Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [172]
It was then that Jerott turned on his heel and strode inside; and in due course Alec Guthrie showed him the uselessness at least of pursuing the matter with Lymond. Lymond himself did not again mention it, having already decided what course to pursue with the Chevalier Jerott Blyth. Only, in St Mary’s itself, during her brief and unfortunate stay, the child Joleta had perhaps made more friends than she knew.
Then the snows came back, and the burns ran in spate hissing and bubbling under rimed ice, and there was, said Wat Scott of Buccleuch —square as a Tartar in a beaver-lined cloak, with a private fog in his curly grey beard—a damned yowe staring eye to eye with him through a second-floor window when he put his feet on the carpet this morning.
*
It was Buccleuch whom Lymond relied on, or rather Will Scott his son, when the freeze-up went on, without precedent, into March, and their fuel began to run out. Organized by Gabriel, newly with them after long absence enforced by the snow and Lord St John, the stocks of peat and firewood in the big, tarred-canvas stores outside St Mary’s were freely drawn on to supply emergency fuel to the darkened farms and cottages around.
Lives were saved, but the heavy depletion, with no reserve for the future, left St Mary’s itself in hazard and, driving himself to the utmost, Gabriel had taken no time to find other supplies. Even Jerott Blyth, informed one wintry morning by Tosh, whom he still disliked, of the sudden major withdrawal of stocks, was unprepared for the dark emptiness of the sheds. Gabriel had left early and would not be back until late; Lymond was away until at least tomorrow. Jerott, without comment, rolled up his sleeves and with des Roches’s help worked out a temporary and drastic schedule of rations, while his spirit ached for Gabriel and his well-meaning alms.
It was an instance of the Hospitaller triumphing over the man of war for which it was impossible to blame Graham Malett. But out in every weather, using to the last trained ounce their skill and strength, two hundred and thirty men needed hot food and warmth when they came in from the bitter night; or they would go where they could get it. Despite the shallow coalition each had achieved, there was no doubt that on Lymond’s return, Mammon and the Christian code of the knights were due to collide.
Francis Crawford came back that evening, unexpectedly, striding soaked, vigorous, sardonically cheerful, out of the snowy night into a cold and virtually lightless house. In the middle of his own hall he stopped, divested himself slowly of the last of his riding clothes and handed them to Salablanca. The group of senior commanders hugging the feeble fire moved apart silently, and got up.
The uncomfortable blue eyes swept them. Without moving, Lymond said, ‘Jerott? When I left you last week, there was adequate fuel and lighting to last until summer.’
Jerott Blyth stood up, the smoky glow outlining his splendid black head, and said, without a glance at his fellows, ‘It was reported to me this morning that stocks were quite low. I have cut supplies until we have more. The details are on your desk, if you will come and look at them.’
‘You will show them to me in a moment, here. I want the gentleman you are protecting, whoever he is, to know all about it. Meanwhile, would anyone care to say why we now have no fuel?’
There was a heavy silence. Then, ‘Because of God’s holy charity,’ said Gabriel’s voice unexpectedly; and Graham Malett himself stood in the doorway, his blanched face seamed with tiredness and cold, and the melted ice from his clothes in a pool at his feet.
De Seurre leaped forward, one hand outstretched, but Gabriel shook his head at a proffered chair and spoke to Lymond, one hand gripping the door-curtain hard. ‘Do you know what is happening, out there in the countryside? The woman whose baby you protected the night of the horse-chase