Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [229]
‘But you did none of this,’ said Jerott. ‘In Malta, you stood aside and watched. Why?’
Lymond, reined in to move along the line, looked back. ‘Another time, Torquemada.’
A new voice said, ‘No. I should like to know too.’ And Adam Blacklock rode between them.
Speculatively, Lymond looked from Blacklock to Blyth. ‘I see. How much of that did you hear?’
‘All of it. Why didn’t you fight on Malta? I thought you did.’
‘I thought I did too. Jerott means, why didn’t I throw over Juan de Homedès single-handed. The answer is, Jerott, that I went as an observer for France. And on my own account I wished to see the workings of your faith.’
Jerott’s black brows were level. ‘Rubbish. Or why turn from it now? You know why Gabriel is really here. You know why he persists against all the bloody insolence and heartache to win you. Would you fight at his side, then, to recover Malta?’
Across Blacklock’s silent head, Lymond’s gaze was turned full on the importunate friend of his boyhood. ‘Did Malett direct you to ask that?’
‘No,’ said Jerott with anger. ‘He didn’t. I should still like an answer. Would you?’
‘When Gabriel asks me,’ said Lymond, ‘I shall tell him.’ He looked, to Blacklock’s eyes, suddenly tired, but Jerott, heedless, noticed nothing. He opened his mouth but Lymond, smiling a little, forestalled him.
‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that what will save Malta is a great and selfless leader, and a man of faith.’
The look of contempt which had crossed Jerott’s magnificent face did not alter. ‘You and Gabriel, side by side?’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, let’s keep our senses. Somewhere, no doubt, there is a great and selfless leader. But you are a mercenary.’
‘I didn’t think, somehow, that you approved of Gabriel’s plan,’ said Lymond, and smiled suddenly. ‘But I challenge your definition, all the same. A mercenary fights for a living, and for love of battle.’
‘Well?’ Jerott was not impressed. ‘You have, I suppose, other sources of easy money. But you love all this.’
He waved his arm. All about them, against the bright, sharp green of the bracken, the purpling sage of the heather, the brown roots and green mosses, twinkled the steel of armed men. All about them, above the trickle of stream and piping of curlew and trill of lark came the suck and pull of hooves in soft ground, the chink of sword and tinkle of bit and creak of leather, the jangle of harness and grumble of talking voices, with voices raised to call, to direct, to comment, to quip, criss-crossing the haugh. And all the time, as they rode, the brown faceless men up and down the valley watched where Lymond’s horse moved, with his two colleagues. A hand raised, one sign, and they would move to his will: to stop a battle or start one; to save lives or to kill. ‘You love all this!’ said Jerott.
‘Love it!’ said Lymond, and Adam Blacklock looked up sharply.
Recalled to himself, Francis Crawford smiled, a little wryly, and dropped his voice. ‘An overdose of applied conjecture. I’m sorry. The answer, Jerott, is that I don’t find this particularly enjoyable.’
Jerott’s gaze didn’t move. ‘What do you miss? Women?’
Lymond looked ahead. ‘The point you always seem to be making, Jerott, is that I don’t lack them enough. No, I don’t miss fair company. Look what I’ve got instead.’
‘Then what?’ Jerott pursued, ignoring utterly Blacklock’s silent advice to be quiet.
‘Jerott, for God’s sake! Are you doing this for a wager?’ said Lymond, his patience gone at last. ‘What does anyone want out of life? What kind of freak do you suppose I am? I miss books and good verse and decent talk. I miss women, to speak to, not to rape; and children, and men creating things instead of destroying them. And from the time I wake until the time I find I can’t go to sleep there is the void—the bloody void where there was no music today and none yesterday and no prospect of any tomorrow, or tomorrow, or next God-damned year.’
He stopped.