Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [104]
“Partly,” said the Master. “You did some of it yourself …” And struck, perhaps, by the confusion in Scott’s face, Lymond suddenly began to laugh. For a moment, so amused and so tired was he, the laughter was less than controlled and Scott, shocked, recognized in the other for the first time since he had known him, the outward signs of extreme fatigue.
Then Lymond said, “And now where are we? It’s difficult, isn’t it, to know whom to trust? Fide et diffide, in fact: and that is the moral of this little story. Be mistrustful, and you will live happy and die hated and be much more useful to me in between.
“Sit down,” said Lymond, and waited while Scott dropped again to his blankets. He took the letter from the boy’s hand and straightened. “I showed you this, my would-be catharist, because I don’t need you as a barter. I’ve got something George Douglas wants much more—information. And if that fails, I have a feeling I can acquire a hostage of my own worth two—forgive me—of Buccleuch’s expanding nursery. In that, indeed as in all else,” he added with exaggerated courtesy, “I shall want your help.”
Scott lay back on his rugs. He said cravenly, “I understand. If that’s so … I’ll help all I can.” Sleep swam in his head, his lids closing with it.
“Of course,” said the Master politely, and tossed a blanket over the boy. “For my boy Willie.…
“My bird Willie, my boy Willie, my dear Willie, he said;
How can ye strive against the stream? For I shall be obeyed.”
III
French Defence
The seconde pawne that standeth tofore the Knyght hath the forme and figure of a man.… By this is signefied all maner of werkman, as goldsmithes.
1. Touching and Moving
IN THE two weeks after the cattle raid, several moves followed each other in apparently random sequence. Christian Stewart, adroitly missing an encounter with Tom Erskine, left Lanarkshire and went north to Stirling to await the coming of the Culters and Lady Herries to spend Christmas at Bogle House. Shortly after, Buccleuch and Janet left also for the Scott house in Stirling, moving slowly to accommodate Walter, David, Grisel, Janet and seven ninths (as Buccleuch crudely put it) of Margaret.
The Culters stayed at home until the third Sunday in December; then, leaving Richard to his inevitable business, the Dowager seized a break in the weather to transport herself, Mariotta and Agnes to visit Sir Andrew Hunter’s mother.
Before the gates of Ballaggan, and after they had crossed the Nith safely and dry-shod on its upper reaches, the Dowager rallied her party. “Hear me, children,” said Sybilla. “This is a naughty old woman, but she’s too old to change, and too feeble to be lectured. So speak up, keep your tempers, and remember you’ll be naughty old women yourselves, one of these days.” So they went in and, Sir Andrew being temporarily absent, were taken straight upstairs.
Lady Hunter’s room was as warm as a byre and as forbidding as a lying-in-state. Cocked on her pillows, the paraplegic greeted and seated the three visitors. Then the puckered mouth, fiercely active, said: “Mariotta. Come and let me see you.”
She studied the girl. Mariotta, hanging grimly to her temper, gazed back. “I have good news of you,” remarked Lady Hunter. “You haven’t the bones for it, but that can’t be helped. None of the Crawfords would make more than a hen-sparrow. When will it be?”
Mariotta’s face was pink with controlled emotion. She said politely, “In the spring.”
“Hum. Richard pleased?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“He will be. Hah! Sybilla. That’s two lives between Lymond and the money. You’ll be happy now, I dare say.”
Mariotta, supposing herself dismissed, returned to her seat with an expressive glance at the Dowager who said mildly, “We were all perfectly merry before, so far as I know. I can’t say I ever