The Game of Kings (10 page)

For the news from the east was pitiful. The army, ill-assorted and suspicious of itself, had crowned tactical blunder with panic: breaking up on the field, it had given way and had been hunted into extinction. While, forty miles to the north, the Court had found temporary refuge at Stirling, the English Protector, moving victorious toward Edinburgh, had put his horse into empty Leith, camped outside, and embarked on leisurely discussions about its fortification while English ships, sailing unchecked up the east coast, took and garrisoned the island of St. Colme’s Inch, strategic gem in the midst of the Forth estuary north of Edinburgh.

And at any moment, they might hear of the approach from the southwest of Lord Wharton and the Earl of Lennox, and their English soldiers.

The day at Boghall wore on. The strain was bearing on them all: Christian began to feel herself drained of comfort and vitality. In midafternoon, she made time to visit the deserted wing, aware of increasing irritation with the situation. Baulked meantime of his hopes of ransom, Sym might well have tired, she thought, of acting nurse-maid-cum-jailer, and think there would be less danger and more fun if he brought Hugh into the affair. In accepting four years of Sym’s unshakable loyalty, she had discovered his weaknesses. Thinking thus, she made for the private stair.

A clash of swords above her drove the blood from her heart. She stopped, and was rewarded with a crack of gasping laughter. “Man, it’s not shinty! Use yourself neatly: see, to the left; forward;
then
up and through.”

There was a further clatter as pupil evidently followed suit. She swept to the stairhead.

“You pair of fools: they can hear your swords in Biggar. Sym. Is this the way you look after a sick man? And you, whoever-you-are!
You’re taking our care of you very lightly.” Ignoring excuse and apology, she dispatched Sym to keep guard at the top of the stair, and seized the other man by the arm. “You deserve to hop like St. Vitus: turning fencing master with the fever hardly off you. Sit down at the stair bottom. Your head—”

“—Would serve a cat in a bowl eight days,” he said, with another gasping laugh, and set about controlling his breath.

The doorway in the turret looked onto her private garden. Overlooked by the deserted wing and surrounded by an eight-foot wall it was silent and secret. The sun was warm; the peace absolute.

Beguiled from her duty she rested too, shoulders held by the wall, face upturned to the sun. Nothing moved but great rumours of perfume swelling and fading, sforzando and diminuendo; an orchestration of woodwind in the warm air.

Silence, broken by three golden notes of a lute: her own, she remembered, left on the bottom step. She said, “If you play, please go on. Music’s my joy and my obsession.”

“What shall it be?” He ruffled the strings, and made a false start. Then a spray of notes flew into the air, modulating in descending arpeggios. He suddenly sang, neatly and gaily,

He paused, and evidently accepting her smile, continued. Tentatively, Christian joined him next time:

They sang the last chorus together, melody and descant, and when he stopped she said trumphantly, “Sang School! I knew it!”

Plucking crotchets like raindrops, he responded. “Am I a schoolmaster, think you?”

“Or a monk?”—innocently.

Laughter intensified in the voice. “When clerics sing like little
birds?—No, surely not …” and he swept tempestuously into a song made immortal by its far from clerical sentiments; and from there to an estampie she did not recognize.

His playing was restrained and skilled. Drifting from this to that composer, he discoursed gently about musical theory and philosophy; and she found herself stating her own views, asking questions, listening intently. With humble and rather touching delight, she entered into her own world; the world of sound, and was happy until Conscience put a hand on her shoulder. She said suddenly, “Who is Jonathan Crouch?”

“Who?” he said lazily. “Oh, Jonathan Crouch. He’s an Englishman, at present pris—”

The hiatus, the inhalation, the shaken voice, were plain for her to hear. “You use drastic methods, don’t you?” he said.

Christian replied quickly. “Memory’s a strange thing, taken unawares. Sym told me you spoke the name in your sleep.”

“Did I? Then it must have some personal importance, I suppose … but what? I’m sorry. It’s vanished. Try again.”

“Then it probably isn’t your own name?”

His laugh sounded genuine enough. “God forbid! Surely I’d know it if I heard it?”

“It might strike you suddenly. Or maybe you’d rather select one? O Dermyne, O Donnall, O Dochardy droch …”

“No,” he said. “Look, we could go on forever. I think I prefer being an old, nameless article to a new-minted one with a false label around my neck. Or, indeed, anything of a ropelike character. Leave me to spend my remaining wit on Jonathan Crouch, and in the meantime let there be dancing and singing and all manner of joy …”

The lute sang, irresistibly, and so did he.

The break was as violent as if death itself had struck. The four strings gasped, once, under clenched fingers, and there was silence.

Alone with the hammering of her heart, with infinite patience, Christian waited.

“Memory’s a strange thing.” What aspect of the bold, ill-fated frog had opened the gates? Frogs—and wells. What lay at the bottom of a well? Cats; and kelpies; and curses; and cures for warts … and Truth, of course.

As if the thought had reached him, there was a movement beside her. The light insouciant voice showed no inclination to dive into wells.

“—Tweedle, tweedle, twino. I have a confession to make. The first rule of prison life is to curry favour with your jailer. This I have done with some success: Sym tells me he has no desire either to hang or to impoverish me. On the contrary: this afternoon he showed me how to escape with the key of the postern and over a secret path in the bog. I promised not to use it without your permission.”

Christian said, “I see. You seem to have been working very hard. And what is the rule when there are two jailers?”

He was silent for a moment; then said, “Look: swear me God from top to toe in one breath if you will; but remember, I exposed myself voluntarily.”

“All right,” she said. “Provided you have a clear idea of the situation. I take it you’ve recovered your senses, and your identity is not one that would be pleasing to Hugh. You are likewise unwilling to be a source of profit or revenge to Simon or myself. You are therefore asking us both, in view of past favours, to connive at your escape.”

If she had expected him to betray any further emotion, she was disappointed. “Admirably just, and justly damning,” said the voice equably. “Well, the remedy is in your own hands.” And he quoted mockingly:

There followed a pause, during which Christian came to the annoyed conclusion that she had once more been outmanoeuvred. Possessing the key, he had flung himself on her mercy. Why? It occurred to her that when referring to the enslavement of Sym, he had refrained with the utmost tact from drawing a parallel. He had left her to do that. To betray him now would suggest the vindictiveness of a disappointed woman, and she might well, in his opinion, shrink from that.

“Amid come prima, indeed!” repeated Christian viciously to herself, and added aloud, “I assure you that if you’ve persuaded Sym out of his dream of wealth through sheer weight of personality, I’m unlikely to insist on furca and fossa out of spite or low curiosity. But what I must and will have clear is that once free, you’ll do us no harm.”

“I could give you my word on that, except that, like the wonders of Mandeville, my probity is problematical.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” admitted Christian. “Therefore while accepting your promise—of course—I must make one other condition. Tell me your interest in Jonathan Crouch.”

“God!” he said; and this time she heard genuine amusement. “Next time I’ll make straight for Hugh. Rather the thumbscrews than the confessional. But I warn you, it’s a poor bargain. You won’t trace me through Crouch.”

“I’ll risk that,” she said, and then had further words struck from her by a sudden, vast commotion, echoing among the towers. At the same moment, a familiar voice rolled down the stair. “Good news, Christian! Are you there? Can I come down? Christian!”

She said, “It’s Tom Erskine—Outside the postern, quick. Where’s Sym … oh, there you are. Yes, I know: he’s told me. Look: go with him, take him to the cave and come back … it’s a small cavern halfway along the path; well hidden. You can stay there till dark. I’ll get a cloak and some food over to you later.”

“My sword—”

“I’ll send it. Here’s the postern key. Quick!”

She turned, as their running footsteps receded. “Tom, my dear! Wait and I’ll come up!”

Christian Stewart lifted her skirts and began climbing the stairs thoughtfully. “Damm the man!” said she, as she went; and it was not at all clear which man she meant.

*  *  *

With Erskine were all his troops; tired, filthy and in the wildest of spirits. Biggar opened its doors to them: Bizzyberry echoed with laughter and music and at the castle, officers and garrison, suitably freshened up, shared a happy excess of food and drink in the banqueting hall.

Sitting beside Tom, smelling the white soap he used and picturing
him, clean, rosy and normal, Christian was moved to say, “Tom, I’m so glad you’re here!”

He said apologetically, “I’d have been here long before if I could. You look tired to death. Idiotic of Jenny Fleming to leave you.”

She smiled. “It’s only my capacity for intelligent sympathy that’s exhausted—I’m longing for simple, positive, cheerful conversation. Tell me more of your news.”

For it was not only good, but miraculous. Lords Wharton and Lennox, dug deep into Annandale, had turned tail; and pursued by himself and Lord Culter had scampered back to England. There was a garrison still at Castlemilk—no very great danger—but the deadly thrust north had been stopped: the western arm of the nutcracker had broken.

“Why?”

“Overconfidence, we think. They spread a rumour they meant to march north, and got a shock when Culter assumed the opposite and charged in. Made a mess of poor old Annan, but nothing to what Clydesdale missed, thank God. Although I don’t mind saying,” he added frankly, “that Culter took a chance I wouldn’t have touched with a billhook.”

“But it worked,” said Christian. “And now?”

“Report to the Queen Mother. Dispatch rider ahead, of course, with details but I follow tomorrow. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I think I shall, yes,” said Christian. “If there’s no threat to the castle they can dispense with me here. And I ought to take those children off Lady Fleming’s hands. Is there a moon tonight?”

“No: It’s got overcast,” said Tom, surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Sym wanted some night fishing. And I must finish packing as well,” said Christian, with the appearance of absolute truth.

*  *  *

The path through the bog was not easy to find. Even steered firmly by Sym, her booted feet kept gouging into wet sponges and clucking, half-dug hags. Her gown was soaked and her spirits still damper when she heard a murmur ahead.

Sym, a joyful conspirator, whispered. “There’s someone else with him in the cave, my lady.”

Christian said, “Be quiet!” but the low voices stopped, and there
was a stealthy sound to their right. She pushed Sym a little, and he stepped forward, rising surprisingly to the occasion with a bold voice. “Stay where you are! We bring food from Boghall, but we’re armed, too.”

“Doubly armed, I trust,” said the voice of their former prisoner. “My faith, yes. Food, my sword and dagger—Sym, you’re a hero.… Good God!” it said plaintively. “Good God! Lady Christian. The most determined creature since Bruce. I owe you some information, don’t I?”

“You do. How do you feel after your walk?”

“In good heart and excellent health. Happier than Augustus, better than Trajan. And one of my own senators, to boot, has already traced me and is about to restore me to my empire. It’s the new moon. Like the elephants of Mauretania, my friends are foregathering to perform mysterious rites … Jonathan Crouch is an Englishman I want to speak to, that’s all. I know nothing about him, except that he’s a prisoner in Scotland, but I mean to trace him, if it takes me to Hell and back.”

“It needn’t do that,” said Christian. “Because I can do it for you, through Tom. He has access to all the lists at Stirling, and he’ll be discreet, if I ask him. Come to this cave on Tuesday, and I’ll leave word for you.”

The voice this time was brief. “Thank you, Shahrazad, but I think not.”

She spoke bluntly. “Crouch will be ransomed back to England long before you can find him yourself.”

“Nevertheless, no.”

Meeting the rock of his will, she had no mind to plead. “Well, whether you want it or not, the information will be there,” said Christian. “Ignore it if you want to. Good night.” And pulling Sym’s coat, she moved.

She was stopped at three paces by long, wiry fingers and a gust of garlic. Then: “God damn you, Johnnie, let her go!” said the expressive, flexible voice, and the hands dropped. She moved on quickly, without waiting for more.

Halfway back to Boghall, Simon spoke. “Who’s Shahrazad?”

“A farsighted lady who kept the Shah on a leading rein by telling him stories.”