The Disorderly Knights (88 page)

Jerott saw that Maccullo had recognized Lymond: was staring at him as he knelt, his hand uncertainly on his sword-belt. Lymond himself paid no attention, and although the line between his eyes was drawn black in the stark light, his voice was quiet when he spoke. ‘He is barely two minutes dead. He was alive when we passed him.’ He looked up, his eyes blazing. ‘There is a blood-feud for you, Jerott,’ he said. ‘They would dispatch a stirk cleanly, but a living offence to their pride, never. What old man in the world would merit such hatred?’

‘
There he is. Take him
,’ said Gabriel’s voice, ringing, hoarse with emotion, out of the darkness. ‘
Take him, in Christ’s name, with his hands red yet again in another man’s blood
.’ And suddenly, with a hiss of drawn steel, the trampling feet of an army seemed to converge on Lymond; and the High Street, the booths, the Stinkand Raw and the dark graveyard leading down to the Cowgate were all peopled with soldiers.

Jerott waited just long enough to see Lymond jump to his feet, white and lithe, his sword out, and to be glad that he himself was not in the party which was to arrest Francis Crawford here and now. Instead, Jerott turned, and facing the doorway, his black eyes alight, he struck with his sword the first blade that fell into the lamplight while at his back Lymond crossed Buccleuch’s body with a bound and, striking through the rotten back of the booth with blade and shoulder, burst through into the jostling darkness beyond.

Jerott held them at bay for a matter of seconds. Then he was thrust aside as Maccullo was, his cry unnoticed, as d’Oisel’s Frenchmen poured after, shouting. His cloak half-pulled from his shoulders, the young knight straddled Buccleuch’s helpless body, buffeted on all sides, and strained to see, through the milling bodies, whether Lymond was through, while using the flat of his blade viciously to keep the trampling feet clear and to protect himself from rough hands.

He saw Bute Herald, caught in the swirling tide, suddenly reach a decision and, fighting his way through to where Jerott had left the horses, untie one and set off down Conn’s Close, with two or three men at his stirrups. The boy must have come back from the Tolbooth with a sergeant and some men. The Kerrs, if the Kerrs had been responsible, would not get far. Then Jerott himself turned to follow
Lymond and the French to where the shouting was loudest; and there came the sound of snapping timber as the booths crashed; and smashed glass as men reeled back into the little windows of the lower lands. So the Chevalier Blyth came face to face with a massive shadow standing silent in the gaping back of the stall: the shadow of a tall man whose white plume stirred in the night air and whose cuirass glinted bright, like his own, under the long black robe, starred on the shoulder, of a Grand Cross of the Order of St John.

‘My poor lad,’ said Sir Graham Reid Malett gently. ‘You wear your robes, who have broken every vow of chivalry the Order requires. You have chosen to follow that headstrong and lonely young man, and no prayers can save you now.… Are you listening?’ For behind them, swirling up the Lawnmarket where every window was crowded and every stair laden with people, the noise of night-blinded pursuit had reached a screaming crescendo. ‘I doubt,’ said Graham Malett gravely, ‘if he will reach the Tolbooth prison alive.’

Then for the first time, Jerott truly believed all that he had learned of Graham Malett: would have believed it even had he not seen, a spark in Gabriel’s hand, the dagger he had brought to use. Afterwards he knew he owed his life to the burgher watch and the law men from the Tolbooth, who stumbling just then into the wrecked Luckenbooth, shone their lanterns on the old man who lay at their feet, and then summoned the monks from the Maison Dieu at the head of Bell’s Wynd to carry the heavy, disfigured body into their quiet chapel.

But by then Jerott had gone, fighting through the throng to reach its wild and disputing centre, aware all the time of the tall magnificent man moving smiling behind in his wake. How many of Gabriel’s men lay ahead? Of course, Gabriel would make it his business to see that Lymond did not reach the Tolbooth alive. But Francis Crawford had the night on his side. He knew every wynd and vennel in Edinburgh, and provided in those first seconds he had obtained the lead he required, he had at least a chance of escape.

Escape to what? To Gabriel’s assassins,
les enfants de la Mate
, as Lymond ironically called them? ‘Other courtesy than death thou shalt not have,’ Graham Malett had once said. Here, in the emotion of the chase and Buccleuch’s slaughter by a hand still unknown, Gabriel had his most effective chance of encompassing what he wished.

It was then that Jerott realized that he, and Graham Malett a few yards behind him, were being carried past both Stinkand Raw, church and Tolbooth, and that the crowd, swirling round the west corner of the tall prison, had debouched along the graveyard path beyond, spilling among the grey tombstones, flickering in the manifold lantern-beams and stumbling among the grey buttresses of the
side and back of St Giles. It remained, and was thickest, before the wide steps leading up to the south porch of the church. Pushing and thrusting, Jerott Blyth reached those steps. D’Oisel stood at the top, his lieutenant beside him, and an officer of the city guard, his face red with worry. Crichton, the Provost of St Giles, was not there, but you could see two or three frieze cassocks, and the cloth of gold and blue velvet of the Deacon, clearly quick to assume office. With a little help from the French men-at-arms and the city officers, the crowd stayed, swaying and jostling, at the foot of the steps.

Then behind him, clear among a thousand others, Jerott felt the presence he was waiting for. Patient, undisturbed, a little amused, Graham Malett moved to his side, and laid his fine hand on Jerott’s shoulder. ‘Sanctuary,’ he observed amiably in his rich voice. ‘The foolish young man has sought sanctuary. The church will shelter him, of course, for as long as he cares to remain. But unless he means to die there, he must know that one day he will emerge, and the shackles will close.… Poor, foolhardy creature. Shall we go in, you and I,’ said Gabriel, the pressure of his hand increased suddenly on the fine tendons of Jerott’s strong neck. ‘Shall we go in and guide his soul to take the true, the selfless course?’

His hand dropped. And side by side, their robes airy behind them, the two Knights of St John of Jerusalem climbed the wide steps, between the clustering lamps, and entered the great church of St Giles.

*

From more than forty altars the long, white tapers pricked to life with their small flame the dim treasures of jewels and paintings, of silver-gilt and delicate, hand-sewn fabric and queer, painted faces that graced the aisles and chapels of the long two hundred foot nave, and lent their bouquet of light and incense to the rows of thick stone pillars that upheld the groined stone arches, far above.

Entering the murmuring silence of the church; leaving behind, thinly removed, the raucous excitement of the crowd; dismissing from his mind that circle of craning, avid faces at the south porch, Jerott Blyth walked with the man he once worshipped, past the carved font where he himself had been christened, and turning his back on the seven chapels of the west corner and their scattered, kneeling supplicants, he paced with Gabriel up the stone floor of the nave, past the Norman door, past the chapel where hung the Blue Blanket under which the citizens fought for their city, past the great stone pillars with their coats of arms and their altars, past the aisles and the altars of St Duthac and St Mungo, St Christopher and St Peter, St Columba and St Sebastian—the altars maintained by the skinners,
the surgeons, the masons, the wrights, the shearers, the bonnet-makers and all the great of the past with a great achievement to be thankful for, or a great sin for which to atone.

They passed the organ, and the fine carved stalls for the prebendaries in the choir, where the officers of the church, the chaplains in their robes and the men and women who had come solely to pray and were caught up in the night’s strange events stood aside, in ones and twos, whispering. Then Jerott could see the steps to the high altar, its chandeliers blazing with light; its vestments of black and red velvet and of cloth of gold; its pall of red satin hangings blatant in heraldic pattern behind.

On the steps of the altar, above the shifting heads of the half-dozen soldiers d’Oisel had allowed in, Lymond was standing. He had seen them, and across all the intervening space let fly a gleam of deprecating mockery in Jerott’s direction.

‘I am here,’ said Lymond amiably. ‘A refugee from pollarchy. Come and let us inspire that great Greek saint Giles to cast the demons out from us all.’

For a moment Jerott in turn looked up at the painted face of the tall statue, vested in cloth of gold and red velvet pendicle, placed above the jewelled casket bearing his relic: a hand and armbone, drily anonymous, with a diamond ring rattling loose on its finger. Beside him, Gabriel crossed himself, and Jerott did the same, aware that people were moving in softly behind them, filling the aisles and the stalls.

He turned round. The Sieur d’Oisel had come forward, and the chief magistrates with him, among them the Lord Provost himself. There were faces he did not know: French faces, and Scots faces; and then suddenly one very familiar indeed: Adam Blacklock, with a hooded girl on his arm. Philippa. Then Henri Cleutin, Seigneur d’Oisel, moving down to the altar rail, said crisply, ‘This nonsense will cease. Mr Crawford, I am required by her grace the Queen Mother to remove you to the safety of the Tolbooth until your status and your loyalty have been examined. You need fear no injustice. In defence of your own innocence, I suggest you place yourself in my charge forthwith.’

‘Truly,’ said Lymond, his voice still mocking over the strain, ‘I would rather live maligned than die justified.
Vive la bagatelle
. I am here, my lord Ambassador, for the blessing of the cultivation of peace, union and brotherly affection among honest men and fellow-Brethren. Will the Lord of Torphichen permit me to speak?’

Beside Jerott, Sir Graham Malett became very still. ‘Aye,’ a thick voice said, a little harshly. ‘Sandilands is leal to his word, and a chiel namely for justice. Ye have the Order’s permission to cry out.’

Sir James Sandilands of Calder, Grand Prior in Scotland of the
Order of Knights Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem, flung his black robe around him and sat down. ‘I have heard an indictment,’ he said, glaring at d’Oisel and nowhere near Graham Malett. ‘Whether Mr Crawford can substantiate it or not, I canna say. But I propose he speak out.’

‘An indictment?’ The French King’s general in Scotland was totally at sea. ‘Against whom?’

‘Against Sir Graham Reid Malett,’ said Lymond gently, and placed both hands on the bright brass rail at his back. ‘Look around you, Sir Graham. There are all your accusers.’

And there, Jerott saw, one by one, their friends were filtering in, dusty from hard riding, come by prearranged plan to the one place where they would be safe. Fergie Hoddim of the Laigh slipped in, waved, and sat down. Beside him was the broad person of Guthrie and beyond them, Nicolas de Nicolay, the French cosmographer. He saw Archie, and the black face of Salablanca, and Cuddie Hob’s knotted grin, and wondered by what bribery or trick they had induced the watch to let them all in.

Beside him, Gabriel said, ‘
Indictment!
’ in bewildered distress, and flinging into a stall the plumed helmet he had carried from the church door, he walked forward, the altar candies molten gold on his hair. He looked up into Francis Crawford’s face and said, ‘I beg you. Innocent people have suffered enough. Drag no more names in the mud to rescue your own. Let us go in peace; and take your courage instead, and seek your own salvation like a man.’

‘It is beyond the testimony of angels,’ quoted Lymond, gazing into Gabriel’s shining, troubled blue eyes. ‘It is beyond the word of recording saints. It is a matter, if I have not already made it clear, of hard proof. You are, sir, a traitor, a murderer and a foresworn monk of your Order; and there is nothing I should like better, at this moment, than to hear you try to deny it.’

For a long moment, Sir Graham Malett sustained that direct gaze. Then he turned away, and finding d’Oisel near him, addressed him quietly. ‘The young man is losing his mind. I have known it for some time. I have spoken to the Queen Dowager about this tragic contingency; and she has been kind enough to trust my discretion. Allow me to carry him with me now. I myself will stand surety for his behaviour, and with Holy Church’s help, will give him the nursing he needs.’

‘M. d’Oisel.…’ Jerott Blyth, his hand on his sword, moved forward into his self-appointed place again, at Gabriel’s side. ‘Witnesses present just now can substantiate all Mr Crawford has to say, and will swear also as to his sanity. In fairness, Sir Graham should allow him to speak.’

‘I am only concerned,’ said Malett wearily, ‘with sparing the
emotions of all those whom our friend has so peremptorily involved. Of course I have no objection. I should like, however, to show just how much weight you may place on this accusation by stating my own discoveries about Mr Crawford.’

‘Sisters, I knew him far away by the redness of his heart under his silver skin. State your discoveries,’ said Lymond. ‘And like a crone on a creepie-stool, I shall sit here and marvel.’ And dropping lightly to the steps he waited, hugging his knees.

Perhaps because of Jerott Blyth, Gabriel began his indictment, in a rich, deep voice that carried to every corner of the great church, with Lymond’s actions in Malta. With a detachment shaken only now and then, when his hands clenched and the white cross on his breast rose and fell with his breathing, Graham Malett told again the story of the Turkish attack, only picking out the constant of Lymond’s treachery.

‘The Order should vanish from the face of the earth.… Do you remember saying that?’ asked Gabriel of Lymond where he sat, his hands lightly clasped at his knees. ‘You came to Malta straight from the French King, with orders to that effect. From the start, the Turks were your allies.… Do you recall, Jerott, his attempt to join the Turkish attack at Gozo? Who do you suppose arranged the seduction of that foolish man de Césel, Gozo’s Governor, by Francis’s own former mistress? Who did his best, at Mdina, to escape over the wall to the Turks to warn them to ignore the false message coming from Sicily … and would have done so, too, had I not been privileged to stop him. How did Nicholas Upton die? How was Francis on such close and friendly terms with a well-known pirate?