Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [222]
‘But,’ said Lymond, and chanted with gentle derision:
The King of Spain is a foul paynim
And ’lieveth on Mahound;
And pity it were that fayre ladye
Should marry a heathen hound?
‘I have no reservations,’ said Gabriel. He stood, his arms hung rejected at his sides, his back a little bent, automatically, to reduce his splendid height. ‘With God’s help, I have faith enough for all of us.’ He paused, looking directly at Richard, the fine skin seamed faintly with tiredness. ‘Won’t you exert your faith also and take him back? Won’t you let me help you, at least?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lord Culter, his voice like pressed ice. ‘I cannot accept. If you want to know why, ask my brother.’
‘Explanations,’ said Lymond firmly, ‘are a mistake. I am perfectly happy. Si non caste, tamen caute. From me the seed; from Thee the blessing that fertilizes. Grant it, grant it, O Lord!’
No one spoke. Beside him, Jerott heard the hiss of Adam Black-lock’s intaken breath. Gabriel, looking at the speaker, wore for a moment an expression of mild and puzzled distaste. But it was on Lymond’s brother that Jerott’s gaze was fixed. Physical revulsion was printed on Lord Culter’s face: the stamp of an antipathy so coarse and so sudden that he wanted to vomit. Instead, after a moment, Richard Crawford spun on his heel and, lifting himself into the saddle, forced his horse without a word away from them and into the press of his men.
Gabriel’s grave tender gaze followed him, and then returned to Lymond’s carefree stare. ‘Forgive me. I have made you angry,’ he said. ‘And that in turn has only made matters worse.’
‘Yes, it has, hasn’t it?’ said Lymond. ‘But then meddling interlopers always do. Do you do this for a hobby, or are you writing a book?’
Gabriel’s voice remained steady. ‘I have apologized. I am as foolish as you would have me look. But I only wished from my heart to help.’
‘I,’ said Lymond coolly, ‘am a philocalist of independent means. I help myself. If you can tear yourself away from my family’s affairs, I fancy there is a little work to be done.… Interested, Blacklock?’
Beside Jerott Blyth, and already as far from the centre of the dispute as the crowd would allow, Adam Blacklock flushed scarlet but said hardily, ‘I have a m-message for Sir Graham. The French Ambassador is here, and would like Sir Graham’s company back to Edinburgh.’
‘Here? At Hadden Stank?’ Lymond’s eyes flickered over the crowd and returned, suddenly inscrutable, to the artist. ‘Then he must be incognito. There is no banner. Are you sure?’
But Blacklock knew, as they all did, the tall, bony person of M. d’Oisel, the French King’s Lieutenant in Scotland and Mary of Guise’s right-hand man, who might well take the occasion, on his way back from the French Court, to slip into a March meeting and make observations thereon. ‘It was M. d’Oisel,’ he said.
Gabriel’s voice was gentle. ‘I saw him, I think. But I could not be sure; you will remember keeping me at your side most of the day.… He is a civilized man. He would enjoy Buccleuch’s little joke with the Kerrs.’ He hesitated. ‘I need not leave with him unless you wish. I have come to know him rather well while pursuing Sandilands’s affairs in Council, that is all.’
‘What, disobey the French Ambassador!’ said Lymond. ‘Let us not tempt Fate with heresies. Go. Go by all means, and let thy mouth be filled with explanations, in French and English, of Buccleuch’s little joke with the Kerrs.’
He did not join M. d’Oisel when that gentleman, with his two attendants, left the ranks of the crowds to pay his respects to the Wardens, and finally to ride off to rejoin the waiting train of his men, Gabriel at his side. More than anything that had so far happened, it underlined Sir Graham Malett’s status and prestige.
The most powerful man in Scotland had not asked to meet Lymond. And if, as an afterthought, he had summoned him, Lymond would not have been there. For, no sooner had Gabriel left than Francis Crawford, without explanation, had handed over his command to Jerott