Read Online The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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watching the assault, lips compressed, saw the decision he did not want to make striding toward him.
He waited unmoving as time passed. Erskine had not yet had time to join him; dawn was still a long way off. To the south, a dull red haze challenged. He watched it mechanically, then chopped a hand on the torchbearer’s shoulder. “Lights out!”
In the sudden darkness, a lookout confirmed what he had seen. “Body of troops coming up from the south, sir!” It was Erskine, of course. He gave orders quickly. Going through the motions fordefence, the same certainty lay reassuringly on the men. It was Erskine, of course.
It was not Erskine. The horses were at the edge of the wood, and the leaves shivering before they knew it; and then a growing, sphincteral circle of sound told them they were surrounded by a force much bigger. In ten minutes it was over. Pulsing inward, the incomers squeezed the Scots in a knot below the scarred trees, and held them there.
By the relit torches, the vanquished, on foot, stared at the mounted ring of their victors. The horsemen wore no emblems, and no banners were shown: the conspicuous red cross of England on the white background was nowhere to be seen. Lord Culter, weaponless and fine-drawn, stepped forward and addressed them. “Who is your leader?”
No one offered the civility of a reply. Instead, a bald, black-bearded giant who had been fidgeting about the radius of the circle, suddenly bent from his horse. “So there ye are, ye hell-tarnished gomerel!”
Forgotten in the bracken, the bound figure of Bannister stirred hopefully.
“It’s a wae job keeping some folk out of trouble,” remarked the big man with some sourness. “We told ye the right road, didn’t we?”
Charlie Bannister, tried nearly beyond mortal man’s endurance, released a heartbreaking groan. Bending over his mare’s neck, the big man flicked off the ropes with his sword edge.
“On your plat feet, ye glaikit Mercury. There’s a horse here ye can have, and a guide to take ye as far as Annan. I suppose you handed your papers to the bold laddies here?”
Bannister got shakily to his feet. “I tore them up. How was I to know you directed me right?”
The big man invoked his Maker, spoiling the effect with an alarming hiccough. “What else would we need to do to prove it: wrap you and your dispatch in a clean sark and lay you on his lordship’s bed?”—with heavy sarcasm. “Get off with you, man, before we get glutted with the fair sight o’ you.”
“Wait!” said Lord Culter. He defeated his own purpose. Bannister instantly discovered the use of his legs and, helped impolitely with the flat of the big man’s sword, went stumbling through the bushes. Culter’s instinctive move to follow was checked by the same sword.
Blackbeard grinned and swept him a bow. “My lord Culter. Goode’en to you,” he said ceremonially. “Now, gif you’ll excuse us …”
“I doubt there’s a decent man in Scotland will do that,” said Culter. Was it possible that they were to escape with their lives? “Scots in English pay, I take it?”
“Maybe.” The big man was not forthcoming. More, he seemed miraculously to regard his business as complete. Having collected their weapons and cut loose Culter’s horses, he bowed again and took rein.
At that precise moment, the dark rustling spaces behind him expelled more horsemen.
“But how magnificent!” said Lord Culter’s younger brother, and rode forward with unrestrained cordiality. “Look, children: it’s Richard!”
Watching curiously, Scott and all the others saw Lord Culter’s face alter. Then he took a step backward, to narrow the angle between himself and the horseman, and spoke with deliberate and soul-hacking contempt. “This rabble is yours?”
“Not rabble, Richard.” The blue gaze sorrowed. “There’s no merit in being outwitted by a rabble. Don’t let your sense of superiority get the better of you. After all, I’m on the horse,
He waited unmoving as time passed. Erskine had not yet had time to join him; dawn was still a long way off. To the south, a dull red haze challenged. He watched it mechanically, then chopped a hand on the torchbearer’s shoulder. “Lights out!”
In the sudden darkness, a lookout confirmed what he had seen. “Body of troops coming up from the south, sir!” It was Erskine, of course. He gave orders quickly. Going through the motions fordefence, the same certainty lay reassuringly on the men. It was Erskine, of course.
It was not Erskine. The horses were at the edge of the wood, and the leaves shivering before they knew it; and then a growing, sphincteral circle of sound told them they were surrounded by a force much bigger. In ten minutes it was over. Pulsing inward, the incomers squeezed the Scots in a knot below the scarred trees, and held them there.
By the relit torches, the vanquished, on foot, stared at the mounted ring of their victors. The horsemen wore no emblems, and no banners were shown: the conspicuous red cross of England on the white background was nowhere to be seen. Lord Culter, weaponless and fine-drawn, stepped forward and addressed them. “Who is your leader?”
No one offered the civility of a reply. Instead, a bald, black-bearded giant who had been fidgeting about the radius of the circle, suddenly bent from his horse. “So there ye are, ye hell-tarnished gomerel!”
Forgotten in the bracken, the bound figure of Bannister stirred hopefully.
“It’s a wae job keeping some folk out of trouble,” remarked the big man with some sourness. “We told ye the right road, didn’t we?”
Charlie Bannister, tried nearly beyond mortal man’s endurance, released a heartbreaking groan. Bending over his mare’s neck, the big man flicked off the ropes with his sword edge.
“On your plat feet, ye glaikit Mercury. There’s a horse here ye can have, and a guide to take ye as far as Annan. I suppose you handed your papers to the bold laddies here?”
Bannister got shakily to his feet. “I tore them up. How was I to know you directed me right?”
The big man invoked his Maker, spoiling the effect with an alarming hiccough. “What else would we need to do to prove it: wrap you and your dispatch in a clean sark and lay you on his lordship’s bed?”—with heavy sarcasm. “Get off with you, man, before we get glutted with the fair sight o’ you.”
“Wait!” said Lord Culter. He defeated his own purpose. Bannister instantly discovered the use of his legs and, helped impolitely with the flat of the big man’s sword, went stumbling through the bushes. Culter’s instinctive move to follow was checked by the same sword.
Blackbeard grinned and swept him a bow. “My lord Culter. Goode’en to you,” he said ceremonially. “Now, gif you’ll excuse us …”
“I doubt there’s a decent man in Scotland will do that,” said Culter. Was it possible that they were to escape with their lives? “Scots in English pay, I take it?”
“Maybe.” The big man was not forthcoming. More, he seemed miraculously to regard his business as complete. Having collected their weapons and cut loose Culter’s horses, he bowed again and took rein.
At that precise moment, the dark rustling spaces behind him expelled more horsemen.
“But how magnificent!” said Lord Culter’s younger brother, and rode forward with unrestrained cordiality. “Look, children: it’s Richard!”
Watching curiously, Scott and all the others saw Lord Culter’s face alter. Then he took a step backward, to narrow the angle between himself and the horseman, and spoke with deliberate and soul-hacking contempt. “This rabble is yours?”
“Not rabble, Richard.” The blue gaze sorrowed. “There’s no merit in being outwitted by a rabble. Don’t let your sense of superiority get the better of you. After all, I’m on the horse,
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