Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [190]
Kate could see the pull of the music in her daughter’s eyes; she could imagine the fascination of those magic fingers. Philippa’s arm shot out. She trapped the lute like an insect-eater trapping a fly, and flew to the door, panting.
“That’s my father’s instrument,” she shouted. “You’re not to touch it! Leave my father and my mother alone. Nobody wants you here!”
Kate was afraid for her. Her hand tightened on the door, but the music didn’t stop, although it fell to a murmur. Lymond’s voice said quietly, “Don’t you want me to play?” There sall be mirth, said the harpsichord. There sall be mirth at our meeting.
Philippa looked at him with her mother’s eyes. “No!” she cried. “I hate you!” And clutching her lute, she did indeed run from the room.
The music stopped, and there was a long silence. After a time, Kate slipped through the door.
He was still there, looking unseeing downward, his head on one hand. Then, politely rueful, he saw her. “You see! I’m out of practice, I know; but the effect must be worse than I thought.”
She sat down, her eyes on him. “Who taught you?”
“My mother, first. My father thought that not only did music make men mad, but that only madmen indulged in it in the first place.”
“Then you inherit your military talents from him, perhaps?” said Kate idly. “Not many musicians contrive to be the toast of the Wapenshaws as well.”
“Some do: witness Jamie’s drummer who whipped the English off the butts. I never achieved anything spectacular of that sort; I never cared for it.” He ran one hand down the keyboard. “My brother is the athlete.”
“He’s an archer?”
“Sword or bow. He excels at both.”
So there was a brother. “There is such a thing as a born eye for athletics,” observed Kate. “Two of a kind in one family would be a bit trying. It’s probably just as well for the sake of peace that you were differently gifted.”
He agreed with her amiably, returning to his playing. Watching him, Kate found herself thinking of something Gideon had said after his short stay at Crawfordmuir. “It isn’t all done with words either; he makes damned sure of that. He can outshoot them and outfight them and outplay them: he’s got a co-ordination that a hunting tiger would give its hind legs for.”
She drew a little breath and Lymond looked up. After a moment he observed, still playing, “Versatility is one of the few human traits which are universally intolerable. You may be good at Greek and good at painting and be popular. You may be good at Greek and good at sport, and be wildly popular. But try all three and you’re a mountebank. Nothing arouses suspicion quicker than genuine, all-round proficiency.”
Kate thought. “It needs an extra gift for human relationships, of course; but that can be developed. It’s got to be, because stultified talent is surely the ultimate crime against mankind. Tell your paragons to develop it: with all those gifts it’s only right they should have one hurdle to cross.”
“But that kind of thing needs co-operation from the other side,” said Lymond pleasantly. “No. Like Paris, they have three choices.” And he struck a gently derisive chord between each. “To be accomplished but ingratiating. To be accomplished but resented. Or to hide behind the more outré of their pursuits and be considered erratic but harmless.”
“As you did,” said Kate shrewdly. “Committing the ultimate crime.”
“No,” said Francis Crawford, watching his own fingers slipping down the keys. “Man’s ultimate crimes are always against his brother. Mine, in my competence, my versatility and my self-important, self-imposed embargoes, was against my sister.… For God’s sake,” said Lymond, “don’t speak.”
In the sudden silence she did as he wished, sitting still in her low chair. Then he swore aloud and she looked up, heartened by these expressions of honest rage.
Standing by the window, Lymond regarded her crookedly. “Your fault,” he said. “These were some of the things you wanted to know, weren’t they? And as soon as the pressure was lifted, I started talking about them.… I don’t as a rule inflict my more tawdry