Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [148]
The younger Crawford turned his head away. Without answering, he walked to the mantelpiece, planted his elbows on it and sealed his eyes slantwise with his hands. Then he said, “Let’s clear away the ground rubble first. What exactly did you and Richard quarrel about?”
Her face drooped. “It’s too complicated,” she said peevishly.
“Never mind. Tell me exactly what it was.” He released his hands and, turning, sat down not far from her chair. “Now. You said you wanted to talk.”
So she told him. As she related the desertions and the disappointments, the disagreements and the follies which had stripped her of contentment and driven her to revolt, Lymond studied the floor. She told of her first emotions about his presents; of her decision not to tell about them; of the ultimate quarrel where Richard had instantly believed the worst of her. She ended with the same superb naïveté. “So you see, I could hardly stay, after that.”
He was on his feet, in a silent, characteristic movement, pacing to the other end of the room and back; looking down on her black hair and upraised lashes. Her eyes were full of tears.
“Don’t you think,” said Lymond, “that I seem to be the disruptive serpent of the Ophites and not Richard? The exciting prospect of punishing me seems to have been the mainspring of all the poor man’s peccadilloes.”
The violet eyes were solemn. “He’d give you no chance,” said Mariotta. “He hates you because you’re different.… That’s unjust; and I despise him for that the worst of all.”
The blue eyes, supremely adult, were seraphic. “What, for lack of family feeling? If you’ll forgive my reminding you, the boy is only a beginner.”
It was true: she had forgotten the burning of Midculter. But she retorted, “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“All I ask in this world,” said Lymond a shade grimly, “is half an hour when I don’t know what I’m doing; but no one has granted me the privilege yet.”
“I could help you.” She leaned over suddenly and caught one of his hands; he surrendered it with perfect indifference, saying, “You have an entrancing and hagioscopic view of my character that is entirely your own. Do I understand that you are proposing to join the Portugese Men of War? Because if so, I shall have to tell Molly.”
“Molly?”
“The woman who is looking after you. She keeps a bawdyhouse in England, and while I’m extremely flattered, I can’t have my dearest friendships upset just to irk Richard.”
She smiled shakily. “You’re trying to frighten me for my own good.”
Lymond spoke happily. “On the contrary. It’s most important that you should stay here until you’re quite well. After all, I’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to get you—unlike Richard, I hold my women in fondest esteem.”
He withdrew the hand she was holding and stretched it thoughtfully before him, its beauty of shape, the long fingers and fine bones totally cancelled by the weals on the palm. “It’s a pity, isn’t it? I was a galley-slave for two years after they found out about Solway Moss, and we had two very calm summers. I used to think a good deal then about our modest yeoman enjoying his lordship at Midculter.”
Mariotta recoiled in her chair. “You’re still trying to frighten me. I don’t believe you; but please will you stop?”
“It’s the air of nasty reality that frightens you,” explained her brother-in-law with abandon. “Corrupt, ill-smelling and five days old. I don’t give a damn whether you’re frightened or not, because in a month’s time you won’t be here anyway. If you had a brain rather larger than a chick-pea, sweetheart, that would have occurred to you. I should hardly trouble to rid Culter of his heir without making sure he had grounds for divorce also. The peripetia will be so tidy. If he were a little more sprightly by nature he might even oblige by removing himself; but I doubt he’ll have to be encouraged. Prior exiit, prior intravit, as the good old saying goes.”
“My jewellery,” said Mariotta in a whisper.
“My angel, I had to prise you away