Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [215]
‘Aye,’ said Sir Wat helpfully. ‘Ye’ll no have been at Midculter recently, maybe. The lassie came home in a right state the other day. Fell off her pony. She said.’ Gabriel, wounded, had ridden twenty-one miles the other day to comfort Janet’s sister Grizel. In principle, Buccleuch approved of Sir Graham. What stuck in his craw, now and always, was that St Mary’s had failed to save Will.
Adam Blacklock, who could interpret as well as anyone the old man’s tangled emotions, opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Gabriel said quietly, ‘If my sister says so, then of course it is true. I have been to Midculter, as it happens. She won’t go, even to Boghall, without a proper escort again.’
‘But she didna.…’ began Buccleuch and paused, as Blacklock laid a hand on his arm. ‘I think they’re due to start again, sir.’
‘Are they?’ Sir Wat craned round, his saddle creaking. ‘No, they’re not. There’s Francis Crawford talking to Wharton, and Culter keeping himself to himself on the ither side o’ the field. That reminds me. She didna.…’
‘Wat!’ said his wife Janet, emerging briskly from the tent into which she had been pushed, fuming, at the start of the break.
‘I was just going to mention,’ said Sir Wat, giving up, aggrieved, some part of his design, ‘that I hadna seen the two Crawfords speak this morning. Culter must still be showing that ill-spawned young jangler the door.’
Anything to do with Lymond, Jerott knew and Blacklock now noted, would always draw Gabriel’s full attention. He said now, still quietly, ‘I’m not sure what you mean. Is there trouble between Francis and his brother?’
‘Wat!’ said the voice of female doom over Buccleuch’s shoulder.
He ignored it. ‘Oh, aye. They’ve quarrelled!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Culter’s flung his brother out o’ Midculter, and Sybilla’s fair chawsed. Did Joleta not mention it? Biggar’s exhausted with guesswork.… Ah, ye were right, Adam. There’s the signal. Ye should have a word with your young friend about it, Sir Graham. A man of God such as yourself, brought up to entertain and nourish love, peace and unity and with a heidful of texts forbye should find no hardship in it.’ And heaving himself up, Buccleuch nodded and offered an iron arm to his crimson-faced wife.
Graham Malett’s fresh-skinned face, smooth as a sea-worn rock, smooth as an imbecile’s, smooth as that of a man at complete spiritual ease with himself, reflected the shadow of trouble. But he smiled at the old man notwithstanding, and said, ‘Do you think so? Somehow I don’t think M. le Comte de Sevigny would agree with you.’ And as Buccleuch, peching mysteriously, moved off, Gabriel sighed, and catching the eyes of Jerott and Adam Blacklock, ruefully smiled. ‘I love my young friend, but this afternoon, I seem to be a little overwhelmed with his ineffable wake. Lancelot Plummer was having a stroke, nearly, when I found him, over some mild misdemeanour he and Tait had enjoyed at Liddel Keep, that all the Kerrs have been badgering him about today.’
The theft of Nixon’s Staurotheque, thought Jerott, but didn’t say so. Instead he remarked, ‘Had Lymond told the Kerrs about it?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely,’ said Gabriel. ‘But Plummer thought he had. And then Fergie Hoddim was annoyed because he had been accused, virtually, of showing off his knowledge of law—not without justice, believe me,’ said Gabriel, a shade of exasperation entering the rich voice. ‘But if that same young man would apply his intelligence to delegating his work just a little and sparing his own health, he would be able to control himself and us just a little more easily.… Alec!’ He turned, smiling, as Guthrie stumped up behind, ready for food. ‘I’m getting old. I’m delivering lectures on the obstinacy of the young.’
‘Criticizing the command, eh?’ said Alec Guthrie drily. ‘It’s an ancient pursuit. Flamboyance, intolerance, cruelty are all faults of the young, true enough; but not only of the young. You knew what you were doing when you placed yourself under him.’
With calm