Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [150]
She was instantly thrilled. “You didn’t tell me. He saved your life? But how can we thank him?”
“No need for thanks. I have all the reward I need.” Both Jack and the stranger seemed to be affected with an uncommon sonority. “I was merely the Baptist, the Bean King: the helical star before the sun. My anonymity you must forgive—I am no longer master of my own identity. Nevertheless”—as sympathy and delight shot into her eyes—“nevertheless, if nameless, I am not empty-handed. In remembrance of an experience—a rewarding, if tantalizing experience—will you accept this?”
It was a crystal and onyx brooch, set with diamonds and angels’ heads, and worth more than her total parure put together.
Maxwell’s eyes met the other’s, their curiosity undisguised. “There was absolutely no need …” he said.
“Not at all. My pleasure. Although I must, as you’ll understand, ask your forbearance in not revealing where it came from.”
They promised, and took a warm and even tender farewell of him.
* * *
Christian also received a summons on this, the day on which she had promised her answer to Tom Erskine. It took her along the same corridor and into the same empty room, where she waited, steeling herself for Tom’s cheerful presence.
She filled in the time by pacing out the room. It seemed small, with a side table, three chairs, and a fireplace giving off a good deal of smoke. Not the ideal place for a proposal, she thought drearily; but what on earth do you expect, woman? Some seedy cavalier to sing beneath your window?
She sat down determinedly in the nearest chair and turned her mind to counting up sheets and bedcovers. Acute though her ears were, she missed the footsteps in the passage and heard nothing until the door opened and closed with the softest of clicks.
“Good God!” said someone gently. “The Pythia in a lemon fog. Do you like smoke? Cheer up: it’s spring outside.”
A window opened, and fresh, grass-scented air flowed into the room, and the song of thrushes. Christian felt the blood spinning to the ends of her fingers. “It’s not—I was expecting—Is it you?” she asked, out of bodily and spiritual chaos.
“Unless like the elephant I have two hearts, or like Janus two heads, or the boa two skins, it is I, indeed. I have stopped writing double letters under a pen name, and am re-registering my interest with you in person. You’ve lost weight.”
She was, by now, herself again. She said tartly, “It doesn’t help to find oneself bedevilled with persons making Eulenspiegel-like appearances and disappearances. I live for the day when we can be formally introduced. Don’t you think it would be better than coming to me like—”
“A thief in the night is the phrase. Have I upset you? But I did offer once to tell you my name, and you refused. I’m sorry. I should infinitely prefer to call on you with sixteen pearly elephants and a litter of jade, with silver trumpets and sarcanet and schorl and satin-wood, spring water and roses from Shiraz … would you receive me?”
“Provided you gave me time to array my dusky charms. ‘And who is this? Great Alexander? Charle le Maigne?’”
“Royster-Doister, visiting the Castle of Perseverence. Have good day: I goo to helle.”
“I think you manage to carry it about with you,” said Christian.
“Perhaps. I have been gifted with a surfeit of Satanity and the need to live up to it. Frère Estienne, do we not make excellent fiends?”
“Far too well. It seems devilish, for example, for anyone with such a passion for secrecy to contrive not only to enter a royal palace, but to deal in appointments and summons therein.”
“I have friends at Court.”
“Oh. At which Court?” she quoted, and he broke in on her words. “I won’t put up with Skelton as well as Stewart. At this Court, lady.”
“I had no idea you were so powerful. Do they know who you are?”
“Whose temper are you trying to lose?” the pleasant voice said. “Your own, or mine? I have behaved atrociously, I freely admit, but my object is exemplary: to convey gratitude and keep you