Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [199]
‘But it is, of course, the property of Master Nixon, whom we shall in any case have to recompense for having allowed the destruction of his home. Since therefore you feel that the Church would be a more appreciative owner than Master Nixon,’ said Lymond, his voice always pleasant, ‘it only remains for you to recompense Master Nixon with the full value of the Staurotheque. If you and Hercules Tait will give me a bill on your bankers tomorrow, I shall delight in arranging it. And Plummer!’ said Francis Crawford gently as the architect, pink-cheeked, turned away. ‘Remember, theft is theft, whether committed by old man Turnbull or not.’
He saw them shuffle in time from his room, tired men all, not talking much, and watched Salablanca draw back the stools to their places and put away the board and place a light robe, without being asked, in front of the fire. The sunlight, dappled with shadow, shone in through his big window and fell on the bed, a plain one with white linen sheets, aired and turned back, and a cover of fine, soft blue wool. Lymond got up.
The big, soft-footed Moor, dropping what he was doing, came and stood beside him. ‘¿Quiere Vd comer? ¿Está servido un poquito, poquito …?’
‘No,’ said Lymond. He said in Spanish, ‘Let me offer you some excellent advice. Never issue reproofs under stress. You say too much. On the other hand’—he turned a blank gaze on the Moor—‘I believe the general discussion passed off well enough. I suppose it did. I have very little recollection of it, but I hope it did … ¿Cómo está el Señor Scott?’ he said abruptly.
‘That does not change,’ said the Moor quietly. ‘The Señor will sleep?’
‘I will see him first,’ said Lymond and leaving, walked through to the sick quarters.
Will Scott lay in the big room alone but for Randy Bell, sunk deep in a bedside chair, and Abernethy, cross-legged on the floor. Lymond said at once, ‘Bell, you’re exhausted man, and you can’t do anything. Go and get some sleep,’ and as the doctor, after only a token demur, moved slowly off, Lymond sat himself carefully in his place.
The young laird of Buccleuch had not far now to go. The carroty hair, the orange eyebrows, the sandy lashes, the white stubble of ferocious young beard were all the colour there was on the pillow, and the vigorous frame, reared by the old man at Branxholm to carry on his great name; trained to just deeds and informed by a simple and generous spirit, lay already as still as the Eildons.
But he was breathing yet. Abernethy, his scarred, nut-like face impassive, said, ‘It may take long enough. But he willna wake now.’
‘He might,’ said Lymond. Once Scott had loathed him as some of his captains did still. No, that was an exaggeration. These were clever, experienced men. They appreciated what St Mary’s was, and he had made them laugh, but they didn’t trust him yet as they trusted Gabriel, for example.… ‘The very devil’s officers,’ said Lymond aloud, and from the shock to his nerves realized how near sleep he had been. He got up and walked slowly up and down the sunlit room.
Scott had more than trusted him, in the end. He had freed Lymond four years ago from his outlawry. And he had been ready to share any adventure, on his wedding-day even. Of his fourth wife, old Buccleuch had nothing but toddlers. And Will’s sons were babies yet. But at least, of course, he had sons.…
Lymond stopped walking. There was a curious white haze in the room, and in his head an ululation, a singing of blood under pressure exactly like, he thought vaguely, a child’s bleak, coughing cry. But there were no infants at St Mary’s.
His sense of balance went quite suddenly then. He was conscious of the two violent blows, first on his shoulder and then on his knee, as his body struck the floor, and even that someone already there at his side had broken his fall. But after that, he knew nothing more.
*
Francis Crawford slept in his own bed until dusk. Put there by Salablanca and Archie, he was not conscious of it at the time,