Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [113]
So she saw a tall, stooping figure appear in the distance; saw Agnes Herries hesitate, and then saw her disappear up the turnpike stair which gave access to the wall-walk on the roof. The tall figure followed her.
The Dowager walked over to Christian and sat down. “Hold my hand and talk to me,” she demanded. “Something interesting is happening on the tower stairs and I feel nervous and grandmotherly.”
Christian turned on the older woman her affectionate grin. “Nothing like practice,” said she.
* * *
The tall man was dressed in blue silk. Agnes, watching him emerge from the tower, noted the deliberate, light walk and the brome-grass hair ruffling in the night wind. He came nearer, and she saw yellow peregrine eyes with black, buried pupils.
“Lady Herries?” he asked; and when she nodded, he smiled suddenly.
“You’re so small. I have something for you, my lady—but it’s like Abbey Craig speaking to Dumyat. Perhaps, if you’ll allow me, we should settle our differences first.” And before she could object, he put both hands around her waist and swung her easily to the broad parapet. She arrived with a bump, had a fleeting thought about the state of the ledge, then arranged her skirts and turned again to the gentleman’s eyes. They were still very yellow, but kind. He took her hand and put something into it. “From Threave,” he said.
Agnes looked down. Between her fingers, dark with melted snow but warm and perfect, was a sturdy red rose. She said “Oh!” in a surprised delight, and repeated it as his words penetrated. “From Threave?”
“From Jack Maxwell. With his respectful love. Well, Lady Herries: are you disappointed?” asked the Master of Maxwell.
She shook her head. “I think,” said Agnes, with a young and tender naïveté, “you are as handsome as your letters, sir.”
* * *
Long after the parapet was empty, a clatter of hoofs foretold a latecomer approaching the Castle Wynd, riding alone on a stumbling horse. The captain of the guard admitted him instantly and, soaked and battered with mud, Lord Culter dismounted and walked into the yard.
Richard had come straight from Perth, and brought with him from the Provost of Perth an account of the raid on Balmerino Abbey in which he was notably concerned. This he gave to one of the Queen’s officers, being hardly presentable enough to ask for audience himself. On the same grounds, he asked that his wife should be brought to the Palace to speak to him.
Crossing the flying bridge from Hall to Palace, Mariotta was aware of a very creditable sense of relief. At least the bloodhound had taken no actual harm this time; although his behaviour remained erratic, antisocial and evasive. Mariotta marched into the Palace with reconciliation to sell, at a price; Richard rose to welcome her with an expression which the Dowager would have recognized as discomfort and guilt. In the net result, Mariotta looked angry and Richard looked wooden, and the opening round was not one to inspire confidence.
This was because Richard made the mistake of blaming his absence on the fighting outside Perth. Mariotta heard him in silence, and then inquired stonily about the tracing of the glove. Richard’s account of this was lamentable. Told in the cold light of reason, the sobering of Jamie Waugh sounded remarkably like a drunken brawl: the exact points of difference were hard to define. He was brought to admitting, austerely, that the entire trip had been a wild-goose chase expressly fabricated by Lymond; he then apologized again for his absence and indicated that, if she would allow him, he would leave for Bogle House and change his clothes.
Mariotta listened to it