Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [40]
Thus Richard, escorting Lady Herries north to stay with his mother at Stirling.
It was a miserable day. Saturday’s golden autumn had given way to a wet and sullen Sabbath; the rain dripped from the small feathers in Culter’s cap, and showers of drops from Agnes’s hood shook onto her nose.
Lest this should be misconstrued, she blew into a sodden handkerchief for the twentieth time and rode stiffly on.
Lady Herries had her own resources. Bodily, she might be damp, cold and in Lanarkshire: in spirit she was with troubadour and minnesinger in the fields of romance. There, in passages of chivalry and courtship, the heroine—thirteen, lovely and highborn—was immutable. The hero, true to legend, was apt to reassemble under pressure into different shapes. The Baroness’s eyes at present were fixed on Lord Culter’s prosaic back: her lips moved slightly as she rode.
“Daphne! Vision! Shining she-lamb!” Bowing, the prince removed his cap, the little feathers wet with rain. Crying, he said—
“Devil take the rain; there’s someone coming. Anyone recognize the standard?” said Richard sharply. His lordship, looking slit-eyed through the downpour, was insensitive to ruined fantasy at his heels. “Frank! Job!” The two riders in front increased speed for a bit, then wheeled. “It’s Sir Andrew Hunter, sir, and some of the Ballaggan boys.”
In a moment the two parties met. “Dandy! Echoes from civilization at last. What’s happening up north?”
Sir Andrew greeted him smiling, shoulders hunched. “Worse than the time old Scott’s patent water system broke down. I’ve just left your wife and mother—flourishing both—everyone’s safe so far.… Look,” said Hunter. “We’ll drown if we exchange news here. Come with me to Ballaggan—you could do with something hot inside you anyway. Who’s the lassie?”
Lord Culter explained and introduced, and the two parties struck off in company for Hunter’s house. The rain ran interminably down Agnes’s nose. Covertly, she studied Sir Andrew.
Slimmer, and with better hands than Lord Culter. Lord Culter never joked. She liked dark men with a twinkle in the eye.
The prince, a slender dark man …
But again, they had halted. The Nith, which lay between themselves and Ballaggan, ran unusually fast and high at their feet, and an outrider who drove his horse in at the ford thudded out again, wet to the stirrups.
Culter was studying the river with some misgiving. “I doubt the women oughtn’t to try.”
For answer, Hunter dropped down the bank and himself rode into midstream. The horse staggered a little with the force, foam gathering at its hocks, but after a moment mastered its footing and stood firm. He called, “They can’t get wetter than they are already. Put a line of horse upstream to break the current. I’ll come back and lead you over.”
He splashed back, and giving decorous permission, Agnes was lifted up into Lord Culter’s saddle where he held her firmly, left-handed, the reins in his right. The prince, repigmented instantly from black to brown, pressed his horse into motion while the she-lamb, cheek to chest, approved the even beats of his heart. The impartial grip redoubled; the horse entered the water, and the heiress closed her eyes.
Discomfort claimed her. The saddle poked and prodded; the powerful feet threw up snatches of spray, and she was rubbed, pricked and jagged by Culter’s unaccommodating attire. He began moreover to talk to the horse. Mild resentment overtook her.
When they were halfway over, there was a sickening lurch. Culter exclaimed sharply; the pommel drove sharply into the girl’s side and briefly the sky was made, blackly, of a shaking, arched mane. Then horse, rider and heiress fell, stirrups free, and in a bruising splash of colliding bodies, Agnes Herries hit the water. Wrenched from periastral dreams she became Lady Herries, just thirteen years old, and