Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [152]
“Richard!” Christian, her mind recalled from miles away, cried out. “But isn’t he still … ?”
“In prison? No. I’ve just been told the Queen has pardoned and released him so that he can attend the celebrations. He should be here soon.”
“Oh, Sybilla!”
“Yes, I know,” said the Dowager. “I think I must be getting old. Do you know, I’m rather frightened. My sons sometimes seem so much stronger than I am.”
Very soon afterward, Tom Erskine found her, and in five minutes, during which her heart in its cold cage took wearily to itself a new, lifelong burden of protective and fond understanding, Christian Stewart became his affianced wife.
* * *
The third Baron Culter had the sort of pride that makes a man walk straight back to the place where he has been publicly undressed and dare the universe to look down on him. He entered the crowded ballroom at Holyrood with the flourish of an emperor, and reaped the reward of it in the first minutes of an encounter with Sir Andrew Hunter.
Dandy of all people knew how to handle such a situation. Ignoring the interested, the friendly, the speculative glances thrown at them; ignoring Culter’s own impassive, bleak face he spoke naturally of the wedding, and of the news that Lord Grey had gone to London and was expected to stay until the end of March—“a respite till Easter, at least.” Then he said, “Richard: tell me. Are you sick of Buccleuch and his outrages? Or could you stomach a rapprochement if I arranged it?”
Culter stared at him with acid humour. “The millennium has come. Is this a Scott wanting to apologize?”
Hunter answered bluntly. “I’ve had a message from Will Scott. Lymond’s selling him to the English through George Douglas. The boy has discovered how it’s to be done, and wants our help. Will you join us?”
The look on Lord Culter’s face was answer enough.
In a private room, Scott of Buccleuch was waiting for them. Richard moved forward.
“You’re getting to be a damned slippery acquaintance, Wat. Are you on the doormat this time because you need me or because you want to be?”
Buccleuch hesitated; then chin and cheeks parted and he produced a rumbling chuckle. “Things have changed. If you’re for taking Lymond, so am I.”
“So I hear.” A shadow of a smile crossed Richard’s face. “I suppose if Will hadn’t written to Andrew, I’d still be in jail.”
Sir Wat blew out his cheeks. “Some of you laddies talk as if I were Michael Scott the wizard and not just an old, done man. Sit down, sit down!” he added irritably. “You’ll solve nothing planted there like a couple of bauchly tenors at a glee.”
Hunter laughed and sat down, and after a moment Richard did likewise. It was an odd sort of olive branch, but all he was likely to get. Then Sir Andrew pushed over to him the letter from Will.
The difficulties were clear enough. Scott had not given away Lymond’s headquarters, presumably not to implicate the rest of the band. What was known was that Lymond proposed to ride east to secure from Sir George Douglas and Lord Grey the price of his bargain—a man called Harvey; and that having got Harvey, Lymond intended to send for Scott on some pretext and deliver him on the spot to Lord Grey.
What the boy proposed was that on receiving this summons from Lymond he should send word of it instantly to Buccleuch, who could then ride with all his men to the appointed rendezvous with the fair certainty of taking not only Lymond but Douglas and Lord Grey as well.
The three men sat for a long time drawing up plans. “And afterward, I suppose,” said Culter finally, leaning back, “the boy will find his own way home to you?”
“Aye. That’s the idea,” said Buccleuch. He fumbled for a moment in his purse. “You heard what happened to the poor devils that Maxwell and the rest left as hostages in Carlisle? Wharton came straight back from Durisdeer and executed half of them. Here!”
He produced a paper and flung it on the table in front of Culter. “That’s what the black-gutted murderer had put