Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [197]
That brought him to something he had been considering all the previous day. Making sure that the man at his side was sleeping, he drew out a third letter—the letter he had to deliver personally to Lord Grey—and broke the seal.
Shortly afterward he roused his companion and, collecting their tired horses, the two men resumed the last lap of their journey. It was Saturday, the twenty-third of June, and a glorious day.
In less than an hour, Mr. Acheson’s odyssey of frustration had come to a surprising end. They were waylaid.
Acheson had his sword half drawn to deal with the strangers when his silent colleague stopped him, his eyes on their badge. “Wait!” said Lymond. “Were you looking for me?” They were Somerville men.
Acheson let them talk. The man Lymond might look inconsiderable, but he had proved a master of ingenuity in a tight corner. Besides, they had made ground that morning, and he was thirsty. He dismounted, fanning himself with a dock leaf, and was unprepared for the sheer cutting quality of the man who turned back to him.
“What a pity. It seems I’m not coming with you after all,” said Lymond.
Acheson put a hand on his sword, then took it off quickly. It was none of his affair, but he liked to keep on the right side of his employers. “What about this exchange business?”
“Later,” said Lymond airily. “First of all, we are making a small detour by the house of a friend.”
“Then,” said Acheson sensibly, “I’ll go on alone.”
“And tell the others I’m in the neighbourhood? I’m afraid we can’t have that either,” said Lymond pleasantly, and closed in. The black-haired one snarled and lunged, but a crack on the knuckles and another on the head cooled his ardour, if not his rage.
He was blindfolded, disarmed, mounted, and led at a smart trot over the remaining moors to Flaw Valleys.
* * *
Christian had noticed a moroseness about Simon Bogle very soon after her retinue set out for Hexham. He rode in silence, her long reins in his hands, and didn’t even bid her good morning until she had addressed him twice. The deficiency was made up by the Countess of Lennox, who unrolled mellow conversation through the small dales like a Turkey carpet.
By the afternoon, some little sharpnesses and corners began to show through. The conversation took an unexpected turn toward Christian’s fiancé.
“So different in appearance, of course: poor Tom; I shan’t disillusion you. After all, you are affianced to him,” said Lady Lennox. “Although you must have a soft spot for our naughty friend to do what you did for him at Haddington.”
“I like to think,” said Christian steadily, “that I’d do as much for anyone in trouble.”
Margaret laughed. “What an extraordinary person you are! To spend days by the bedside of a dying man, just to ask his address!”
Christian was silent.
“Or was it just his address?” asked Lady Lennox, and the black eyes were sparkling. “Sym didn’t think so, last night. I like your young bodyguard, my dear; but he hasn’t a strong head, has he?”
“Sym!” said Christian sharply. “Damn it … !”
The boy’s voice wailed in her ear. “I was drunk. I didna know what I was saying!”
“He was certainly drunk,” said Margaret’s cool voice.
Christian said again, “Sym—” and checked herself. He was gabbling. “I couldna help it. Ye ken I canna hud up under beer.…”
She made an effort. “It doesn’t matter. Lady Lennox: I depend on Sym for a great many things. There’s nothing to stop you from associating with my servants if you want to, but I’d prefer not to have the younger ones reduced to a state of crapulence for your purposes.”
Irresistible but impolitic. Margaret said blandly, “Am I worrying you? I’m sorry. But there’s nothing wrong in listening to a dying man’s confession; or even in getting it recorded and