Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [237]
Under Gabriel’s pure, fine-grained skin a trace of colour had risen. He said in his deep voice, ‘All these things are fallible.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Lymond. Outside in the yard they could hear the movement of feet and fresh voices which meant that Robert Beaton had come. ‘But are the channels of Holy Church immune to error? Her priests, her offices, her very tenets are subject to doubt. Her interpreters are only human, and most souls, however aspiring, follow the human instrument, not the belief.… If men’s faith in Gabriel were shaken,’ said Francis Crawford blandly, smiling a little, ‘would men follow an abstract faith into battle so readily?’
There was a little pause. Then Gabriel said, strain showing for the first time in the beautiful voice, ‘Francis.… Of course the humble open their hearts to the simulacrum, to the identity they know of and understand. It is for them that the Saints listen, and Our Lady; for them the greatest leader of all time, who will never fail them: Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
The voices had reached outside the door. Lymond glanced at Adam Blacklock and strolling forward, lifted a hand to the latch. ‘Well?’ said Graham Malett. He had risen.
‘Who is more important to Jerott Blyth?’ Lymond said smoothly. ‘You or Christ?’ And ignoring Gabriel’s wordless, wretched appeal, opened the door.
Grizel Beaton had met Lymond once since her husband was killed. Buccleuch, raging, had blamed Francis Crawford for his death, but Janet her sister had said roundly that Wat Scott had been leaping to conclusions as usual; horns blowing like a fuller’s shop and both feet bang in the midden.
She was inclined to believe Janet. It had been a grand marriage, but in a prosaic way, taught by experience, she had not looked for it to go on for ever. Men had a chancy time of it, and Scotts more than most. She had her children. There were maybe two things she regretted. She had just about got him into her way of doing things and there it was, all to waste. And he had been an uncommonly dear lad.
So she gave her hand firmly enough to Francis Crawford, and greeted Adam Blacklock while her brother, at her back, was making himself known. And only then, looking further into the ròom, did she see the tall, diffident figure of the knight who had become her welcome visitor at Kincurd, and who three months before had ridden, wounded himself, to bring her the news of Will’s death.
‘Graham!’ said Grizel Beaton, her definite voice diminished, even in simple surprise. And going forward, red in her face, she lifted her cheek to be kissed.
Women! thought Adam Blacklock disgustedly, and wondered if Lymond had noticed. ‘Man is a being of varied, manifold and inconstant nature. And woman, by God, is a match for him.’
Shortly after that, when Beaton and his sister had gone, taking Lymond with them, Adam Blacklock left in his turn to accompany Gabriel to his lodging nearby.
Graham Malett looked tired. Nothing had been said, by Blacklock or by Gabriel himself, about that queer ten minutes back in the inn when he and Lymond had crossed metaphysical swords; but the light which had gone then from Malett’s calm face had never returned. And although he attended Adam with every courtesy and installed him in his comfortable chamber with care, it was not long before the Knight Grand Cross excused himself gently and Adam, passing a moment later, saw him through the open door of his room, his shoulders bent, his face hidden, kneeling in silence before the old altar he had dragged over half Europe with his chests.
*
At eight o’clock the following morning, Francis Crawford was summoned to the Presence Chamber of Mary of Guise, Dowager of Scotland. And whether he wished then for