Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [252]
‘Tu dis!’ Nicolas de Nicolay, listening open-mouthed, was startled into speech. ‘But the vows of celibacy, those?’
‘Churchmen may marry nowadays, you know; isn’t it interesting?’ said Sybilla unexpectedly. ‘And if he can’t get back to Malta while Juan de Homedès is Grand Master, he may well settle for a secular state. And in any case, as Francis is dying to point out.…’
‘By marrying Will Scott’s widow, he will have control of his children, and of all the Buccleuch lands, should Wat die. It is logical,’ said Lymond courteously, ‘if you note that he already has virtual control of the Order’s possessions in Scotland. Sir James Sandilands is ill and lazy and most unwilling to speak, but I have learned that the Queen Dowager is being given some of the revenues already, as a sop. With the Queen Dowager’s support, with the revenues of the Hospitallers, or even a tenth of them; with the lands and offices of Buccleuch in his hands, and with the weapon of St Mary’s behind him, Sir Graham Malett has, it can be agreed I would think without any prejudice, the prospect of becoming a major power in Scotland; particularly if, for example, the other major landowners such as the Kerrs and my own family became discredited or extinct.
‘The question is,’ said Lymond, and his eyes, impersonal as his voice, wandered round the long table, ‘if, however innocently, he acquired such power, do we believe he is a fit person to wield it?’
‘For many years, in the Mediterranean,’ said Nicolas de Nicolay unexpectedly, ‘he is known as a great and godly person. He is certainly of a courage unmatched.’
‘There is no question,’ said Lymond at once, ‘of his courage. Or of his ability. I have tested both over and over again. I wish there were.… Lady Jenny, what is your impression of him?’
Taken aback, the little red-haired woman, plump and pretty, her china-blue eyes wide on his, clasped her hands under her chin. Her rings flashed and dazzled and the King of France’s cameo, occupying the whole of her forefinger, stared balefully at his employee de Nicolay. Jenny Fleming might not be noted for her brain, but her emotional independence was considerable. ‘He looks like God,’ she said simply.
Alec Guthrie, his face cracking involuntarily in a smile, cleared his throat. ‘He sounds like God, too,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get the women on your side, Crawford.’
‘You think not? Margaret?’ said Lymond.
Margaret Erskine, very pale, raised her eyes. The tears in her brown eyes had dried, but strain was marked on her brow, and in her tight-clasped hands. She said, ‘He unwittingly broke the news of my husband’s death to me. It was not his fault; he had no reason to believe I didn’t know already. But I can’t help.…’ She broke off, and then resumed in a very steady voice, ‘I can’t help, obviously, associating him with my feelings then, although he was painstakingly kind. I’m sorry, Francis. I am not fond of him, but for no practical reason. I must rank myself simply as biased.’
‘Or more sensitive than most of us,’ said Sybilla suddenly, in a queer voice. Up to now, she had neither spoken nor looked at her son in the chair; only, her back flat and straight, she had studied the rows of Fleming paintings on the opposite wall, her small face set. ‘Graham Malett knew that Tom’s death had been kept from you, Margaret. The Queen Dowager sent to inform him before he paid you that visit. I spoke to her messenger, quite by chance, when they came north.’
And as Margaret Erskine, a new expression on her face, stared at the Dowager, Lymond said slowly, ‘So …’ and then breaking off without warning said, ‘Margaret, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. There’s no reason for you to endure this kind of experience unless you are anxious to stay.’
‘But I am,’ said Margaret Erskine; and surprisingly there was a new firmness in her voice and her round jaw. ‘More than ever, I am.’
‘Then … yes, he was cruel, this man of God,’ said Lymond