Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [41]
Intense cold, and a weight pulling her down. Waterlogged hair, like a curtain of weed on her face, filtering air bubbles through a throat choked with water. A seething clamour in the head and a bubbling voice—her own.
A gasping voice—someone else’s. Then a hand, shuddering with effort, in her armpit, and another hand ripping the cloak from her throat, wringing her hair off, exposing her face. An agony of air; an interval of bumping and pressure that hurt, and then of retching that hurt worse, her cheek pressing on mud. And then, at last, she heard a voice clearly. “My God, we need practice at that. Shall we do it again?” said Lord Culter.
2. A Knight Wins an Exchange
They put her to bed, wrapped in woollens, and she slept, weak and full of hot milk, until the daylight had gone.
Below, in the overornate hall, Lord Culter lay in a lugged chair, displaying collected impassivity once more, bathed and with his cuts dressed, and wearing a loose gown borrowed from Sir James Douglas, their host.
For they were in a Douglas household, instead of Hunter’s elegant, exhausted estate of Ballaggan. Alone and without help, Richard had brought Agnes Herries ashore: his own men were upstream and Andrew Hunter, far ahead, had been deaf to his shouts. But afterward, warned by the commotion, he had raced to their aid, wrapped the girl in his own cloak and carried both swimmers to Drumlanrig, the cavalcade following. Ballaggan was nearly an hour’s journey away and could wait. These two could not.
The house of Drumlanrig was full of Douglases, and whether sincere or not, their welcome was a suitable blend of shock and cordiality. From Lord Culter they heard simply that his horse had put his near hind in a pothole; but listening to Hunter they were left in no doubt that Richard had saved the girl’s life.
Downstairs the owner of Drumlanrig had demanded the whole tale yet again for his wife’s two brothers, the Earl of Angus and Sir George Douglas. Sly and splendid as a half-tamed leopard, Sir George had smiled; and the Earl, lissom Royal lover of thirty years ago lost in alcoholic fat and sparse beard, had been free if trite with his compliments.
The evening passed. Most of the household went early to bed. Sir James and Angus had gone and silence lay on the three still sitting before the big fire. In his deep chair, Culter was motionless, his face lost in shadow. Andrew Hunter glanced at him, and Sir George Douglas, alert on the second, said, “He’s asleep, I think. Did you wish to say something private?”
Sir Andrew smiled gratefully. “Not at all. But I did want to open up a small matter of business.” He went on, with some hesitation.
“You may not know, but a cousin of mine, a great favourite of Mother’s, was taken in ’44, and has been in Carlisle ever since.” He paused awkwardly. “I have a good little estate, you see, but not a very profitable one, and Jeff has no other relatives—”
“But of course,” said Sir George with fine courtesy. “Not a word more. I shall be delighted. How much … ?”
Hunter flushed a deep red. “No. I—It’s true we can’t pay what they ask. But if, for example, I could repay in kind …”
“An exchange of prisoners? Yes, I suppose that would be one way out.”
“So I went to Annan. But I was unlucky,” Hunter said, flushing again. “And then I heard—”
“—That I have a prisoner,” said Sir George. “Yes, I have. With a fearful stock of conversation—I’ve forgotten his name—Couch, or Crouch.” He thought for a bit while Sir Andrew watched, his face a little anxious.
Then Douglas said pleasantly, “All right. I’ll sell him to you for a hundred crowns. You needn’t feel it’s charity; and I expect it’s a good deal less than they were asking for your cousin.”
“Yes … I’m afraid it is charity,” said Hunter rather ruefully. “You could probably sell him yourself for—”
“—Very little,” said Sir George dryly, crossing a superb leg in blue silk. “Don’t worry: he’s yours. Will you send