Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [195]
If he had been surprised to be saddled at the last moment with a companion, he had no special objection. He pronounced at the outset: “I’ve orders to deliver as fast as possible, and to Lord Grey personally. If he’s not at Berwick, we ride on until we get him. I hope you’re ready for a hard trip.”
The fellow made no difficulty. “Ride as fast or as far as you like. I’ll stay with you.” And side by side Adam Acheson and Lymond cantered in silence under the hot sun.
* * *
The same sun, grilling the steel jackets of Erskine’s troop, added sting and exasperation to the anxious morning as, without pennants or insignia, Culter and Erskine with a dozen men at their heels galloped south.
The porters at Bristo had given them their first inkling that they were chasing two men: “a black, brosy yin on a nice bay, and a swack, smert yin on a chestnut.” The first answered the colouring of the man they knew to carry the papers.
At Linton Brig they stopped again and were lucky enough to find someone who had been up early with a calving. “Aye, sir: a good while ago, and riding like the hammers.…”
At Dunbar they ate on horseback and refilled their flasks, and from a packman, got one more detail. “It stuck in my heid; they were that different: corbie and doo on the ane twig.”
Richard remounted rather quickly and started off; Erskine looked at him sharply but followed, saying nothing.
At Innerwick the description was confirmed; at Cockburnspath the description was specific. Tom Erskine, listening, watched his companion’s face for a moment and then glanced away. Beneath the cold sweat Lord Culter was white, and in his eyes and the set of his mouth lay an exultant and frightened savagery. Smiling, he raised his right arm, and smiling, brought the whip precisely across the heaving rump of his horse.
“I thought so,” he said. “The man on the chestnut is my brother.”
* * *
As the two hunted men raced south, followed by their pursuers, a third retinue set out, this time from Berwick: a leisurely caravan, jewelled with flags and fringes. Margaret Lennox was travelling south, and taking the Stewart girl with her.
Since yesterday, and a stormy interview with Lord Grey, Lady Lennox had known that Harvey was dead. And further, that Lady Christian Stewart, now back in Berick awaiting her ransom, had spent much more time with Samuel Harvey than she had allowed to appear. It was then that, with Grey’s reluctant permission, Margaret decided to take Christian Stewart to her own home of Temple Newsam.
So it happened that while Lymond and his brother neared the Border, Christian, moving away from them, arrived at Warkworth Castle on the first stage of her weary journey south. There, high above the looped and shining Croquet she lay safely behind dusty curtains, listening to the dandling of moored boats and breathing the savour of the sea—and wondering if she had given anything away under the ceaseless questioning of the day.
She had told of her encounter with Lymond at Boghall, accounting thus for her interest in securing Harvey’s address for him. She had shown mild alarm when told of the dissipations of her protégé. She had even, with a bitter effort, hidden her rage and fear when Margaret told her that Francis Crawford was being demanded as the price of her own freedom.
Had he escaped from Threave? If he had, these people knew nothing of it. If he hadn’t, then the Queen Dowager, spurred by Erskine and Lady Fleming, would certainly agree to the exchange and Lymond, for nothing, would throw away his life.
Or worse, if he escaped and heard of her plight, he would come of his own accord. She was realist enough to recognize that his code of conduct would demand it, and that he would do no less for Will Scott, or for Johnnie Bullo, or for any dependent