Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [306]
On the steps of the altar, above the shifting heads of the half-dozen soldiers d’Oisel had allowed in, Lymond was standing. He had seen them, and across all the intervening space let fly a gleam of deprecating mockery in Jerott’s direction.
‘I am here,’ said Lymond amiably. ‘A refugee from pollarchy. Come and let us inspire that great Greek saint Giles to cast the demons out from us all.’
For a moment Jerott in turn looked up at the painted face of the tall statue, vested in cloth of gold and red velvet pendicle, placed above the jewelled casket bearing his relic: a hand and armbone, drily anonymous, with a diamond ring rattling loose on its finger. Beside him, Gabriel crossed himself, and Jerott did the same, aware that people were moving in softly behind them, filling the aisles and the stalls.
He turned round. The Sieur d’Oisel had come forward, and the chief magistrates with him, among them the Lord Provost himself. There were faces he did not know: French faces, and Scots faces; and then suddenly one very familiar indeed: Adam Blacklock, with a hooded girl on his arm. Philippa. Then Henri Cleutin, Seigneur d’Oisel, moving down to the altar rail, said crisply, ‘This nonsense will cease. Mr Crawford, I am required by her grace the Queen Mother to remove you to the safety of the Tolbooth until your status and your loyalty have been examined. You need fear no injustice. In defence of your own innocence, I suggest you place yourself in my charge forthwith.’
‘Truly,’ said Lymond, his voice still mocking over the strain, ‘I would rather live maligned than die justified. Vive la bagatelle. I am here, my lord Ambassador, for the blessing of the cultivation of peace, union and brotherly affection among honest men and fellow-Brethren. Will the Lord of Torphichen permit me to speak?’
Beside Jerott, Sir Graham Malett became very still. ‘Aye,’ a thick voice said, a little harshly. ‘Sandilands is leal to his word, and a chiel namely for justice. Ye have the Order’s permission to cry out.’
Sir James Sandilands of Calder, Grand Prior in Scotland of the Order of Knights Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem, flung his black robe around him and sat down. ‘I have heard an indictment,’ he said, glaring at d’Oisel and nowhere near Graham Malett. ‘Whether Mr Crawford can substantiate it or not, I canna say. But I propose he speak out.’
‘An indictment?’ The French King’s general in Scotland was totally at sea. ‘Against whom?’
‘Against Sir Graham Reid Malett,’ said Lymond gently, and placed both hands on the bright brass rail at his back. ‘Look around you, Sir Graham. There are all your accusers.’
And there, Jerott saw, one by one, their friends were filtering in, dusty from hard riding, come by prearranged plan to the one place where they would be safe. Fergie Hoddim of the Laigh slipped in, waved, and sat down. Beside him was the broad person of Guthrie and beyond them, Nicolas de Nicolay, the French cosmographer. He saw Archie, and the black face of Salablanca, and Cuddie Hob’s knotted grin, and wondered by what bribery or trick they had induced the watch to let them all in.
Beside him, Gabriel said, ‘Indictment!’ in bewildered distress, and flinging into a stall the plumed helmet he had carried from the church door, he walked forward, the altar candies molten gold on his hair. He looked up into Francis Crawford’s face and said, ‘I beg you. Innocent people have suffered enough. Drag no more names in the mud to rescue your own. Let us go in peace; and take your courage instead, and seek your own salvation like a man.’
‘It is beyond the testimony of angels,’ quoted Lymond, gazing into Gabriel’s shining, troubled blue eyes. ‘It is beyond the word of recording saints. It is a matter, if I have not already made it clear, of hard proof. You are, sir, a traitor, a murderer and a foresworn monk of