Scotland; particularly if, for example, the other major landowners such as the Kerrs and my own family became discredited or extinct.

‘The question is,’ said Lymond, and his eyes, impersonal as his voice, wandered round the long table, ‘if, however innocently, he acquired such power, do we believe he is a fit person to wield it?’

‘For many years, in the Mediterranean,’ said Nicolas de Nicolay unexpectedly, ‘he is known as a great and godly person. He is certainly of a courage unmatched.’

‘There is no question,’ said Lymond at once, ‘of his courage. Or of his ability. I have tested both over and over again. I wish there were.… Lady Jenny, what is your impression of him?’

Taken aback, the little red-haired woman, plump and pretty, her china-blue eyes wide on his, clasped her hands under her chin. Her rings flashed and dazzled and the King of France’s cameo, occupying the whole of her forefinger, stared balefully at his employee de Nicolay. Jenny Fleming might not be noted for her brain, but her emotional independence was considerable. ‘He looks like God,’ she said simply.

Alec Guthrie, his face cracking involuntarily in a smile, cleared his throat. ‘He sounds like God, too,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get the women on your side, Crawford.’

‘You think not? Margaret?’ said Lymond.

Margaret Erskine, very pale, raised her eyes. The tears in her brown eyes had dried, but strain was marked on her brow, and in her tight-clasped hands. She said, ‘He unwittingly broke the news of my husband’s death to me. It was not his fault; he had no reason to believe I didn’t know already. But I can’t help.…’ She broke off, and then resumed in a very steady voice, ‘I can’t help, obviously, associating him with my feelings then, although he was painstakingly kind. I’m sorry, Francis. I am not fond of him, but for no practical reason. I must rank myself simply as biased.’

‘Or more sensitive than most of us,’ said Sybilla suddenly, in a queer voice. Up to now, she had neither spoken nor looked at her son in the chair; only, her back flat and straight, she had studied the rows of Fleming paintings on the opposite wall, her small face set. ‘Graham Malett knew that Tom’s death had been kept from you, Margaret. The Queen Dowager sent to inform him before he paid you that visit. I spoke to her messenger, quite by chance, when they came north.’

And as Margaret Erskine, a new expression on her face, stared at the Dowager, Lymond said slowly, ‘So …’ and then breaking off without warning said, ‘Margaret, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. There’s no reason for you to endure this kind of experience unless you are anxious to stay.’

‘But I am,’ said Margaret Erskine; and surprisingly there was a new firmness in her voice and her round jaw. ‘More than ever, I am.’

‘Then … yes, he was cruel, this man of God,’ said Lymond quietly. ‘Surprisingly cruel, and surprisingly amoral in his dealings with his erring brethren. We all have our weaknesses, and for all his preaching and his praying he seems to have done little to overcome them.… Is that true, Adam?’

Adam Blacklock, seated, inescapably, on Lymond’s right, took down his sheltering hand and watched it shake. ‘Is this a public degradation?’ he said.

There was a pause. ‘Of course,’ said Lymond’s passionless voice. ‘It is the very fabric of degradation. For all of us. For myself most of all. It is a count of small nastinesses; a long, sordid, petty-minded tale aimed only at destructiveness. I regret,’ said Lymond, his voice sharpened for a second beyond his level, deliberate key, ‘that I cannot offer you, this time, the noble anguish of some magnificent hell. Only the embarrassment of mentioning now, in the privacy of this room, that Graham Malett made you drunk and kept you drunk, whenever he could.’

Adam, his betraying hands trapped between his knees, did not reply.

‘
Is that true?
’ said Lymond, and turned to look him full in the face.

Adam Blacklock lifted his head. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s true. But only because Abernethy’s treatment was so slow, and the pain was.… Oh, God. I’m not going to make excuses. Make what you can of it,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t his fault, anyway. He tried to stop me.’

‘But being addicted to spirits, as he must have known, once you started you couldn’t stop. So in the kindness of his heart, he switched you to drugs.’

Adam said nothing. The silence stretched on. ‘Provided by whom, Adam?’ said Lymond quietly. And as Blacklock didn’t answer, he went on himself. ‘Randy Bell, wasn’t it? Who is, Archie Abernethy tells me, an obvious addict himself, and possesses imported drugs in quantities usually unobtainable except in Mediterranean countries. Whatever you may say, Gabriel’s part in that was not kindness. It was not even intelligent. If he had appealed to your brain instead of to your emotions, he would have had you off it in a month. As you now are. And as you are going to stay, whatever the outcome of this. There is also Plummer.’

Alec Guthrie said, ‘The theft at Liddel Keep?’

‘Yes. How, as a matter of interest I wonder, did you hear of that?’ said Lymond.

‘It was ail round yon March meeting. The tale was that you had let it be known in order to keep him in his place.’

‘I have other, more direct methods of keeping Lancelot Plummer in his place,’ said Lymond. ‘There is nothing wrong with either Plummer or Tait, except that they have rather esoteric tastes for an obscure country retreat in Scotland. Instead of putting this into perspective, Malett chose to sharpen their cultural exile by creating a craving for things material and immaterial which he knew could not be satisfied at present with me. Hence the theft of the Staurotheque from Liddel Keep. Every chance he had, Tait was in some little hole or corner hunting for a bargain, and that’s only one step from contraband. Plummer came down, eventually, on the side of the angels, and in a month or two wouldn’t have stirred off his kneecaps, if it were the time to be on his kneecaps, if Ghengis Khan and his horde had appeared at the gates. What were you offered, Alec, that you have withstood so admirably?’

‘The opportunity to analyse Francis Crawford,’ said Guthrie’s level voice. ‘You guessed that, surely.’

‘Yes.’ Abruptly, Lymond pushed back his chair and, rising, walked to the windows. He turned, the heavy tassel from one of the tapestries in his hand. ‘You had better say, then, why you are here?’