Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [199]
Pursuit sounded now far distant. Ahead, the soft air of her passing pressed freely against her and the sound of birdsong came from great distances, as if spread sparkling through the warm air: a singing dust. Singing sand.… Would she ever visit the islands again? Or be with the children? Or Sybilla. Or Wicked Wat. Or the man for whom she was now flying blind, on an uncontrolled horse through the small hills of Redesdale?
Behind, swooning on the air, rose a great shout. It rolled, remote and hollow, over the moor, and sank whispering among the flags.
Her pursuers saw, as she did not, the stalking, gem-cut line of the Wall ahead; the clustering gorse bushes and the debris of fifteen centuries which hid the brink of its twenty-foot ditch. Long before that warning cry faded, Christian’s horse had taken those deceptive bushes in its stride; had hurtled into the fossa beyond, trundling, rolling and threshing its broken limbs in agony as the girl, a flash of white arms and dusty skirts and dark red hair, tumbled with him.
Margaret Douglas stood and watched Gideon’s gentle, bloody hands lift Christian Stewart, the red hair drifting in his face. Then Lady Lennox stooped in turn by the dead horse and with nimble fingers and a sharp knife ripped open first the girl’s pack, and then the trappings.
The cloth gave up its secret immediately. She pulled out a small bundle of papers, separated them, glanced on both sides, and made a curious sound, so close to a laugh that Gideon turned sharply on her. She was refolding the same papers and stuffing them back into the lining where they had been hidden. She did it quite carefully and then stood up, dusting her hands.
One of Gideon’s own men had already helped him lift the quiet figure into the saddle in front of him: there was hardly any pulse. Margaret looked curiously at the unconscious face. “Is there a house nearby where you can take her?”
Kate wouldn’t have recognized the look in Gideon’s eyes. He said levelly, “My home isn’t far away. She may as well die among friends.”
The black eyes raged at him: Margaret also had had a shock. “It’s hardly my fault if my bowman tries to stop a prisoner from escaping. That’s what he’s paid for.” She kicked the saddle and its furniture. “You’d better take that, too. Her family might want it.”
“Is that all you have to say?” said Gideon.
“She was blind. It’s too great a handicap. She’s better out of it,” said Margaret in a staccato voice, and mounted her horse.
“Was that her sin?” said Gideon, watching the cavalcade move off. “I had come to fancy it might be something quite different.”
3. The Last Move
When Lymond set foot for the third time in Flaw Valleys, Gideon went downstairs to greet him slowly, and found his upturned face abounding with an electric vigour which quite overlaid the marks of his journey.
“I’m sorry,” he remarked ebulliently when his host was halfway down. “Adhesive as St. Anthony’s pig. Qu’on lui ferme la porte au nez, il reviendra par les fenêtres. Thank you for your messages: your name will fly tetragrammaton round the world, and this fair blind Fortune will be made immortal. I’ve asked your henchmen to lock up an indignant gentleman who was leading me to Lord Grey and here I am. Where is she? How can we free her?—and what, my God what, did she learn from Samuel Harvey?”
It was worse than Somerville expected: it was frankly damnable. After just too long a space, as Lymond’s face already began to alter, Gideon said bluntly, “She’s freed herself. There’s nothing to do. I wish to God you’d never got my message.” And added, regaining proper hold of his tongue, “There’s been an accident.”
As he expected, Lymond took the news undemonstratively, in answer to his training; however much the flesh might shrink and melt, the sarcophagus was decently void of temperament. “Where is she?”
“Kate is with her upstairs. She hasn’t much time. I’ll take you to her.”
“Thank you.” An automatic reply, and an automatic climbing of the stairs. As they went, Gideon