Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [192]
He got up slowly, and was unprepared for Richard’s hand chopping masterfully and painfully on his shoulder. “You damned puppy: where is he?”
He reacted as he had been taught: with one smooth violent movement he was out of the other’s grasp and viewing him from a useful distance. “I didn’t come home to be handled,” said Will Scott pleasantly. “My father is outside, I believe.”
“You’ve learned manners to fit your morals, I see. Have you brought your master with you or not?”
“What, again?” said Scott insolently. “I’ve already brought him to Threave at the beginning of the month—did nobody tell you? How often am I supposed to repeat the service?”
Lord Culter wouldn’t show excitement again. “I’ve already asked you. Where is he?”
Scott shrugged. “Who knows? Linlithgow? London? Midculter? He escaped.”
“From Threave!” said Richard.
“Aye, from Threave,” blared a new voice. Buccleuch, sweating, came into the room in his shirt sleeves, sneezed in the cooler air, and bawled for something to drink. “Lifted the latch and walked out. You’d think the damned place was a sieve. Ye see Will’s back?” said Sir Wat unnecessarily. “It was Will got your lassie away from Lymond, you know.”
“A Herculean task, I feel sure,” said Lord Culter. It struck Sir Wat too late that it was no use trying to ingratiate with his lordship any man who had witnessed his wife and his brother together. He dropped the attempt and said, “You’ve come for me? Sit down; sit down. I’m ready packit. I’ve got to take this damned fool anyway to Edinburgh to get a formal pardon for him. What’s happening?”
The answer was brief. “We’re to muster on Monday to attack the English garrison at Haddington.”
Sir Wat put down his beer, and the seamed skin about his eyes puckered alarmingly. “Wait a minute. Have the French promised to attack?”
“On the obvious conditions. You’ll hear them tomorrow. They want the main forts, of course—Dunbar, Edinburgh, Stirling. They have Dumbarton already.”
“By kind permission of her French Majesty. Uh-huh. Well, they might get Dunbar, but I’m damned if I’d let them sniff the threshold of the other two. What else do they want?”
“What they’ve always wanted,” said Lord Culter. “But I think that’s a matter for discussion elsewhere.”
So absorbed was Buccleuch in his calculations that he missed the implication. His son didn’t. Rising, Will said flatly, “Naturally. Any associate of Lymond’s is suspect. I’ll go.”
The door banged, as Buccleuch rounded on his neighbour with a bellow. “There was no need for that! Dod, are ye wandered! It was the laddie who led us to capture Lymond in the first place!”
Richard’s expression did not vary. “I’m not trying to offend you, Wat. But this is one secret nobody dare take risks with. There’s a good chance the country is going to agree to France’s main stipulation, which is—”
“—To send the young Queen to France.”
“Yes. To be brought up at the French court, and to be married in due course as her mother and the French King decide. If we and Parliament agree. Otherwise the French fleet lifts anchor and sails back home without a fight.”
He studied the wayward eyebrows, the falcate nose and the stubborn chin. “Would you agree, Wat? Which side are you for?”
Buccleuch, slapping a hand on the table, heaved himself up. “The same as yourself: what’s the alternative? The Protector’s black face bobbing up the Canongate and France in a huff and making dainty wee steps in the direction of the Emperor? No. We’re stuck like a toggle in a bite, and we’ve got to put up with it.… Are ye in lodgings in town?”
“I’ve taken a house,” said Richard. “In the High Street.”
“And Sybilla?” demanded Sir Wat, with a brilliant lack of tact.
“I’ve no idea what my mother’s movements are,” said Richard. “I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“She’s got your wife back at Midculter,” offered Buccleuch, and pursed his cracked lips so that the whiskers leaped. He said, “Have ye ever