Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [233]
One by one, his first conjectures were discarded. No one had captured Lymond: there was no trace of struggle, and only their own footprints and the tracks of one horse in the soft grass. Nor could it be some flamboyant gesture to relieve him of his decision: horseless, Richard had little chance of reaching Scotland alive.
He looked again at the tracks. They were very recent, and not hurried. Lymond was unable, of course, to ride fast. With sudden decision Culter stooped again, and snatching bow and quiver followed the mare’s hoofmarks out of the clearing. They led him along the banks of the stream, then up a shallow cliff to open grass. He picked them up, running lightly, as they swung out in a wide circle, and alternately studied the ground and the gentle, tree-scattered slopes in front of him. There was no trace of Bryony there. Driving back every apoplectic emotion which might distract him, he concentrated on the ground.
The hoofprints brought him, in a gentle arc, back to his own clearing. He stopped when he realized it, breathing tightly and fast, and waited, resting, his free hand smoothing back his hair. When he had control both of his breathing and of the curious conflict within himself, he went on.
Lymond, lying face down beside the gently cropping Bryony, turned his head and produced a sick, placating grin. Richard exploded.
“This bloody mania for juggling with other people’s guts. You lunatic, if I’d overtaken you back there, I’d have killed you.”
“I thought,” said the Master pacifically, “that it was time to get used to the saddle again. We ought to start north.”
“Quite. And that was only part of what you thought,” said Lord Culter. He tied up the mare and stalked back again with a cup of water, which he dumped at his brother’s elbow. “You like to be sure of your relationships—who doesn’t? But no one else does it by making themselves into a clearing nut for other people’s emotions. If my sentiments are in a muddle,” said Richard angrily, “I damned well prefer them to stay in a muddle, without any interference from you.”
Propping himself on one elbow, Lymond lifted the cup, spilled it badly and set it down again without drinking. He said, “It seems I can now stick on a horse. Therefore we can get back north, beginning tonight if possible. And since, as soon as we move into Scotland, my company will compromise you, we ought to have some issues clear.”
He stopped. Richard said nothing; and his brother went on grimly. “You offered me a reprieve knowing only half the story. You mentioned Mariotta, and what I told you about her was true. You haven’t mentioned Eloise.”
Richard sat down, removed the fallen cup, and set it straight. Then he said, “Look. I don’t share your passion for self-immolation. I don’t want to hear about Eloise, and I don’t want issues made any clearer than they now are. Whatever your conscience has on it, I intend to take you back to Scotland and see you aboard ship. If you can ride, we leave tonight.”
“God,” said Francis with amiable rudeness, between his hands. “What price now the mighty Lar?”
A day later, with Lymond mounted and Richard walking at his side, the two men began the slow journey north.
* * *
Dinner in Lord Grey’s house was served at two o’clock, and he had invited company: Sir Thomas Palmer, his fortifications expert from London, and Gideon Somerville and his young wife Kate.
Katherine, neat as a peach and spruce in grey satin, was not impressed by Berwick, by the meal, or by Willie Grey. With a thoughtful brown eye she watched the salt cellar whisking past her nose—“There you are: Bowes, Brende and Palmer with the horse, leaving tonight and lying at Coldingham”—the ale jug: “Holcroft with the foot, leaving tomorrow and joining the two of you with the horse at Pease Burn”—and the salt cellar again: “Monday, early, Palmer makes contact with Haddington and they give cover while all of you put fresh men into the fort and come back.”
Some of the salt had spilt. Kate threw it