Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [170]
In theory, that is. In practice, whenever Gabriel was at St Mary’s, the knights met for Mass, and for the gentler exercises of their vows; and their fellow sufferers, from conviction or curiosity, quite often came too.
Lymond was not told, but neither would Gabriel allow the serenity of the meeting to become the occasion for backbiting about their high-handed commander. Any unfortunate critic of Lymond, on the contrary, was liable to have a lecture from Graham Malett, an unaccustomed sharpness in his magnificent voice, until the complainant closed his ears in despair.
Gabriel himself had patience without end. Sophisticated Plummer the architect, hovering on the edge of the Faith, could expose, red-faced and drawling, his most secret dismays, and be treated levelly and with punctilio, as he craved. Randy Bell, afraid to confess the meetings in the byre that followed many a humane sick-visit round St Mary’s, found there was no need: that Gabriel knew, and was tolerant. Hercules Tait, a collector first, a traveller and ambassador’s secretary second, found a quiet listener to his catalogue of treasures, and unexpectedly, from Gabriel’s worn baggage, was given an ikon from some Turkish hoard to add to it. And Adam Blacklock, hovering by the chapel door when his marred leg hurt, was found at length and made, in Gabriel’s room, to take a drink.
Recoiling from the raw spirit, coughing, the artist had said, ‘No, Sir Graham … I know it would help, but I’ve no head for it. Mr Crawford simply sends Abernethy to rub it, when the leg gets as bad as this.…’
But already the aqua-vitæ was glowing in his stomach, and he couldn’t keep the appeal from his voice. Without speaking, Gabriel had poured out and handed him the rest of the drink, and had kept the lame man beside him until the effects had worn off that night, fibbing cheerfully when Lymond sent for him later. In the morning, seeing him off, Gabriel had said quietly, ‘You are right. Spirit is risky. But there must be other drugs that would help. Come to me tonight, and any time that it’s bad, and we shall see if Randy Bell and I can’t find you something better than Abernethy’s horny hands, skilful and hardworking though they are.’
Only Fergie Hoddim’s love of legal analyses sometimes drove Malett to mock despair, and Fergie would wait for Lymond who would say instantly, before he could speak, ‘I don’t want the detail. I want the broad argument and the answer,’ and force him to produce just that.
Alec Guthrie strained nobody’s patience. With everyone in turn—sometimes with Gabriel, sometimes with Lymond—he would produce his premise, and sit back and wait for the argument. Then, with the subject closed to his satisfaction, he would pack up whatever impressions his acute eyes had been gathering, and slip off. After the first occasion, he attended no services but if Blacklock was sketching he could often be found, in silence, watching the chalk.
Jerott Blyth indeed fell over them when, storming indoors after seeing Joleta off on the day of her visit, he found the artist cross-legged in the hall, finishing the sketch he had made during her long watt for Lymond. Jerott was in a temper, and made no secret of it. When he paused for sheer absence of breath, Alec Guthrie, nearby on a stool, broke prosaically in.
‘She’s not quite royalty, Jerott. She came without warning, and it was her misfortune that her brother was away and Lymond primed down to belabouring mercenaries and not to being polite. What the devil did she have to make such a fuss about apologizing for, anyway?’
Jerott, striding up and down kicking, did not reply.