Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [43]
Angus was contemptuous. “God’s Mass, George: there’s bigger game than governerships and pensions. Edward’s sickly. Look at him. And our Queen’s four years old: well, they die like flies at that age. Arran’s a fool. So’s Lennox; but he’s married to Margaret. And Margaret’s heir to—”
“Heir to nothing,” said Sir George wearily. “You know perfectly well Henry of England disinherited her from the succession in the midst of his uxorial fluctuations. And on top of that, she had a cracking row with him the week before he died, and he cut her out of his will. Edward, Mary Tudor, Elizabeth and then the Suffolk infants. Not a word of his own niece.”
“Yes. Well. She’s highly strung.”
“Highly strung! God, Archie, that wasn’t what you called her mother.”
“Oh, be quiet, George,” said the head of the Douglases. “What do you want, anyway? The trouble with you is, you keep letting the Protector push you too far. One of these days, the Scottish Queen Dowager will see what you’re up to, and then bang goes Douglas and Drumlanrig, Dalkeith, Coldingham, Tantallon and your fine neck into the bargain.”
“On the other hand,” said Sir George painstakingly, “if the Protector feels we are insufficiently helpful, he sends in a raiding party, and bang they all go just the same.” He studied his brother’s heavy, once-handsome face. He had never in his life had to worry about searching questions from Archie, and he was thankful now that it was the same old ground.
His sister’s husband, Sir James, said a little petulantly, “You’re talking as if the invasion was over for good. Is the Protector really going south?”
“Oh, yes.” Sir George smiled. “He’d only food for a month, and he didn’t get the local support he’d expected—notably from the Douglases, Archie: now d’you wonder that I’ve been so forthcoming with him? Then a really nasty political mess flared up in London: be thankful, dear, that you have a prudent brother. The Protector’s young twig of fraternity is graithing himself a nice sharp axe for Tower Green.”
He tilted the ruby on his finger, and a beam of sunlight ran over a sardonic cheekbone.
“Andrew Dudley’s stuck with an English garrison at Broughty; Luttrell at St. Colme’s Inch; and that senile idiot Lady Hume persuaded to give up Hume Castle. He’ll fortify Roxburgh, most likely, on his way south, and supply ’em all through the winter from Berwick and Wark.” He grinned. “An entertaining prospect, isn’t it?”
Angus and Sir James looked gloomy. “And what then?” asked his brother.
“Oh, well.” Sir George kicked a log into place in the fire. “The Queen Dowager here, of course, will try to get some money and troops out of France. Meantime, the Protector can’t do much: bad roads, difficult supply lines, winter weather and all that. He’ll probably hang out until spring, and then fling in his full strength before the French come, using all these garrisons as jumping-off points.”
He looked consideringly at the Earl. “If I were you, Archie, I should wait until the really bad weather, and then suggest that your precious Lennox comes north with a raiding party. They’ll never do it, but it’ll assure the English of your good will. And then come the spring, why not ask them to send Margaret too? A joint command … that would stiffen Lennox’s back for him!”
Sir James, in painful doubt as to whether this was meant to be humorous or not, said feebly, “And who’ll command from Berwick, I wonder?”
“Who d’you think?” said Sir George. He laughed. “Old Grey of Wilton, recovered from swallowing a billhook, and talking, I’m told, like a featherbed with a leak in it. Do you know Lord Grey, Archie?”
Angus shook his head.
“He’s been in France for years: a clammy, stiff-backed old pike. The billhook, I’ll bargain, came out lichened over.” He laughed again. “The first encounter between the old lad and Lord Wharton I shall see or die. They’ll be heaving each other’s guts out of the window.”
“Well,” said the Earl of Angus crossly, “what’s so funny about that? … You’re a weird sort of devil, George,” said his brother with the flatness