Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [173]
Gabriel stopped and steadied himself and smiled, a long, rueful smile, at his leader. ‘You gave me limited sanction to succour the countryside where needed. I have more than exceeded my sanction. But, Francis, I am not God. People are dying. I could not choose between soul and soul. While I could offer life, I had to give it to everyone.…’
His skin was raw with the cold. The melting snow continued to run sadly down his every garment; a two-days’ beard, like gold thread, glistened under his skin. He said painfully, ‘I have sacrificed your trust, and put your army’s well-being second to others. You have my heart’s apology. Now you also have my resignation.’ And releasing suddenly his supporting grip, Gabriel reeled and, stumbling, slipped to the ground.
Above the sharp voices of the men gathered anxiously to raise him, ‘Don’t despair,’ said Lymond pleasantly. ‘I feel there is pleasure and profit to be had out of this little exchange yet. Don’t take him away. Put him in the chair by the fire. He’ll recover, I’m sure, with a little heat and the universal plaudits of all.’
In the inimical silence that followed, Alec Guthrie’s grating voice said, ‘I don’t know your reasons for this, but the man is genuinely exhausted. His state is not assumed.’
Randy Bell who had been bending over Gabriel, now lying back in his chair, grunted and rose. ‘He needs to be in bed, or he’ll have trouble. You won’t mind, I’m sure.’
Lymond’s voice cut him exceedingly short. ‘I do. He has trouble now. If he found my sanction inadequate, he should have consulted me. If I wasn’t available, he should have consulted a council of his fellows. And, if he saw that either the cottagers or ourselves were to to be destitute, he should at least have attempted to obtain other supplies. With money, it is possible. Not all parts of the country have been so badly affected. It is one thing being a martyr,’ said Lymond crisply, his eyes on Gabriel’s pallid, closed face. ‘It is another thing being a fool of a martyr.’
Across the white face passed a shadowy smile; a moment later, the sick man opened heavy blue eyes. ‘I try not to be either,’ he said. ‘I came to tell you that I have the Queen Dowager’s promise to send us any fuel we need. We have only to ask.’
Lymond flung back his head and laughed: a cold amusement that struck a wincing recoil from Gabriel and a growl of suspicion from Jerott Blyth. ‘A tuppenny creel of peats for our independence?’ said Lymond. ‘You rate us low.’
‘You overvalue yourself,’ answered Gabriel, struggling suddenly upright, ‘if you put your independence higher than the living crofters of Yarrow.’
‘The lines of reasoning are getting a little blocked, are they not, by the excess of Saint-Esprit? I have no quarrel with your errand of mercy, but there is at least one other source of supply you might have tried with no strings attached. If you had approached Wat Scott at Branxholm, the fuel would have been here by now. He has plenty, and three thousand cousins who can supply him with more. Mr Bell can go and ask for it. He could do with some cold in his blood. Sir Graham, your resignation is refused.’
There was a sickening silence.
If Graham Malett left, as everyone was very aware, all the knights and a good many others would go with him. A good many others, but not perhaps all, for Lymond had used all his skill this past winter deliberately to bind his men to him, while Gabriel had been a great deal away. Neither leader, it seemed to Jerott, would be left with a workable force, and all the painful, invigorating, brilliant work of the winter would be undone.
Jerott Blyth wanted to be under Gabriel’s leadership, not Lymond’s. But he was also a professional fighting man, and he knew it would cost him something to walk out of