Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [124]
Sir Wat, horseless and breathing heavily, stood still. He heard the uproar a moment later when his son was spotted; he heard the shouting as the riders following the two decoys were recalled. He heard the chase recede around the base of the hill and falter, and finally, the sounds of riders returning, disconcerted. He drew his sword and walked steadily to the nearest group. The trees thinned, the voices became louder and he saw the colour of the livery: blue and silver.
Wat Scott of Buccleuch shot his sword home in the scabbard with a noise like a pistol and stalked forward. The horsemen wheeling at the sound faltered. “Buccleuch!”
“Aye, Buccleuch,” said that person. “Did ye find what ye were looking for?”
They fidgetted. “No, Sir Wat.”
“Have you a horse you can give me, then?” They had. It was brought forward eagerly and Buccleuch mounted, his eyes sweeping the wood. “Where’s your master?”
The nearest man stammered. “He’ll be back, sir. We was to meet here if …”
“I am here,” said an unemotional voice; and Buccleuch turned. Lord Culter, armed, with a long scratch across one cheek from his scrambling chase after Scott, was sitting still on his horse at the edge of the trees.
Amid deathly silence, Buccleuch rode over to him. Within touching distance he halted and, leaning across, gripped Culter’s reins close to the bit, so that the other could not move. “So I see. You’re having a bonny revenge for the cattle raid?”
Culter shook his head. “I only want Lymond.”
“You only want Lymond,” repeated Buccleuch, and flung the reins from him so that Culter’s horse jumped and reared, neighing. “You only want Lymond, and you’re ready to sacrifice everyone and everything for it. Your mother—your wife—the folk who used to be friends. How many friends have you got now? Tell me that.”
“Enough.”
“Enough to yap at your heels while you trample busily back and forth over the rest of us in this panic-stricken, muddleheaded harrying you’re launched on! The Queen wanted you at Stirling, and where are you? Riding down my son in the name of your mim-faced honour! And why? Sybilla doesn’t want it, and she’s twice the cause you have. You’ll achieve nothing, as we all know, unless it’s to make the fellow kill himself laughing. Why go on with it? No one cares. And there’s some saying freely that it’s not a matter of justice at that, but plain, green, roaring jealousy that’s got into you.”
Richard said violently, “Hold your tongue, Scott!” and then restrained himself, the plates of his jack flashing with his breathing. “I won’t debate it with you.”
Buccleuch muted his voice. “Oh, I’ve nearly done. I’ve just got to say this: as well as Lymond, you’ve got me against you now. I loathe the man as you do, but I’m going to get Will safely away from him. And until I do, there’s no plan you can make against Lymond that won’t find me there before you. I wish no ill to you, or to your wife, or to your mother, but you can hinder me at the risk of death or maiming: I’ll have no care for you.” And turning, he galloped his borrowed horse out of Crumhaugh wood.
* * *
Johnnie Bullo got back to the Peel ahead of Scott.
When the boy arrived, he found most of the men gone, and all the animals except a few horses. The building, always derelict, had a sullen air, as if in the emptying the last, lingering kindness had been wrung from the stones.
Lymond sat in the broken hall, and by him stood Johnnie Bullo. From the brilliance of the gypsy’s smile it was palpable that the story of Crumhaugh had been told to the Master. Will Scott stalked forward prepared to get full value from the wrath boiling in his veins, and met the wall of Lymond at his worst.
“My dear! I hear the bosom of your father produced a clatter like the Archbishop’s conscience, and you have returned to cast yourself on mine.”
“I was a fool to expect anything else.” Scott glared at Johnnie Bullo and shifted his eyes back to the Master. “You were perfectly right. I’m damned if I trust anyone, from now on.”
“The encounter seems to have had its share of bathos,” rejoined Lymond blandly.