Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [236]
They were Scots. He didn’t know the emblem, but he could recognize defeat: he let them encircle the five of them and waited in silence as the leader trotted forward. Grey, healthy whiskers sprouted from a pugnacious, sweaty face. “Dod,” said the victor, peering at Sir Thomas. “Don’t tell me: it’s on the nether side of my back teeth. Palmer! Am I right?”
“You are, sir, dammit,” said Sir Thomas with a polite snarl.
The whiskers twitched. “Just so. Man, you’re a devil for getting yourself hud by the neb. Ye were nippit in France as well, were ye not?”
Sir Thomas got redder.
“And had to pay your own way out?”
Sir Thomas swore, politely.
“I’m Wat Scott of Buccleuch,” said his captor courteously. “Just so’s your friends’ll know where to send the siller to. Man: you’ll like Edinburgh. It’s a fine town to be in jail in.”
Buccleuch detached half of his men to march Palmer and his companions to Edinburgh, and continued his ride with the rest, whistling.
Sir Wat was pleased with life; so pleased that he ignored the signs of flight all about him, and wished luck to the horse bands, both French and Scottish, who appeared and vanished like flying ants all through the blustering afternoon. After a while, disturbances became less frequent, and he was alone with his own dozen men, crossing rough moorland with no cover and chastened by a small, chilly wind.
Ahead on his right, a bird rose suddenly, vivid black and white, piping above the rustle of foxtail and club rush, and a moment later he saw two horsemen treading slowly where it had been, their faces to the north. He stopped and watched.
One of the figures, cloaked and hooded, he could make nothing of. The other, coatless, solid, unmistakable, was Richard Crawford of Culter.
Buccleuch rode over circumspectly, leaving his men behind without explanation, and brushing a thoughtful hand through his whiskers as he went. Culter turned, and deserting the other rider, trotted gently to meet him, his face brown and watchful above a dirty and ruinous white shirt. He spoke immediately they were within hearing. “Well, Wat. Still intent on appearing at the wrong time in the right place.”
He sounded temperately amused, but Wat’s experienced eye read the tilt of his right arm with accuracy. He cleared his throat. “Glad to see you, my boy. Damned good job you all did at Hexham. Arran likes you again: that ought to make you cheery. They’re going to make the fool a Duke: did ye hear?”
“No. Erskine got back, then?”
“Dod, aye. He said you were taking your own time at his back, but we were beginning to think they’d jumped on you. The plan went off fine: just fine.” He paused again. The second horse was cropping grass, hocks nearest, and the rider, head bent, was sitting badly.
Culter didn’t move, so Wat said bluntly, “Are ye for Edinburgh?”
Richard shook his head.
“Oh.” A curious look came over Buccleuch’s face. He rubbed his nose, spat inelegantly and said, “It’s a sharp wind for July. I won’t say you’re wrong, either. That brat of mine’s a fool, but he’s not bad company now, at that.” He caught the guarded grey eye and cleared his throat again. “Well. I’m for the south. I hope you have a quiet trip. There’s a damned wheen of horsemen clipping about today. Some stramash up the way, I believe.”
“Thank you,” said Lord Culter, and hesitated. “Your men … ?”
“None of their business. Dod, Sybilla will be desperate glad to see you.”
Richard said suddenly, “Tell her …” and broke off and swore, angry alarm displacing the subdued and wary mask. Buccleuch, wheeling, had his own hand on his sword an instant later and then pushed it back, gesturing ferociously at Culter. “Ride, man, ride!”
On the hill behind, a party of Scots came whooping toward them. A second later, and they called Culter’s name. Richard, his horse already moving, twisted, saw the cock pennants and cursed again.