Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [184]
“Soon, I hope.” Gideon rose, and presently took leave of his wife, running lightly downstairs to the courtyard. Kate watched him go, observing with misgiving the bland assurance on the kind face.
The procession next time along the top corridor was formidable: a kind of barmecide feast of invalid diet as well as jugs, bowls, bandages and clothes, towels, ointment and a small wooden bathtub bound in brass. Walking through the assembled equipment, Kate unlocked the end door this time without ceremony, and went in.
He was not to be caught a second time unawares. Lounging in the window, Lymond viewed her acolytes with a faintly etched interest. “Coals of fire. No. I observe that’s the only thing lacking: such a warm day. Was it you who came in just now?”
“It was,” said Kate grimly. “And I had a good look at you, so you might as well sit down.”
The blue eyes were cool. “Why? Are you going to bathe me?”
“Hold your tongue,” said Kate. “Charles will do that. And then, for no gratification that it will afford me, I’ll dress your shoulder. Who performed the public service of perforating it?”
“Oh … a worm that turned,” said Crawford of Lymond. “A bait which refused to be hooked. A brandling which snatched itself from the burning. I am quite capable of washing and repairing myself, if your people will leave the wherewithal.”
Kate paid no attention, but mustered her materials and ushered in Gideon’s servant. “Charles. I’ll be back in half an hour,” she said, and shut the door.
The noise of hammering brought her back before then. She found the man Charles, streaming with soapy water and pounding on the outside of the captive’s room, which was ludicrously locked from inside. Kate pushed him aside and vibrated the handle. “What do you think you’re doing? Let me in!”
Through the thickness of the door, his voice came, slow and flippant. “Mistress Somerville! The proprieties!” said Lymond; and though they banged and rattled and threatened, nothing more could they get out of him that day.
* * *
A week after this event, Lord Grey of Wilton crossed the Border back into England and put up at Berwick Castle, leaving behind his newly fortified Haddington under a captain. On arrival Lord Grey, who had had a very hard month, was told that the Countess of Lennox was waiting to see him.
He exploded to Gideon, there to smooth his lordship’s first hours. “Margaret Lennox: what next? She got herself into a fine mess in February; and all her father did was laugh in her face and march over to the Scots. Well! I’ve taught that family a lesson!”
“I heard about the Dalkeith raid,” said Gideon. “How did it go?”
Grey looked pleased. “Splendidly, splendidly. I hope everyone heard about it. I hope all friend Douglas’s allies and sycophants noticed it and took a lesson from it. Sent Bowes and Gamboa out on Sunday night, and they burned around Edinburgh while Wilford and Wyndham went for Dalkeith. We undermined from the base-court and the white sheets were hanging out of the windows before we’d blunted a pick. Got the whole garrison—Douglas’s wife, second son, lairds and Douglases in dozens, and cartloads of furnishings—I tell you, Gideon,” said Lord Grey, flushed with recollection, “we came back from that day’s work richer by three thousand pounds and two thousand head of cattle, and three thousand sheep, not to mention as notable a bunch of prisoners as you’d wish to get compensation for.”
“But Sir George himself got away?”
Pleased reminiscence faded. “Damned coward,” said Lord Grey. “Slipped out of a postern and fled to Edinburgh, leaving his own wife to be taken. Well, he’s got little enough reward for it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s back on his knees by the end of the week. His wife thinks so. I sent her back to him.”
“Sent Lady Douglas back?”
“Yes. She thought she could persuade him to be honest with us at last. But it doesn’t matter,” said Grey expansively. “We’ve got half his relations in custody here, including his two sons. And an odd creature—nice-looking, too—a blind girl