Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [260]
“Are your teeth sewn up?” demanded Buccleuch. “You’ve been busy enough chattering all around Edinburgh up till now.”
Will said resentfully, “Lauder stopped me twice, but he won’t again. I’ll damn well …”
“Dod, d’ye need a dub and whistle? Bawl it out, man, and he canna stop ye.” He grinned reminiscently. “Your man has George Douglas’s measure, anyway. There’s no proof one way, but thanks to Douglas there’s no proof the other, either.”
Scott said grimly, “Does it matter? They’ll have him nailed down with the original indictment. All the evidence is on their side this time.”
Buccleuch grunted, observing his son’s expression. “I’ve seen Henry Lauder up to the oxters in evidence and still lose a case,” he said mendaciously. “I’m off to the house for a dish of eggs. If you’re staying with Culter, find out about that little mare of his. If I get some siller for this fellow Palmer I’ll think about buying her after all.”
Scott had already nodded and moved away when the sense of this penetrated. “Palmer?”
Buccleuch grinned. “High and mighty Sir Thomas Palmer, the engineer. Did ye not know? I took him after the raid last month.”
“Where is he?”
“In the Castle with the rest of them. A wild lot, I’m told. Why?”
“Nothing,” said Scott, and made for the street so fast that he jammed himself in the doorway with his sword.
* * *
Big Tommy Palmer, former captain of the Old Man at Boulogne, former knight-porter of Calais, former overseer of petty customs, former gentleman-usher and popular companion of King Henry VIII, had been a prisoner of war once before, in France, and although financially unembarrassed by this second mishap was spiritually much discomfited and in need of cheering up.
At his request, he and a dozen of his own men had been put together in one medium-sized room in the Castle. They were all men of good standing and of reasonable value in cash, so the room was pleasant, with carved oak panelling, slightly chipped; a small-paned window looking sheer down the Castle rock into the loch, and a low, thick door with an adequate guard outside it.
Will Scott found it less easy than he had expected to get in. He finally managed it only with the help of Tom Erskine, and then on the pretext of discussing with Palmer his father’s plans for his ransom.
Since in fact he had nothing to discuss, the business aspect of his talk with Sir Thomas came to an early end, and Tom Erskine moved to go. But captivity by this time was boring Palmer; he was willing to go on talking, and Scott was in no hurry to leave.
They exchanged politely some of the current gossip of both courts and touched chastely and with mutual interest on the characters of some of the less powerful but more public figures in each. One or two of Palmer’s companions joined in.
Erskine, aware that it was nearly time to make for the Tolbooth and taking only a detached interest in the talk, found the engineer rather likable: a man in his late fifties with grey beard and bright curling hair. Between hair and moustache the skin was red-brown with the sun; his much-wired front tooth sparkled like a trout rising in still water when he laughed, which was often.
Tom was so busy watching Palmer that he missed Scott’s move to open his purse. When they brought a small table and put it between the two men, Erskine was surprised. He was more surprised to see Palmer gaze on it as a mother elephant on the prize of some interminable gestation.
On the table lay a small pack of playing cards. “Hold me hand,” said Tommy Palmer. “If you’d offered me the throne of China and Helen of Troy thrown in, I’d still choose the tarots. You’ll not miss them?”
“Not at all. Glad to leave them,” said Scott politely. And to Erskine’s astonishment he added, “I’ll start you off with a game, if you like,” and sat down to hearty expressions of Palmer’s glee. Erskine tapped the boy on the arm. “The time, Scott. We ought to be going.”
The carroty head turned vaguely. “There’s time for one game, surely. You go on if you want to. I’ll follow.” He was already shuffling the cards.