Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [219]
The hoofbeats, like harried spirits, followed the tolling of the bell. Stokes, signalling silence, went himself to the miniature door and then fell back, the grin on his face red-lit by the low fire. It was Tom Erskine.
He was barely inside when Richard’s hands seized his shoulders. “Well, damn you: well?”
Erskine, looking queerly, jerked free. “We’ve stopped the message being delivered. Acheson was carrying it in his head.”
“And Lymond?”
Nothing else and no one else mattered. Erskine’s own gaze, newly fierce, newly level, beat down Richard’s to the floor before he answered curtly. “They loathed and feared Lymond. If you believed he was England’s secret insurrectionist, you’re wrong. He killed Acheson himself.”
There was no real change in the fanatical grey eyes. Richard said, “Where is he?”
Someone had already unloaded Erskine’s horse. The heavy roll lay near the fire: bending, Erskine turned back the blankets.
Devoid of mischief or anger; silent; defenceless; Richard’s brother lay at his feet. Erskine knelt by the plastic body, clothed and clotted with blood, and touched Lymond’s hand.
“Is he dead?” They stared, like men mesmerized. Erskine said abruptly, “Stokes: collect the horses and get the men out. The job’s done. We can’t risk staying any longer. Quickly.”
The exodus began against Lord Culter’s unmoving figure. He repeated himself, without raising his voice. “Is he dead?”
Erskine’s face was as hard as his own. “He won’t survive an hour on horseback. We must leave him.”
Richard swore coldly. “Damn it, how can we? He knows all Acheson knew.”
“Then he can tell it to the pigeons,” said Erskine harshly, and flung wide the rugs. “How long d’you think he’ll live like that?”
“Someone might find him.”
“All right. Someone might find him. That’s your concern: he’s your brother. That’s why I brought him back. This is one decision I’m not making. I saw him risk his life to kill that fellow today.”
There was no softening in Richard’s face. “He had to choose between Grey and you, and he plumped for the likelier prospect, that’s all.… Justifiably: you rescued him, didn’t you?” His fingers slid up and down the quillons of his sword. There was a pause; then he pulled them away. “No. I’m damned if I do. I want him killed publicly and lawfully and painfully and fully conscious, at least. Take your men and get on the road. I’ll stay and get him home later.”
They were alone; they could hear the trampling as the horses were brought up outside. Erskine said, “You’ve fought him once already: isn’t that enough?”
The firelight glinted in Richard’s eyes. “Do you think he’s innocent? I’m willing to save his life: what’s wrong about that? And if he’s guiltless he’ll have a chance to prove it: what’s fairer?”
Someone called to them through the doorway. Erskine stepped outside and returning, threw at Richard’s feet his baggage roll and cloak. “You’ll need these.”
He added abruptly, “Come with us, Richard. Let him alone. You can’t seal him alive in the larder like a bloody wasp with a fly.”
There was no answer.
Erskine had to go. But in the dovecote doorway he glanced back, once. Richard had stooped over his brother and, with excited face, was scanning the engrossing tally of his wounds.
* * *
Long after, Richard himself stood in the doorway, gazing out at the quiet night. Then, moving noiselessly, he collected the wood he needed and stacked it inside.
It was late. The fire, rebuilt under the overhung ledges, glimmered on his brother’s face: the artless, sleeping face of his childhood.
But Lymond was now in the cold sleep close to death. Experienced soldier and countryman, Lord Culter had faced the spilled blood, the spoiled muscle, the split bone with no qualms; and had washed, cleaned and bandaged with steady hands, missing nothing: the scarred hands, the old whippings; the last