Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [289]
Head bent, Lymond was studying the invisible floor at his feet. After a moment, he said, ‘It is very sad; but no one with theological training is ever going to believe that nine times out of ten, what is best for one’s character is the primrose path, not the thicket of thorns. You realize, of course, that knight or not, he will die in the end for what he has done. And that if he is to die shriven, you have a week or two only in which to make your conversion. I shall have all the proof I need by then; more than he can possibly refute.’
He looked up suddenly. ‘Do you mean him to pay for his crimes, Jerott? Or do you plan to take him south, where he may see the light of repentance in prayerful peace, and return one day to illumine your Order? You are still under his spell, aren’t you? A man no worse, you may say, than others who rule today, who stops at nothing to achieve power and has all the virtues of courage and leadership and a wide-ranging mind. But a man, too, who could sway nations with the power of his voice and the religious fervour he can inspire. My God, Jerott: think of the damage a good and simple man can do under these terms. What do you suppose an evil and most damnably intelligent one would do? No, mon Chevalier,’ said Lymond, speaking clearly and slowly. ‘You are not going back to Graham Malett now, or at any other time.’
Afterwards, Jerott realized that, blinded with anger, he had missed the small sounds Lymond had been waiting for: the approaching, hesitant footsteps of Archie Abernethy and Guthrie, waiting with impatience for the long interview to be over; stirred finally by curiosity and then by suspicion to come close and listen. Moving quietly as he spoke, Lymond had reached at length the dark corner of the hut where Archie Abernethy had made up his bed of dry heather, the blankets turned back where he had left it. Beside it, lying unseen in the failing light, as Jerott should have known it would be, was his sword.
Now Lymond made one sudden movement and straightening, the hilt in his hand, backed swiftly, still speaking, between Jerott Blyth and the door. ‘Your sword, Jerott,’ said Francis Crawford quietly to his boyhood friend, and Jerott Blyth, unbelieving rage rising within him, found himself looking along the steady, silver blade of Lymond’s own steel.
With an instinct sure and swift as the Order could make it in all the years of his training, he flung himself sideways and gripping the makeshift table, flung it rocking towards Lymond as he drew out his own blade with a hiss. Lymond, expecting it, hurled himself sideways. The table, teetering, crashed on to its back where he had been, fully blocking the curtained doorway of the hut.
There was a moment’s pause while the two men stood, breathing fast, long swords ready, on opposite sides of the cabin; then the hide door-cover was ripped away from outside and Abernethy, with Guthrie behind him, laid hands on the overturned table to heave it aside and jump in.
‘All right,’ said Lymond. He was very breathless, but his eyes did not move from Jerott’s wild face. ‘This is my affair. Alec, these papers contain the case against Graham Malett as I know it so far. You know what to do with them. Archie, wait outside with Mr Guthrie. You understand that whatever happens, the Chevalier is not to return to St Mary’s. Nor is he to suffer any harm. It isn’t his fault that he’s surrounded by vile engineers and commercials. Jerott, in this space neither of us can possibly miss. Put down your sword.’
‘Talk!’ said Jerott Blyth between his teeth. ‘I have had my bellyful of talk, without respect of honour or oath. I don’t forget that you would use a living woman as your shield rather than lay down your life for the justice you talk about. I risk no one’s life but my own, and if I succeed, my prize will