Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [117]
“What did you make of her?” Lymond asked.
“Your reading was perfectly accurate. She will make an excellent wife—if that were the main issue. And if her marriage were a matter of free choice, I should be Lord Herries tomorrow. But of course, it’s not. I’m afraid it will take more than one cattle raid to shake off Arran. He’s determined to have her for his son, and he has a promise on paper.”
“The Queen Dowager is not unsympathetic,” remarked Lymond.
“But Arran is Governor.”
“And as such is accountable to the French for the fervent persecution of the enemy.”
“Arran won’t attack: he has neither the stomach nor the power.”
“He won’t attack; but he’ll have to defend, shortly. There’s another combined attack from Carlisle and Berwick coming next month.”
The pupils in the golden eyes narrowed and expanded. “How do you know that?”
“Spies. I have no direct contact with Carlisle,” said Lymond laconically. “If you want my opinion to reinforce your own, then that’s your bargain. Throw the Maxwells openly this time against Wharton, and you have the Dowager on your side. She likes the girl, and she’s being pushed for results by her relatives in France as well as by the French Ambassador. Let her persuade Arran for you.”
There was a long silence. Then the Master of Maxwell said, “The real deterrent lies with my hostages at Carlisle. If I turn, they may hang. But, as you no doubt will tell me, life is cheap.”
Lymond raised fair brows. “It is another disease that grieveth me. What I will say is that sentimentality is expensive. Let them hang: it is still a good bargain.”
Maxwell said, “I am not so ruthless.”
“We might differ about that.… But save the Carlisle chickens, and you let the Stirling stables burn.”
“Some might feel one hen of a sort was worth twenty horses,” said Maxwell.
“And yet you won’t get far without horses, be your poultry never so prolific.”
Lymond was clearly mocking, and the other switched subjects curtly. “Do you wish to continue the letters to Agnes Herries? We agreed that you should have this channel for messages.”
Lymond said, “Let it lapse. I can find other means now, if need be.” He rose. “I am grateful for your co-operation. We may still meet, of course. Next month, for example. In spite of your fondness for the chicken run.”
Maxwell also got up. He hesitated, stooping a little under the low roof, his half-armour fogged with condensation. “There is one piece of news you might find of interest,” he said. “It’s not the kind I should pass on to Edinburgh, as the woman is, I suppose, a niece by marriage.…”
Lymond’s face and voice were his first weapons, and he used them consciously with the same control that in his brother kept expression away.
But this time, something new filled the blue eyes; and Scott, sitting forgotten, saw it, and his breathing stopped. Then it was over, and Maxwell, unobserving, was still talking.
“Lennox and Wharton are trying a new gambit this time. The Countess of Lennox is being sent north to Drumlanrig to try and splint together all these burst Douglas loyalties before the army invades.”
Lymond said in his accustomed voice, “The Lady Margaret Douglas? Angus’s daughter? When is she coming?”
Maxwell shook his head and took up his hat. “I have no other details. But I expect she’ll arrive shortly before they march, and wait for her husband. I thought you might be interested.”
He turned in the doorway, one hand on the lintel. “Good day to you both. I fancy these meetings will not be to our loss.”
“I fancy not,” said Lymond dryly; and Maxwell, mounted, leaned down. “You have a nice touch with the Latin tag, but I found the French a little indelicate, here and there.” And, one of his infrequent smiles lighting the solemn face, the Master of Maxwell rode off.
Scott, straightening from