The Game of Kings (30 page)

But Pippa’s brown eyes shone, and she turned away from the window, plaits swinging. “I know where he is! Listen!” said the child, and opened the door.

Along the corridors of Flaw Valleys poured the notes of a harpsichord, played triumphantly and fast. Kate seized her daughter’s hand, and pranced along the passage. “Do you suppose sheep can play Morales? No? Then it’s Father with four hands,” she said, and flung open the music room door.

It was not Gideon. “Lord: the tame assassin!” said Kate, and popped Philippa outside the door.

“There are some rough men of mine in every passage out there,” said a cool voice from the harpsichord. “You will both be safer with me. Shut the door.”

Kate brought Philippa in and closed it.

“And sit down.”

Firmly tightening the belt of her oldest wrap, Kate took her daughter and sat. In her orderly brain, the situation was clear. This
was the man of whom Lord Grey had warned Gideon. It was her task to convince him that Gideon was not the man he was after, and without frightening Philippa. She longed to know if her husband was in the house.

Mrs. Somerville ran her tongue round her lips and spoke weakly.

“I hope you won’t find us tiresome, sitting here looking at you.”

He could certainly play. He continued to do so, paying not the slightest attention.

“I don’t suppose,” said Kate sociably, “you get much time for practice. Are you here for a long stay?”

“I am afraid,” said the cool voice, “you must have patience until your husband comes back. He’s been following me carefully: he won’t be long.”

“Following you … Did
you
steal the animals?” exclaimed Kate, surprised into an unpremeditated question.

“And brought them back.”

“Oh!” She hid her face. “These mighty marksmen of Lord Grey’s … Of course. And they opened the gates for you, thinking it was Gideon. Oh, shame on you. Is there no God who looks after
little
brains?”

Silence. So she was on her own, Kate thought, and instilled all the friendly helpfulness she could into her next question. “Excuse me, but are you the bad company young Mr. Scott has got into?”

In one gentle movement, the yellow-haired man lifted both hands from the keyboard, rested one on the instrument, and swivelled to face mother and daughter. Kate, her arm around Philippa, met wide eyes like a kitten’s; then he said without stress, “A humourist, I see. Why did you mention Scott’s name?”

“If you’re the person who’s in company with Buccleuch’s son, we have a letter for you,” said Kate. “But you’ll have to get it yourself, if you’ve got feet under there. I’m all against heroism in women.”

He found it without trouble as she directed, and then crossing to the door with the same, noiseless, lingering tread, held it open. “Your company enthralls me,” he said. “But I believe I can dispense with it. Get out, please.”

It meant he wanted to read the letter by himself, and probably see Gideon alone, which wasn’t at all what Kate intended. She got up slowly, taking Philippa’s hand. “We are adjudged suitable company for the rough men outside—” and broke off. “Oh,
Gideon!”

Gideon Somerville, marched along his own passage by strangers
and deposited outside the door of his own music room, gazed in a perplexed way at his wife and child, and then at the silent man who held the door open. His fresh skin lost colour, and a very real consternation came into his eyes. Then Kate propelled Philippa firmly back into the room, reseated herself, and addressed her husband as he walked slowly past the other and into the room.

“That’s right,” said Kate. “Behold the fruits of Willie Grey’s little scheme. He came in with the cattle, that also be fair beasts and well smelling. He’s got the letter.”

Back to the shut door, the intruder watched them, the unopened letter tapping against his leg. With characteristic hesitation, Gideon said, “You have put—put us all to a great deal of trouble for nothing, my friend. I was told to expect you, and to help you when you came. If you’ll read the letter, it will tell you I am not the man you want.”

The other man continued to study him. Then he walked slowly to the far end of the room and, turning by the desk where he could keep them all under view, he broke Sir George Douglas’s seal and read. When he had finished he smiled, the long lashes fluttering. “That proves nothing,” he said.

Kate could feel the weariness and anger in Gideon, but he kept his voice level. “Then ask me anything you want. I can assure you that till the ridiculous performance tonight I’ve had no enmity for you, and have never, to my knowledge, done you an injury. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Lymond.”

It was unknown to them. “Well, Mr. Lymond—”

“Lymond is a territorial name. My family name is Crawford.”

“Then, Mr. Crawford—” said Gideon patiently, and broke off, for the yellow-haired man was looking beyond him.

“Philippa!” said Lymond.

Crouched at Kate’s knee, the girl made no movement. Kate said, “This child needs her beauty sleep. Off you go, pet. If the gentleman wants to speak to you, he can catch you tomorrow with your eyes open.”

Lymond opened his hand, on which lay the key of the door. He said, “What the letter says and what you say are unsupported evidence. You claim you are not the man I want. All right. Let the girl prove it.”

Kate’s brown eyes were blazing. “My dear Mr. Crawford, you’re not thinking. This child’s been a Messalina from birth.”

The blue, feminine gaze moved to Gideon. “Send her here.”

“Not unless she wants to.” Gideon was quite unarmed.

Philippa got up, the plaits swaying and her short dressing gown dragged away from the white nightdress. She said, her lips trembling, “Don’t worry, Father: I won’t tell him anything.”

Her parents’ eyes met. Then Gideon said, with an effort, “It’s all right, chick. You can tell him anything he wants to know. He can’t hurt us.”

The child said again, “Don’t worry. He shan’t make me speak. Don’t worry.”

With one raging glance ahead, Kate slid to her knees, pulling the child’s head to her breast, her mouth in its hair. “Pippa. Pippa, we’re awful fools. What Father means is that truly nothing we have ever done can harm us, and Mr. Crawford has mixed us up with someone else. But you know what unstable-looking parents you have. He doesn’t believe us, but he says he’ll believe you. It’s not very flattering,” said Kate, looking at her daughter with bright eyes, “but you seem to be the one in the family with an honest sort of face, and your father and I must just be thankful for it. Go over to him, darling. I’ll be behind you. And just speak,” she said with an edge like a razor. “Just speak as you would to the dog.”

There were tears on the child’s cheeks, but she was not crying. She got up and walked down the room, stopping just out of Lymond’s reach. “I’m not a liar,” she said. “Ask anything you want to.”

Gideon jerked. “I can’t stand this—” and was gripped by Kate’s fingers. “No. Let her be. It’s the only safe way. Damn and blast Willie Grey,” said his wife passionately under her breath.

The ugly business began. The man Lymond, his back half turned, bent stiffly over the desk, his weight on both hands, seeking inspiration perhaps from the polished wood between them. He asked, “How old were you when you left London, Philippa?”

She thought, and replied steadily.

“Do you remember the oldest English princess? The Princess Mary? Did your father work for her? Do you remember when you lived at Hatfield? What time of year was that? Were you playing in the garden? Then when did you leave?”

She did not always remember: sometimes he led her to answer by deduction; sometimes Kate helped her a little, without actually prompting. At length, the questions seemed exhausted. There fell an odd little silence during which Kate thought, He has exquisite wrists and
hands. What an unspeakably foul thing to do to a child. Out of the mouths … What had she really told him? Enough to clear Gideon? Or worse, something damning … some childish error; a confusion of dates …

Rage boiling inside her, she said, “Well, Mr. Crawford. Are you satisfied, or would you like to try all over again with a divining rod?”

The fellow raised his head and turned to Gideon. “I am satisfied that you were not present at the time my unknown friend became adventurous with my reputation. Therefore the unknown friend must be Samuel Harvey. You might think there are easier ways of discovering that simple fact, but I assure you that if there were, I should have spared myself a long and unexciting evening.”

“I hope,” said Gideon shortly, “by that definition never to experience an eventful one. May we hope to be rid of you now?”

“Probably.” The roving gaze fell on Philippa’s white face: her brown eyes fixed on his looked out of bruised circles, as if the orbits had been minutely pummelled.

Lymond dropped to one knee. With the musician’s hands he transferred from his doublet to her night robe a pin with, in its centre, a spreading, flowerlike sapphire the colour of his eyes. The girl shuddered as he touched her, but bore it passively: when he drew away she looked down and touched the brooch, fumbling with the unfamiliar catch. Then, before anyone could stop her, the brooch was out, and on the floor, and being smashed, and smashed again by Philippa’s stout wooden heel. Then she ran.

Holding the child sobbing in her arms, Kate looked at Lymond with calm eyes. “And that,” she said, “settles, I think, any matter of insult by apology.”

For a moment he stood, the fair face quite still; then he walked softly to the door and opened it. “If it seems any recompense, your animals have performed in the night a feat of multiplication which I believe, genetically speaking, to be quite fabulous,” said Lymond. Good night.” And the door closed.

*  *  *

Collecting his men unmolested, the Master left Flaw Valleys, picked up Scott and the rest of his force and camped at daybreak in a sheltered and uninhabited valley where fires would be unnoticed, and where a stunted belt of firs gave dry fuel and protection.

During the ride there, Lymond made no secret of his mood. His eyes were savage and his voice, freezingly hostile, rang out again and again as the men riding silently with him came under the lash. The Lang Creg had suffered a passing fancy to go into the cattle business for himself. Pitilessly exposed, the whole tale was soon complete, and Lymond did what he rarely troubled to do: personally flayed the man, tied wrist and ankle to a tree, with his great riding whip.

Scott watched until the Cleg slumped bloody from his ropes, and turned away sick.

Then it was over, and they lay close-wrapped about the big open fires as a frosty dawn bleached the hilltops and the watch, turn and turn about, paced on the heights.

And now, when the longed-for sleep was on him, Scott could not rest. In a dark corner of the trees, remote from interfering light he lay and listened to the incessant whisper of Lymond’s footsteps. Then the familiar voice, directly above him, said, “Sit up. I want to speak to you.”

His face in shadow, Lymond leaned against the next tree and looked down on him. “You had a long talk with Johnnie Bullo today, didn’t you?” he said. “You adhere for three months, and now we are sundered. We are no longer articulated. We are no longer articulate. What did Bullo tell you?”

Scott had seen a man flogged that night, but he was in no mood for finesse. He said uncompromisingly, “We were discussing your aberration after your visit to Annan in August.”

“I see. And Johnnie told you—”

“How you arranged for a blind girl to save your life without giving away to her who you are. How you induced her to spy for you. How you arranged to meet her, secretly, after you shot your brother in Stirling.”

There was a pregnant pause. “I thought it was that,” observed the Master. “You object, do you?”

But Will was no longer an easy subject: a reflection of Lymond’s own irony gleamed in his eyes. “Why should I? You’ve made no secret of your habits.”

“And those very habits are feeding and clothing you, so why indeed?” The Master dropped neatly to the ground, and resting his back against the tree, looked up into the dark branches. “And yet you do object, my sullen one. In that fine, unreasoning, Pharos-like brain which works so hard at reflecting other people’s emotions, some minor
luminary is sitting intoning disticha: it’s damned unchivalrous to employ women agents; and infamous to employ them without their knowledge; and indecent to employ them when they are physically defective. And such an offender will never enter the Kingdom of Hawick. So here you are, complaining thus in black and white and grey, and armed with a moral code like an ogee.”

It was clear that Lymond was out for trouble. Scott said, “Does it matter?”

“That’s what Buridan’s Ass kept saying. It matters to this extent. If you are going to develop a pure and unspotted psyche you’ll need a freer air than this to develop it in. Did Bullo tell you the name of the girl?”

“Yes. Christian Stewart. I played with her when we were children,” replied Scott quietly. “I swore to do all you asked of me and I have. I haven’t changed. But I can’t match your tone over this episode, that’s all.”

“You’ll allow me pogrom and heresy, but not Christian Stewart. Why?”

Scott said crisply, “I don’t mind hitting anyone who has a reasonable chance of hitting back. The girl thought she was helping someone in need. Instead, she’s spying for a condemned man, which means that if she’s found out, she’ll hang.”

The Master’s manner continued to suggest that he thought he was having a companionable chat. Will said with sudden violence, “I’d cut off my right hand rather than do that to a girl.”

“No doubt you would,” said Lymond, twirling a dry sprig. “And sacrifice everyone else for your principles as usual. But bend that stern eye on the other side of the picture. We know the disadvantages to the lady: what price the advantages? Is she happier for my coming? Modesty is clearly out of place. She is, in the purest sense, ravished. Is her life more exciting, more filled with achievement, pride and natural enjoyment in a charming and docile member of the opposite sex? Yes. Finally—if she is found out, will she suffer shame and discomfort? She will not. She will be revered as the delicate subject of outrage, and the odium will fall on my always inaccessible head. Three formidable weights on my side of the scales. And I haven’t troubled to list the advantages to myself, which are enormous.”