Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [164]
Lymond had been indifferent, but Turkey was not. He thought bluntly that a fellow fetching a double salary of gold ought to have company on the way back as well. He attached himself firmly to Scott, who attempted to argue and only succeeded in making him obstinate.
Thus in the long run, Turkey Mat as well as Scott took the Wark road along with the Master. The golden dales of Crawfordmuir fell behind them, broken, gouged and abandoned, and whether the four rivers they left were of Hell, or the Pischon, Dichon, Chiddikel and Perath of Paradise might have been hard for any one of them to say.
That was this morning. The question now was how far the tiger would enter the cage.
Lymond was riding very fast, taking no risks, although he had plenty of time to reach the north of England by next day, when Harvey’s convoy would pass through Wark. Turkey Mat, knee to knee with him, was talking more than usual, and it was a little time before either realized that Scott had halted.
Waiting, the boy saw the Master turn, and then bring his chestnut in a fine arc back to him; saw Lymond’s eyes flicker to the splintered, obelisk elms on his left and then alter. When he came abreast, however, he merely inspected Scott’s green face and groaned. “Oh God: sermons and symbolism; I can’t stand it. Don’t bother to tell me. You’ve put the gold in the convent.”
Scott said heavily, “It seemed a good place to me. The basement is quite intact, you know.”
Unexpectedly, Lymond failed to rage. “Then go and get your money. Half for you; half for Mat, and for God’s sake jump off the pendulum next time before it gets my length.… Mat! This is where I leave you both.”
Mat had heard, cantering up. “Already? What about your share of the gold?”
Scott let him talk. He had thought of this possibility too: he had thought of everything. He moved restively behind the two men and made his unobtrusive signal and then rejoined them, a little sulky and very young, his brow round and flecked with the sun. Mat was still arguing, but only seconds elapsed before they all heard the drumming of hoofs from behind the hill they had just passed.
Lymond’s head came up instantly, listening; weighing up the quality of the sound. It was a large body of cavalry not yet in sight: Scots or otherwise hardly mattered; both were a danger to him, and a danger at this special and delicate crisis in his affairs.
He turned quickly. There was only one source of cover, and it had to be reached before the first riders came into sight. After the merest hint of a pause he collected the chestnut, jerked his head, and followed by Turkey and Scott, raced for the convent.
They got there, as he intended, before the first horses came into sight. They jumped the broken wall, dismounting, tying their horses out of sight in the roofless, rubble-filled building and flinging themselves among the toadflax as the grey light flickered like St. Elmo’s fire on the pikes and drawn swords of galloping horsemen rounding the hill.
Turkey, his beard full of burs, his clothing soaked with the light rain, spared breath for an ironic cheer as the troop streamed friezelike along the road: they galloped to the exact point the three men had just left, and then forsaking the road entirely, bore like a grey and shining harrow through the wet grass, making straight for the convent.
Mat’s mouth fell slightly open. “It’s the second sight. It must be: I’m damned if they saw us.”
Brittle as exploding glass, Lymond said, “They didn’t see us. They expected to find us here. They’re Ballaggan men.”
“The horses—”
“Too late. You heard Scott: there’s a basement,” said Lymond, and twisting like a dorcus led them full tilt through the shattered rooms, Scott beside him and Mat