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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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blade with fingers that shook.
Wharton removed his hand. He said quietly, “I remember this scum. There is no need to play his game for him.” To Lymond he continued, “I understand you are bargaining with my son’s life. Naturally, it is worth a price to me, but don’t expect me to pay too much. What do you want?” Then, natural feeling breaking through for a moment, he said bluntly, “State your business, and get you gone. The very air you breathe makes me retch.”
“Courtesy,” said Lymond, “will get you nowhere.” He fitted his shoulders comfortably into the panelled wall. “I must say you appear to be taking your martial duties very lightly. Don’t you want to know what the Protector’s dispatch said? I read it, you know, before sending it on. There’s been another stupendous victory at Linlithgow, and the Protector thinks you should meet him in Stirling right away to talk it over. Doesn’t that excite you? Scotland conquered at last! Duke Wharton on the Privy Council; King Matthew on the throne!”
Lennox had to know. His eyes searched Lymond’s face; he said, almost against his own will, “A victory on the Stirling road … is that true?”
Lymond stared back. “Why not, your Majesty? The Scottish Queen’s sickly; the English King’s a bastard—or so the Catholics say, don’t they, Matthew?—Arran’s an idiot and his son a fool … lo! my lords, a crown!”
Half mesmerized, four pairs of eyes watched as swiftly he leaned to the fire, seized the hearth tongs and stepped back. High above his head, gripped in the metal, flamed his own helmet, red-hot from the blazing peats, bits of burning stuff falling smoking to the floor.
“A crown!” said Lymond exaltedly. “Who will wear it? Harry, perhaps?”
This was leading the field with a vengeance. The rigor which seized them lasted less than thirty seconds. Then Lennox said, loudly and rather wildly, “The man’s mad!” and Wharton, his face rigid, reseated himself at the desk. “Money?”
“Of course!”
“In the chest.” Wharton indicated a small coffer against one wall. “Get it.”
All the men in the small room, wounded, bound and free, waited, in a tension which knit them together, as five leather bags were placed on the desk, and taken away by Scott.
The Master opened one of them. “O beautiful bagchecks. Bonnets bellissimi; ecus; ryals—Dear me, the assured ones of Dumfriesshire are going to be much the poorer for this. Wrap ’em up, my Pyrrha!”
He ripped off Harry’s cloak and flung it to Scott, who made a rough bundle of the gold, and laid his hand on the door.
“And so,” said Lymond gravely, “we see the final end of our travail. Farewell, my masters!”
But the final paraph, the flourish which in time Scott was to recognize as habitual, was still to come. As he moved from Harry, and both Wharton and Lennox started forward, Lymond let drop his arm. The helmet, dull now with black heat, fell accurately on young Wharton’s brow, and the boy, his eyes staring, gave, behind the gag, an unpleasant choked scream.
“That will perhaps remind you,” said Lymond, “not to speak to strange gentlemen in dark streets”—and in the ensuing confusion, transported himself and Scott outside the door and locked it.
Scott stumbled down the dark stairs with his bundle. He was aware of a noisy conversation going on at the bottom between Lymond and the guards, of riding gently back down the pend, fighting to keep his spurs still, and recalling with a short prayer of gratitude the thickness of that parlour door. The gate. A sharp passage, with the edge on Lymond’s voice, and the sullen and abashed look on the faces of the gatemen. The creak as the timbers were drawn, miraculously, to let them through.
Outside, in the cool, flickering darkness, the free night lay waiting, and swallowed them.
* * *
It seemed to Scott, riotously crossing the moors with Lymond, that he had done pretty well. He had prevented the
Wharton removed his hand. He said quietly, “I remember this scum. There is no need to play his game for him.” To Lymond he continued, “I understand you are bargaining with my son’s life. Naturally, it is worth a price to me, but don’t expect me to pay too much. What do you want?” Then, natural feeling breaking through for a moment, he said bluntly, “State your business, and get you gone. The very air you breathe makes me retch.”
“Courtesy,” said Lymond, “will get you nowhere.” He fitted his shoulders comfortably into the panelled wall. “I must say you appear to be taking your martial duties very lightly. Don’t you want to know what the Protector’s dispatch said? I read it, you know, before sending it on. There’s been another stupendous victory at Linlithgow, and the Protector thinks you should meet him in Stirling right away to talk it over. Doesn’t that excite you? Scotland conquered at last! Duke Wharton on the Privy Council; King Matthew on the throne!”
Lennox had to know. His eyes searched Lymond’s face; he said, almost against his own will, “A victory on the Stirling road … is that true?”
Lymond stared back. “Why not, your Majesty? The Scottish Queen’s sickly; the English King’s a bastard—or so the Catholics say, don’t they, Matthew?—Arran’s an idiot and his son a fool … lo! my lords, a crown!”
Half mesmerized, four pairs of eyes watched as swiftly he leaned to the fire, seized the hearth tongs and stepped back. High above his head, gripped in the metal, flamed his own helmet, red-hot from the blazing peats, bits of burning stuff falling smoking to the floor.
“A crown!” said Lymond exaltedly. “Who will wear it? Harry, perhaps?”
This was leading the field with a vengeance. The rigor which seized them lasted less than thirty seconds. Then Lennox said, loudly and rather wildly, “The man’s mad!” and Wharton, his face rigid, reseated himself at the desk. “Money?”
“Of course!”
“In the chest.” Wharton indicated a small coffer against one wall. “Get it.”
All the men in the small room, wounded, bound and free, waited, in a tension which knit them together, as five leather bags were placed on the desk, and taken away by Scott.
The Master opened one of them. “O beautiful bagchecks. Bonnets bellissimi; ecus; ryals—Dear me, the assured ones of Dumfriesshire are going to be much the poorer for this. Wrap ’em up, my Pyrrha!”
He ripped off Harry’s cloak and flung it to Scott, who made a rough bundle of the gold, and laid his hand on the door.
“And so,” said Lymond gravely, “we see the final end of our travail. Farewell, my masters!”
But the final paraph, the flourish which in time Scott was to recognize as habitual, was still to come. As he moved from Harry, and both Wharton and Lennox started forward, Lymond let drop his arm. The helmet, dull now with black heat, fell accurately on young Wharton’s brow, and the boy, his eyes staring, gave, behind the gag, an unpleasant choked scream.
“That will perhaps remind you,” said Lymond, “not to speak to strange gentlemen in dark streets”—and in the ensuing confusion, transported himself and Scott outside the door and locked it.
Scott stumbled down the dark stairs with his bundle. He was aware of a noisy conversation going on at the bottom between Lymond and the guards, of riding gently back down the pend, fighting to keep his spurs still, and recalling with a short prayer of gratitude the thickness of that parlour door. The gate. A sharp passage, with the edge on Lymond’s voice, and the sullen and abashed look on the faces of the gatemen. The creak as the timbers were drawn, miraculously, to let them through.
Outside, in the cool, flickering darkness, the free night lay waiting, and swallowed them.
* * *
It seemed to Scott, riotously crossing the moors with Lymond, that he had done pretty well. He had prevented the
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