The Game of Kings (23 page)

“A day remarkable, certainly, for a wholesale slaughter of the innocents,” he said. “I wonder how the parrot enjoyed its brief second of freedom. And the victim of the less schismatic shaft, how’s he?”

She told him, and he received it with a hint of mockery, adding: “Don’t, for your own sake, begin weaving fantasies of evil around me as well. I haven’t tried to kill anybody today, I give you my word.”

“Well, if you had, I think you probably would have succeeded,” said Christian. “Do you shoot?”

“Yes. Very well, as it happens: one of my vanities, you see. It’s handsome to watch, and satisfying to perform; it’s convivial and competitive and artistic and absorbing. Poets love it: they rush home to unpick all their quills and write odes with them.”

“Others don’t,” she said quickly. “Others kill.”

There was a little silence. Then he said, “And that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Violence?”

It was true, and she acknowledged it. “Except that it isn’t trained and purposeful violence that terrifies me: it’s the negligent, casual kind. All these people today … They were taking wagers, you know, on Culter’s chances of life. And violence of a nasty, inconsequent kind, tonight at the Fair. Or the kind that amuses itself by
stuffing women and children into a cave and smoking them to death. In slaughtering livestock and burning a harvest for fun. Or after Pinkie, when the army broke; and the Durham and York and Newcastle boys, and the landknechts and Italians and Spaniards sat on their beautiful horses and flew along the Leith sands, and the Holyrood road, and the Dalkeith road, hawking men with their swords like butterflies …

“Violence in nature is one thing,” said Christian, “but among civilized mankind, what excuse is there?”

His voice was cheerful. “Nothing more civilizing than a good crack of thunder. One hot unsettled summer and whole countrysides end up like St. James with their knees hard as camels.… No. I take your point. But what in God’s name had that poor, enthusiastic, politically imbecile troop of Englishmen last month got to do with civilization? And what’s going to stop them? Religion? With their music, their churches, their prayers, in a rag bag at home; His Most Christian Majesty of France egging on the Turks to scimitar the head off His Most Catholic Majesty King Charles; the Bishop of Rome seducing the Lutherans in Germany to secure his posterity …”

Christian said, “What kind of excuse would you make then for a private assassin?”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s get one thing clear. I’m not excusing anything. I’m no theologian, only a pedagogue in rhetoric, with whatever shreds of humanity the universities have left me with.”

“Well, as an apologist for human nature, then. What of private murder?”

“What of it? This afternoon’s, if you mean to particularize, was neither very private nor very successful, by all accounts. It shouldn’t be difficult to classify. Not high-spirited; not casual; an act of instructed force, like Somerset’s: a matter of policy, in fact.

“And brilliantly carried off—by the Old Man of the Mountains himself, obviously, the Sheikh-al-jebal, twanging his hemp instead of eating it. Motives: greed, hate, envy—I don’t know. Excuses: there don’t seem to be many. He might, of course, be a saintly old sheikh, whose doctrines Culter was denying; or a lascivious old sheikh, whose mistress Culter had alienated … except that Culter, Jerome bless his childlike head, is such a remarkably dull and blameless creature himself.”

“For a humanist,” she said, “you’re very scathing on the subject
of virtue. For one thing, you shouldn’t confuse stolidity and self-control.”

“You admire self-control?” he asked, and she took her chance. “I admire candour.”

He retorted instantly. “Oh, nothing better—in the right place. ‘It’s only right you should know’—I wonder how many that classic bêtise has driven to the river and the dagger and the pillow in a quiet corner. Truth’s nothing but falsehood with the edges sharpened up, and ill-tempered at that: no repair, no retraction, no possible going back once it’s out. If I told you I’d murdered my own sister you’d register appropriate feelings of hate and revulsion; and if you found later I hadn’t, I’d be sure of your interest and sympathy in twice the depth of your hate. Whereas, if you simply found proof positive that I
had
killed her …”

“… I might loathe you, but I’d respect your courage,” she said candidly. “Besides, that sort of truth wouldn’t hurt me, would it? It might affect you, but then you’d deserve it.”

She had surprised him into laughter. “Oh, God! Generously abstaining from the sword in order to macerate with a cudgel. Pax! Leave me some pride. Pretend at least that you wouldn’t collapse in a delirium of joy as I dance a vuelta on the widdy. In any case, I stick to my point. Not ninety-nine women out of a hundred really prefer that kind of honesty; and even if you are the hundredth, I’m the last to help you prove it to yourself. No. Si vis pingere, pinge sonum, as Echo rudely remarked. If you want a full study of me, then paint my voice. It’s all there is on display at present.”

“To be sure,” said Christian serenely. “And painting with breath is my stock-in-trade—you’d forgotten that, hadn’t you? I’m an architect in lexicography; I can build you a palace of adverbs and a hermitage of personal pronouns … and I can give you information about Crouch.”

For the first time, she felt him at a loss. She went on serenely. “Jonathan Crouch. The man you asked about. George Douglas sold him to Sir Andrew Hunter, who wanted to exchange him for a cousin, or something. Then Crouch escaped with someone—Hunter doesn’t know who, but he’s violently angry about it all, and swearing death to whoever released him.”

“I see—wait,” he said. “How do you know all this?”

“Because,” said Christian, rising, “he was overheard giving George Douglas two English names mentioned by Crouch, and he more or
less asked Douglas to help track them down in the hope they’d lead to the man who freed his prisoner. I thought you’d be interested … and now I must go. Oh!” She sat down again, smiling. “Hadn’t you better tell my fortune first?”

To her glee, he sounded taken aback. “Oh, Johnnie looks after all that, although under certain circumstances I tell him what to say. Do you really want it done?”

She laughed. “Not really. It’d be more to the point, I think, if I could read yours.”

“Yes. Well, you’d qualify for M. Rabelais’s next Almanac if you could do that,” he said dryly. “But if you’re anxious, I’ll tell you something that’ll satisfy our misdoubting Tom. Your loof, lady. I’m sorry, a bit closer. The only candle is guttering like a drunk man’s fancy. Now.”

Firmly, her wrist was taken, and the fingers spread out. “A fine, capable hand. Line of life—hullo! You appear to have died at the age of seven.”

“The embalmers are exceedingly skilful nowadays,” she said gravely.

“But I will say this.… You’ll get the most out of life, never fear; and meet the sort of man you want, that too; and get your heart’s desire, I think, in the end—if you believe the results of Johnnie’s teaching. But what are we, after all? Charlatans, faiseurs d’horoscope …”

She did not know quite what to say. “It sounds like an exemplary future?”

“If you bring your own candle next time, I might do better. Equipment rather limited, imagination in free supply. Are you leaving Stirling soon?”

“On Tuesday. If Lord Culter can travel. All the Crawfords and Agnes are going back to Midculter: I shall go with them, and then on to Boghall until Christmas.” She hesitated. “There’s still nothing I can do? We seem to waste all our meetings talking nonsense, and all the time I feel …”

“… The sands are running out? Well, if they are, it’s only from one end of a great silly pot to the other. Someone’ll come and stand us on our heads, and the sand’ll run back again—same sand—same span of time, all the grains saying excitedly to one another: Hullo! It’s you again! Met you in ’47 in a fortuneteller’s booth in Stirling!”

“I’m not sure,” said Christian carefully, “but I think that’s cheap theology.”

“Well it’s a poor apologue, I agree,” he said, “and a sorry kind of note to leave on. All right. Cancel the sand.

“No, dammit,” he said, dissatisfied. “Too fleshly a note altogether

“Goodbye!” she said, feeling behind her for the curtain.

“My measures are all mad. They prick, they prance, as princes that were woud … Goodbye,” he said, part-returning from sunny contemplation among the iambics. “There’s Johnnie coming now: he’ll see you out.” He clasped her hand briefly. “I may not see you for a while, but perhaps I shall write.”

“Write!”

“Yes. It’s all right. I mean that—I haven’t forgotten: wait and see,” he said rapidly. “Till then!”

There came a firm grasp on her elbow from behind, and Bullo led her to the outer tent. For half a dozen paces she could still hear his voice, soulfully declaiming, half to himself, she thought:

Johnnie Bullo, his eyes speculative, watched the party go from the doorway of the tent. Then he returned inside, lit another candle, and opened the inner flap.

The man inside, deftly booting one supple limb, looked up.

“Have they gone?” said Lymond. “Thank you, Johnnie. Your performance with the first two filled me with respect. For chastely
phrased double-entendres you have no master.” He adjusted his straps. “Three well-endowed kitties.”

“Well, two of them were well enough,” admitted the gypsy. “The wee one had a face like a pound of candles on a hot day.”

“The devil she has.” Lymond put one spurred foot on the floor and reached for the second boot. “The wee one, as you call her, has a face informed with beauty, wisdom and wit. In other words, my Johnnie, she’s thirteen, free and stinking rich.”

“Oh. Then you’ve had a good day of it, I suppose.”

“Then you suppose wrong,” said Lymond shortly. “I’ve had a damned carking afternoon. A Moslem would blame my Ifrit, a Buddhist explain the papingo was really my own great-grandmother, and a Christian, no doubt, call it the vengeance of the Lord. As a plain, inoffensive heathen, I call it bloody annoying.”

He stood up. “Where’s my cloak? Oh, there. I’m off, Johnnie. A small memento on the table.”

Bullo saw him to the doorway. “You’re off south tonight?”

“I am. There’s a gentleman I have to meet on the Carlisle road on Friday.” The Master glanced once, with calculation, around the tent; and then brushed past the gypsy. Without further leave-taking, he had gone.

“And not to the gentleman’s profit, either,” said Johnnie to himself with a grin, watching the nondescript figure merge into the dark crowd. The grin became wider, became a laugh, became a convulsion of secret mirth.

Johnnie Bullo, hugging himself, went back into the tent.

C
HAPTER
   I:
Smothered Mate

 II: 
Discovered Check

III: 
French Defence

L
ORD CULTER, gently examining the tapestries in the big hall at Branxholm, was talking in a soft and savourless voice which his host found peculiarly uncomfortable.

Branxholm, great throne of the Buccleuchs, lay twelve miles from the English border. The present house, less than twenty years old, was built from the crusts of the Branxholms which had already been fired, and fired again, by the enthusiasms of its neighbours. Branxholm was a bald edifice of vile architecture and no blandishments of moss or ivy. Inside, it was the tilting ground and battlefield of the Buccleuch young.

Babies bounced and abounded in the Scott household: babies with mouths round and adhesive as lampreys; babies like Pandean pipes, of diminishing size and resonant voice; babies rendering torture and catalysis among the animate, the inanimate and the comatose. The Buccleuchs themselves were totally immune. While their younglings fought, and nurses and tutors swooped and called like starlings, Sir Wat and Dame Janet pursued their own highly individual courses, and talked to each other about whatever came into their heads.

Today, a morose and pallid Friday in November, the subject was Lymond. In a childless oasis at one end of the big hall Sir Wat glowered uneasily in his big chair, feet in furred boots stuck out before him in the rushes, a woollen nightshirt peeping through the folds of his ample damask nightgown, and a variety of dogs heaped panting about his legs. Dame Janet, her gown napped with tufts and trails of wool, was spinning and swearing indiscriminately when the thread broke and when her husband roused her temper.

From the wall behind them both, his eyes still on the battered hangings, Lord Culter said, “I’ve already gathered you have no intention of helping me. I wondered if, perhaps, you meant actively to hinder me instead?”

Sir Wat irritably shoved from one knee a heavy jowl which confidingly and automatically replaced itself, chumbling. “Man, have I to go yap, yap all day with the same tale? I’ve told you. I’m sick.”

Dame Janet gave a bark of laughter. “Sick to the tune of two flounders, a pike, a cod, a quart of claret and a quince pie. Hah! You’ll do yourself a hurt, Wat; forcing the nourishment down at all costs, and you a sick man.”

Buccleuch snapped, justifiably riled, “It’s the English I’m supposed to be ailing for—or am I to live on sops in wine in case Grey of Wilton’s sitting up the kitchen lum? I’ve told you all till I’m tired. Grey wants me. I’ll have to promise something. I’ve asked the Queen and Arran to let me give the Protector some sort of lip service: until I have proper permission I’m ill, and I stay ill. Dod, Culter: have you seen what Seymour and his wee friends from the Lothians did to Cranston Riddell in September? And the Wharton brats and the Langholm garrison popping in and out like hen harriers—three weeks ago they were raiding Kirkcudbright and Lamington. It’ll be Branxholm next, and you’ll wish you’d listened to me when you’re frying like eggs on the saddle roof.”