Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [242]
For a moment more, Lymond read on, saying nothing. Then, quickly, he pushed the pages into his doublet, checked his girths, swung into the saddle, and throwing a silver coin to the boy said, ‘Well done. Home tomorrow, when you’ve had a night’s rest. Leave the girls alone—they’ve sorrows enough. Adam!’
‘Yes?’ He had led out his horse, and was busy saddling her. Silently Salablanca, slipping from Lymond’s side, took the task from him and began methodically strapping on Adam’s bags, his own mule and the spare saddle-horse waiting patiently, while Blacklock crossed to where Lymond sat.
‘Trouble,’ said Lymond, confirming. ‘I’ve paid the reckoning for us both. Quietly through the town, and then ride for your life. For in this country be many white elephants without number, and of unicorns and of lions of many manners.’
‘White elephants such as what?’ said Blacklock, his voice insouciant, his hand suddenly unsteady.
‘Such as Jock Thompson, pirate,’ said Lymond. ‘And Jim Logan, of the same brethren, who ran the Irish customars out to the Magdalena, off the Head of Howth. And half the officers of St Mary’s, who might be in Dublin jail this moment accused of smuggling gunpowder to the Irish rebels, except that they sank the customs boat, burst up Logan’s ship, killed six of Logan’s best men, and sailed the Magdalena rejoicing back to Dumbarton with all Logan’s cargo, including his contraband.’
Adam Blacklock’s grey eyes were bright and steady on Lymond’s. ‘Sir Graham said that if there were any more incidents the Dowager had threatened to break you.’
‘Yes. Well. This isn’t an incident, it’s a cataclysm,’ said Lymond. ‘It’s more than that. It’s the end of a nightmare. One way or the other. Come, Adam. You must be in time to draw the death mask of St Mary’s.’
‘How long will it take the news to reach the palace?’ Adam asked. All three pacing soberly through the little town, spoke in murmurs.
‘If the garrison at Dumbarton get to hear of it … say another day only. If Thompson is discreet, and I think he will be, it will go from Dublin to London, and thence here. Two weeks, then. If the expeditionary force goes in September—a month from now say—the Queen Dowager has two further weeks in which to—what’s the phrase?—break us. If she wants to. And catch me. If she can.’
There was a short silence, during which they reached the open country, and then a long interval, filled breathlessly by some very fast riding indeed. At the first pause for rest, ‘It really is exceedingly neat,’ said Lymond, apparently in the belief that he was continuing the conversation, but without explaining in the least. His tone was one of deepest admiration. He said, walking round and round Adam as the artist lay, arms outflung in the deep grass, a bannock half-eaten on his chest, ‘And Joleta.’
It was the last name Blacklock expected to hear. He raised a hand, removed the bannock slowly from his jerkin, and took a bite. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, come on, Adam,’ said Lymond with derision, standing over him. ‘You’re an artist. You saw her at Dumbarton. Sixteen, convent-bred and the light of Gabriel’s life. Family pride kept my brother from breaking the awful news to Graham Malett, but you have no reason to hold back. Yet you haven’t told him of my night with his sister, have you? Why?’
Some crumbs from the scone had got into his windpipe. When he had finished choking Adam sat up, scarlet, with tears in his eyes. ‘It was none of my f-f … none of my business,’ he said.
‘Because you saw what I did,’ said Lymond gently. ‘What did you see, Adam?’
‘All right,’ said Blacklock suddenly and angrily. He got to his knees, brushing crumbs from the leather, and then rose face to face with Lymond. Neither man gave way.
‘All right,’ Adam repeated grimly. ‘When I saw Joleta in Dumbarton that night she was pregnant, and it wasn’t her first pregnancy at that.’
‘Adam!’ Lymond said; then stopped, and said in a more moderate tone, ‘The eye of the master. You may have, from my