Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [140]
At his side the dimly seen face did not alter. At length, ‘God, I suppose, sends a shrewd cow a short horn,’ said Lymond, and put his horse into a canter.
They were nearly at Midculter, although the rising ground hid the castle from view and only the sprinkle of cottage lights through the thinning October leaves told where the village lay. Archie Abernethy and the rest of Lymond’s men would be there by now, having left Trotty Luckup, as Lymond had commanded, in the care of the Crawfords’ own priest. Jerott became occupied with his own thoughts and jumped when out of the darkness Lymond’s hand, strong and hard, fastened on his. A moment later he was on his feet beside the other man on the road, the two horses hitched to the bushes behind them, and was walking silently towards the trampling and shouting now clearly audible from round the next bend, above which the voice of Lymond’s sergeant, Archie Abernethy, could be heard raised loud in complaint. There was a burst of laughter; and a moment later, Lymond and Jerott Blyth had caught up with their errant light horse.
It was a remarkable sight. They had mostly dismounted. The road, shiftily lit by the smoky cressets, was crammed with helmeted heads, all loud in debate but none advancing to the tree-enclosed causeway ahead, where the abused body of Trotty Luckup lay, a young man bent at her side.
The noise came largely from Archie Abernethy, veteran warrior and once chief Mahout to the King of France’s elephants, who stood alone in the centre of the road facing his men and arguing plaintively with an Italian pistol two feet long which was pointed unwaveringly at his stomach. The holder of the pistol was a girl no more than sixteen years old. The torchlight fell on rose-gilt hair falling sheer from her intent golden brow to the dropped velvet hood of her cloak, and her face, in its jewel-like purity, shocked the senses like music with cymbals. She looked furious.
The likeness, even from the hedges where Lymond and Jerott Blyth, unseen, stood, could not be missed. It was—it must be—Gabriel’s sister, Joleta.
A small, choked sound came unawares from Jerott Blyth’s throat. Lymond’s arm brought him up short. ‘Control yourself, Brother. A peach, I agree, but a dangerous peach. Let me deal with it first.’ And removing his hand, he melted into the night. Jerott took a step forward, and then a step backwards; and then stayed where he was, a handful of thorn in one fist. He was shaking a little, as one did when the cathedral doors opened and kneeling, one felt the bearers brush by in incense, and saw the still, loving smile of the saint.
His eyes were wet. And, God in heaven, his right hand was covered in blood. Pulling himself together, Jerott Blyth released the thornbush, jerked down his leather jacket, drew his sword, and took a professional step forward again.
The noise by this time was prodigious. As he listened to the ribaldry, Jerott soon understood. Riding from Midculter with her grooms, Gabriel’s amazing sister had found Trotty Luckup’s corpse in the hands of a group of armed strangers. That Joleta should blame them for Trotty’s murder was no doubt natural enough. While one servant rode back for help, she had neatly isolated poor Archie and the next moment had hauled a pistol out of her saddlebag.
Any one of the twenty men present could have overpowered her. Archie himself, come to that, could use one of a dozen old tricks. But added to the minuscule risk (the girl, after all, might shoot the thing) there was a reluctance to end some