Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [202]
Not surprisingly, in view of her experiences and what Lymond, in a wry letter to Kate, had described as his misrule both in wit, knowledge and manners, Philippa had not again attempted to travel to Midculter. The Nixons, generously recompensed and rehoused with ringing protest by the Kerrs and the Scotts as part of their fine, were back in Liddesdale, buying new ornaments in even poorer taste with the proceeds of the sale of the Staurotheque to Lancelot Plummer and Hercules Tait. The Turnbulls who survived were in the local almshouse, haggard over the only really nasty trick Fate had played on them: on recovering their blood money lovingly from the little hole hastily dug for it when all their menfolk were killed, they found every lying, smooth-edged bawbee was false.
Also, St Mary’s had been busy. Damage had been done both to the company’s conception of itself and to its reputation abroad. Giving them almost no time to recover, Lymond sought work, splitting them into details for smaller actions and using the whole force for larger, deferring for that reason the naval training which he had expected to start by now. Above all, he did not leave them himself again, nor did he delegate anything. The most striking change was there, for up to then, any one of his knights or his high-ranking officers might find himself in charge of an exercise or a raid, with specific and supreme responsibility. The effect was twofold. He drove them harder than they would ever have driven their fellow-seniors. And there was very little time in the twenty-four hours when he was not either in the saddle or at his desk.
He did not attend Will Scott’s funeral, although Sybilla went, silent and dry-eyed, with her older son. Joleta she would not allow to go, on account of her youth and the recent unfortunate shaking she had received when her horse fell on its way from Boghall. Lady Fleming and the whole of Boghall, aware that Joleta Malett hadn’t been near them for weeks, heard the explanation with barely-concealed interest; and Margaret Erskine, Jenny’s widowed daughter, took Richard Crawford aside at the church. She was blunt.
‘Lord Culter.… Since you brought her back, you presumably know where Joleta was, and how her horse fell. I ought to warn you that my mother apparently promised Joleta she would support the tale that she’d been to Boghall. Joleta hadn’t, of course. Everyone in Biggar knows it. I have no desire to know where she actually was, but you know Jenny. Joleta won’t explain the mystery, apparently, and my mother considers she hasn’t kept her part of the bargain. She’s furious, and very likely she’ll question you.’
Since the departure of the French King’s Lieutenant, M. d’Oisel, Lady Jenny had been deprived of the wherewithal to plot her own return to France. It would have pleased her, Margaret knew, to unearth a subterfuge of Joleta’s. Joleta was young. The secret was probably no more than some surprise she was arranging for her brother Sir Graham; she might not realize the speculation it had caused. But Lord Culter should.
Margaret Erskine then noticed that Richard Crawford was unusually pale, and further that this was due to extreme anger. With a callousness quite foreign to her experience of him, Lymond’s older brother said at once, ‘If she does, she’ll get no more for her prying than you will. Joleta’s whereabouts that night are my concern.’
There was only one person who could unnerve him like that. ‘Or yours and Lymond’s?’ said Margaret Erskine. ‘You needn’t explain. But you should think up a better story unless you want people to put two and two together. People will notice that he doesn’t come home any more.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Sybilla, arriving unexpectedly. With her white hair and white French mourning she looked very sweet and unreal, but for the dark circles under her eyes. ‘It would be bad enough having the grooms fight like rams over Joleta without Francis being drawn to her too. Although she would be