Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [193]
“I must ask him when I find him,” said Lord Culter.
“Dod,” said Buccleuch caustically, “I’m glad to hear he’ll survive long enough to listen to ye.”
“Oh … he’ll survive,” said Richard. “For a long time, after he’s caught. I’m in no hurry. None at all.”
“Poor devil,” said Buccleuch perfunctorily, and finished his beer.
* * *
Next day, behind closed doors in Edinburgh, it was agreed that the young Queen Mary should be sent to France as soon and as secretly as possible.
The plan was both simple and brilliant. In eight days’ time, four galleys would lift anchor in the Forth and sail not south, but around the north coast of Scotland, stopping at Dumbarton on the west, where the Queen would embark. So, while Lord Grey and the English fleet rubbed and fretted at an empty mousehole, the galleys of France would be sailing safely home.
The meeting broke up quietly. Lord Culter, leaving Holyrood with Buccleuch, crossed first to Tom Erskine and, making a rare gesture, put a hand on his shoulder. “Any news yet about Christian?”
Tom’s eyes flickered from Culter to Buccleuch and back. “She’s at Berwick,” he said slowly.
“Safe? Dod, you’re a lucky man,” said Sir Wat bracingly. “It’ll drain your purse to buy her, maybe, but at least ye’ll have her back before ye get that meagre that ye slip down the town stank.”
There was no answering smile. Erskine said wearily, “We’ve just had a message from Lord Grey. They won’t ransom her. They want an exchange.”
“What?” barked Buccleuch. “An exchange? Who? Who? We haven’t taken any captives that matter since they came north.”
“They think we have,” said Erskine dryly. “They want Lymond.”
* * *
Sir George Douglas’s lodging was in the Lawnmarket. He walked back there from Holyrood in a pleased frame of mind. In his treasury was a large sum of French money which was the price D’Essé had paid for his and Angus’s continuing interest. In his purse was a safe-conduct allowing a messenger to pass freely to England, in order to convey to the Earl of Lennox and to his niece, the Countess, his anguished request for the kindly treatment and quick return of his younger son. He swung into his house, and found there waiting the Master of Culter.
Lymond was very tired. It was clear in his face, and in the steel undisguised through the velvet of his voice. He wanted Samuel Harvey. He made it perfectly understood that it was a matter of blackmail, and that he had no services but only silence to sell in return.
The Douglas brain moved smoothly behind the statesman’s brow. Sir George walked to a cupboard, and as he had done once before, poured two glasses of wine and moved one across. “You look as if you’ve ridden a long way, and to no purpose. I’m afraid neither you nor I nor anyone else will have the privilege of speaking to Samuel Harvey in this world, Mr. Crawford. Harvey is dead.”
The other man did not touch his drink; but neither did his precious control fail him. After a pause, Lymond raised his glass in a steady hand. “Can you prove it?” he asked.
It so happened that Douglas could, and the proof was convincing because, rare among Sir George’s fantasies, the story was true. At the end, when the last servant had left and the man had come to light the tapers, Sir George addressed the Master’s cogitating back. “What will you do?”
Lymond replied without emotion. “Eat, sleep and spend money, I expect. What else does anyone do?”
There was a little silence. Then Douglas, tilting his glass so that the wine caught the light, said gently, “You know Grey is bartering the Stewart girl’s life for yours?”
The reaction this time was instant. Lymond spun around, stopped himself, and put his empty glass on the table. “No. I hadn’t heard.” He stood waiting, his eyes open and unwavering on Sir George while the Douglas, gazing back, extended to these fresh fields his style of gentle apology.
“… Ironic, in a way, Mr. Crawford. If you hadn’t been quite so clever at Heriot, Dalkeith