Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [123]
“But Lymond—” began Scott.
“Lymond planned it. God, I saw the letter and the signature, and every stroke of the pen was as much his as that damned doll’s hair. Ask Sybilla. Ask Culter. Ask anyone. Even his own mother didn’t pretend it was a forgery—it wasn’t.”
The colour had run out beneath Scott’s fair, unpigmented skin. His father said aggressively, “You didn’t know that? Or the other thing about it?”
“What?” said Scott. “What other thing?”
But Buccleuch had scrambled to his feet, the pad dropped from his grip, his face changed. Scott turned.
With a rustle and a squirm, Johnnie Bullo emerged from the juniper and trotted across the clearing, an agile silhouette which made Sir Wat, unrecognizing, put a quick hand on his sword.
But Will spoke first, all his anxieties turned to acid on his tongue. “What are you doing here! Spying for Lymond?”
“No.” Johnnie Bullo, keeping a tree between himself and Buccleuch, was unperturbed, though breathing faster than usual. “Just a call from a friend. I thought you’d like to know you’re in a small trap. The wood’s encircled by armed men.”
Buccleuch overheard, as he was meant to, and the hand on his sword moved with a rattle and a hiss. Scott said instantly, “Lymond!”
“No, no. Lymond’s busy. It’s Scottish troops: fine fellows on big horses with dirks all over them like hobnails. Friends of your pa, here, no doubt.”
Scott’s breath whistled between his teeth. “Hardly friends of my father. After all, we undertook to keep this meeting secret, didn’t we? And as good, honest churchmen our word is inviolate.”
“I did keep it quiet.” Suddenly alive to his danger, Buccleuch rushed to reassure. “There wasn’t a soul … Who are they? Hey, you!” roared Wat to the shadowy figure of Johnnie. “Who are these men?”
“Don’t you know?” asked Scott. “What a pity you couldn’t tell them things were going surprisingly well and their services wouldn’t be needed. They could have disappeared quietly and I should never have known.”
Buccleuch was choking with frustration. “Don’t be a fool, man. They’re there by no wish of mine. I didn’t—I haven’t—Listen, will you?” as the young man turned away.
“I rather think I’ve listened enough, don’t you?” said Scott over his shoulder. “‘Come back quietly, just the two of us’! By God, I admire that for a piece of chicanery!”
“Will!” Buccleuch, regardless of a possible audience, fairly roared in his anguish. “What’s happened I don’t know, but believe me, I’d cheerfully flay them alive, whoever they are. You must believe me! They’re not mine … I don’t know how they got there. Dammit!” he bellowed. “They must be Lymond’s.”
“They’re not.” The gypsy’s brown eyes, dancing with enjoyment, rested on Scott. “Well. They’re waiting for you. Are you going with them or with me?”
“Is there a choice?” snarled the boy. “We’re both trapped, aren’t we?”
Bullo snickered. “You are. I’m not. I have a pony just outside. If I mount and draw them off to the left, can you ride for the gap?”
“I can,” said Scott grimly. He strode to Buccleuch’s horse and threw the reins to Bullo. “There’s another decoy for you. Send the brute ahead. He’ll split them still more.”
The gypsy caught the bridle and began to move, his smile flashing. “So you’re for Lymond after all.”
Scott’s grim face as he flung himself on his horse was reply enough. Buccleuch caught the bridle. “Will! Man, you’re that bedazzled your thick head’s nothing but heliotrope. Listen. These are not my men! I’ll swear to it on anything you like! Wait for just a moment—give me a chance to identify them—if they’re Queen’s troops I’ll send them about their business!”
“No doubt. And their business will be Will Scott.” The boy whipped the reins free. “No thank you. I’ve had enough of decency. I’m too weak in the stomach for it.”
“Will—” It was too late. A distant thudding and a burst of noise told that the gypsy had drawn the pursuit after him; with a rustle and a whirl of cold air Scott cantered across the clearing without looking round and put his horse fast through the thickest part