The Game of Kings (56 page)

He agreed with her amiably, returning to his playing. Watching him, Kate found herself thinking of something Gideon had said after his short stay at Crawfordmuir. “It isn’t all done with words either; he makes damned sure of that. He can outshoot them and outfight them and outplay them: he’s got a co-ordination that a hunting tiger would give its hind legs for.”

She drew a little breath and Lymond looked up. After a moment he observed, still playing, “Versatility is one of the few human traits which are universally intolerable. You may be good at Greek and good at painting and be popular. You may be good at Greek and good at sport, and be wildly popular. But try all three and you’re a mountebank. Nothing arouses suspicion quicker than genuine, all-round proficiency.”

Kate thought. “It needs an extra gift for human relationships, of course; but that can be developed. It’s got to be, because stultified talent is surely the ultimate crime against mankind. Tell your paragons to develop it: with all those gifts it’s only right they should have one hurdle to cross.”

“But that kind of thing needs co-operation from the other side,” said Lymond pleasantly. “No. Like Paris, they have three choices.”
And he struck a gently derisive chord between each. “To be accomplished but ingratiating. To be accomplished but resented. Or to hide behind the more outré of their pursuits and be considered erratic but harmless.”

“As you did,” said Kate shrewdly. “Committing the ultimate crime.”

“No,” said Francis Crawford, watching his own fingers slipping down the keys. “Man’s ultimate crimes are always against his brother. Mine, in my competence, my versatility and my self-important, self-imposed embargoes, was against my sister.… For God’s sake,” said Lymond, “don’t speak.”

In the sudden silence she did as he wished, sitting still in her low chair. Then he swore aloud and she looked up, heartened by these expressions of honest rage.

Standing by the window, Lymond regarded her crookedly. “Your fault,” he said. “These were some of the things you wanted to know, weren’t they? And as soon as the pressure was lifted, I started talking about them.… I don’t as a rule inflict my more tawdry reminiscences on people, you must believe me. I’m sorry. It’s one of the penalties of being incommunicado for five years, but I can usually control it better than that.”

She stood up also. “You think a lot of your self-possession, don’t you?”

“I did, when I had any. One can’t, obviously, control other people unless—”

“And you want to control other people?”

He grinned. “I take your point. I have none now to control. But all the same—”

“You would want it in normal life. Are you ever,” said Kate, driven by her own feelings into asking one of the dangerous questions, “are you ever likely to
have
a normal life?”

Lymond grinned again, slightly, walking to the door. “That depends on Samuel Harvey. There is, of course, another thing. I might be able to gull the law. But as soon as I appear in public, my brother is likely to get himself hanged for killing me.… We’re devils for complications on our side of the Border.”

Kate accompanied him to the door. She said bluntly, “How much more of it can you stand?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, answering what he took to be her anxiety. “If it’s going to happen, it won’t happen here.”

*  *  *

Gideon arrived next day, and had Crawford brought to the parlour, where he was standing with Kate. After greeting his prisoner he said without preamble, “The man Harvey is in Haddington; he’s seriously wounded and it’s possible he won’t survive. I came here to tell you.”

“Oh,” said Lymond. After a moment he added, “Then that appears to dispose of my problem.”

Gideon had had a talk with his wife. He said abruptly, “I can’t help you to get into Haddington.”

“I know that, of course.”

“But,” said Gideon, “if you think there is any possibility of doing so yourself and coming out alive, I’m willing to lend you a horse to try.”

There was a pause. Lymond drew a steady breath. “I see you mean it,” he said. “I shan’t sicken you with protestations of gratitude. But it means a great deal.”

“I know. What will you do?” asked Gideon.

“Go to George Douglas,” said Lymond slowly. “I can influence him a little, I think … And try and get Harvey out. Or if that fails, to get in myself.”

“But—” said Kate involuntarily, and Lymond’s eyes moved quickly to hers.

“There really is no other choice,” he said, and she was silent.

Gideon had opened the door. “Come then,” he said. “I came as fast as I could, but there’s no saying how long he’ll live. You’ll need all the speed you can make. Quickly. Kate—”

She was already through the door. “I’ll collect what he needs.”

In a very short time he was mounted, and they watched him canter down the avenue, turning with raised hand at the gates. “The fools!” Gideon said. “Those damned fools at Edinburgh! What a waste of a man.”

And they turned and went about their business while Gideon’s stallion, stretched flat with extended rein and curbless mouth, printed with sharp cloisonné the baked green sides of the hills and glens leading to Scotland.

*  *  *

While Lymond was in Northumberland, Will Scott was scouring the Lowlands for him. He stayed in the vicinity of Wark Castle until he was sure the Master was no longer near the original rendezvous. He visited the farmyard where he had first joined the troop, and the lairs he had learned to know since.

Only twice did he come across any of the men he had fought with for nine months. The Long Cleg, horse-coping placidly with a string of broken-winded hacks, waved a friendly arm and asked mildly if it was right that he and the Master had had a fight over the money and he’d broken Lymond’s head for him. Scott muttered something and got away as soon as possible. The other encounter took the form of a narrowly averted arrow which met him at one of the biggins where they used to keep fodder. He never found out who it was: he didn’t want to know.

Fourteen days after his uncomfortable meeting with Sybilla at Threave, Scott returned to Branxholm empty-handed and full of misgivings, and Lord Culter, calling that day on Buccleuch, found him there, alone in the hall.

“Will Scott!”

The boy looked up. The square, powerful figure, the direct grey eyes, the flat hair, were like phantasmagoria from the bolting, glittering winter: a wood on the way to Annan, and Lymond’s voice saying, “Richard! A challenge!”

He got up slowly, and was unprepared for Richard’s hand chopping masterfully and painfully on his shoulder. “You damned puppy:
where is he?”

He reacted as he had been taught: with one smooth violent movement he was out of the other’s grasp and viewing him from a useful distance. “I didn’t come home to be handled,” said Will Scott pleasantly. “My father is outside, I believe.”

“You’ve learned manners to fit your morals, I see. Have you brought your master with you or not?”

“What, again?” said Scott insolently. “I’ve already brought him to Threave at the beginning of the month—did nobody tell you? How often am I supposed to repeat the service?”

Lord Culter wouldn’t show excitement again. “I’ve already asked you. Where is he?”

Scott shrugged. “Who knows? Linlithgow? London? Midculter? He escaped.”

“From
Threave!”
said Richard.

“Aye, from Threave,” blared a new voice. Buccleuch, sweating, came into the room in his shirt sleeves, sneezed in the cooler air, and bawled for something to drink. “Lifted the latch and walked out. You’d think the damned place was a sieve. Ye see Will’s back?” said Sir Wat unnecessarily. “It was Will got your lassie away from Lymond, you know.”

“A Herculean task, I feel sure,” said Lord Culter. It struck Sir Wat too late that it was no use trying to ingratiate with his lordship any man who had witnessed his wife and his brother together. He dropped the attempt and said, “You’ve come for me? Sit down; sit down. I’m ready packit. I’ve got to take this damned fool anyway to Edinburgh to get a formal pardon for him. What’s happening?”

The answer was brief. “We’re to muster on Monday to attack the English garrison at Haddington.”

Sir Wat put down his beer, and the seamed skin about his eyes puckered alarmingly. “Wait a minute. Have the French promised to attack?”

“On the obvious conditions. You’ll hear them tomorrow. They want the main forts, of course—Dunbar, Edinburgh, Stirling. They have Dumbarton already.”

“By kind permission of her French Majesty. Uh-huh. Well, they might get Dunbar, but I’m damned if I’d let them sniff the threshold of the other two. What else do they want?”

“What they’ve always wanted,” said Lord Culter. “But I think that’s a matter for discussion elsewhere.”

So absorbed was Buccleuch in his calculations that he missed the implication. His son didn’t. Rising, Will said flatly, “Naturally. Any associate of Lymond’s is suspect. I’ll go.”

The door banged, as Buccleuch rounded on his neighbour with a bellow. “There was no need for that! Dod, are ye wandered! It was the laddie who led us to capture Lymond in the first place!”

Richard’s expression did not vary. “I’m not trying to offend you, Wat. But this is one secret nobody dare take risks with. There’s a good chance the country is going to agree to France’s main stipulation, which is—”

“—To send the young Queen to France.”

“Yes. To be brought up at the French court, and to be married in due course as her mother and the French King decide. If we and Parliament agree. Otherwise the French fleet lifts anchor and sails back home without a fight.”

He studied the wayward eyebrows, the falcate nose and the stubborn chin. “Would you agree, Wat? Which side are you for?”

Buccleuch, slapping a hand on the table, heaved himself up. “The same as yourself: what’s the alternative? The Protector’s black face bobbing up the Canongate and France in a huff and making dainty wee steps in the direction of the Emperor? No. We’re stuck like a toggle in a bite, and we’ve got to put up with it.… Are ye in lodgings in town?”

“I’ve taken a house,” said Richard. “In the High Street.”

“And Sybilla?” demanded Sir Wat, with a brilliant lack of tact.

“I’ve no idea what my mother’s movements are,” said Richard. “I haven’t seen her for some time.”

“She’s got your wife back at Midculter,” offered Buccleuch, and pursed his cracked lips so that the whiskers leaped. He said, “Have ye ever thought that your brother might be driving a wedge deliberately between you and your family? Because if so, he’s finding you easy meat.”

“I must ask him when I find him,” said Lord Culter.

“Dod,” said Buccleuch caustically, “I’m glad to hear he’ll survive long enough to listen to ye.”

“Oh … he’ll survive,” said Richard. “For a long time, after he’s caught. I’m in no hurry. None at all.”

“Poor devil,” said Buccleuch perfunctorily, and finished his beer.

*  *  *

Next day, behind closed doors in Edinburgh, it was agreed that the young Queen Mary should be sent to France as soon and as secretly as possible.

The plan was both simple and brilliant. In eight days’ time, four galleys would lift anchor in the Forth and sail not south, but around the north coast of Scotland, stopping at Dumbarton on the west, where the Queen would embark. So, while Lord Grey and the English fleet rubbed and fretted at an empty mousehole, the galleys of France would be sailing safely home.

The meeting broke up quietly. Lord Culter, leaving Holyrood with Buccleuch, crossed first to Tom Erskine and, making a rare gesture, put a hand on his shoulder. “Any news yet about Christian?”

Tom’s eyes flickered from Culter to Buccleuch and back. “She’s at Berwick,” he said slowly.

“Safe? Dod, you’re a lucky man,” said Sir Wat bracingly. “It’ll drain your purse to buy her, maybe, but at least ye’ll have her back before ye get that meagre that ye slip down the town stank.”

There was no answering smile. Erskine said wearily, “We’ve just had a message from Lord Grey. They won’t ransom her. They want an exchange.”

“What?” barked Buccleuch. “An exchange? Who? Who? We haven’t taken any captives that matter since they came north.”

“They think we have,” said Erskine dryly. “They want Lymond.”

*  *  *

Sir George Douglas’s lodging was in the Lawnmarket. He walked back there from Holyrood in a pleased frame of mind. In his treasury was a large sum of French money which was the price D’Essé had paid for his and Angus’s continuing interest. In his purse was a safe-conduct allowing a messenger to pass freely to England, in order to convey to the Earl of Lennox and to his niece, the Countess, his anguished request for the kindly treatment and quick return of his younger son. He swung into his house, and found there waiting the Master of Culter.

Lymond was very tired. It was clear in his face, and in the steel undisguised through the velvet of his voice. He wanted Samuel Harvey. He made it perfectly understood that it was a matter of blackmail, and that he had no services but only silence to sell in return.

The Douglas brain moved smoothly behind the statesman’s brow. Sir George walked to a cupboard, and as he had done once before, poured two glasses of wine and moved one across. “You look as if you’ve ridden a long way, and to no purpose. I’m afraid neither you nor I nor anyone else will have the privilege of speaking to Samuel Harvey in this world, Mr. Crawford. Harvey is dead.”

The other man did not touch his drink; but neither did his precious control fail him. After a pause, Lymond raised his glass in a steady hand. “Can you prove it?” he asked.

It so happened that Douglas could, and the proof was convincing because, rare among Sir George’s fantasies, the story was true. At the end, when the last servant had left and the man had come to light the tapers, Sir George addressed the Master’s cogitating back. “What will you do?”

Lymond replied without emotion. “Eat, sleep and spend money, I expect. What else does anyone do?”

There was a little silence. Then Douglas, tilting his glass so that the wine caught the light, said gently, “You know Grey is bartering the Stewart girl’s life for yours?”