Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [46]
Scott, knowing him less than sober, was unstartled. He nodded.
“Then you should recognize an opening for smothered mate. Which reminds me: copy that, will you? Unless you still despise my cunning clerking?”
This had once been a sore point with Scott: now he had other things on his mind. Taking Lymond’s letter, he remarked, “I suppose you know the men are getting restless, sir?” and was lucky to get instant backing.
“God, you’ve hit it.” Mat, entering, yawned and eased his shoulders. “Too much intrigue, sir, and too little rape: the boys are as unnatural nervy as water fleas.… And besides,” he added practically, “we’re nigh out of beer.”
The Master, leaning back, crossed his legs. “Good God. I knew we were spendthrifts, lechers and soaks: can we possibly be bored as well?”
This was taken at its face value by Mat. “Well, it’s three weeks since they last had a chance to spend anything, and a month since they had anything to spend.” He added reasonably, “Anything with women and money in it.”
Lymond closed his eyes. “Fie on their labour! Fie on their delight! Must I supply the cattle with toys? No, by God: I’ve affairs of my own to look after.”
There was a pause. Scott stayed dumb, but Turkey’s disapproval could be seen, and even heard. The Master, less characteristically, gave a hiccough of laughter. “Poor Mat. Sic strange, intestine, cruel strife. Alas, father, my mirth is gone. I see you think we must pander to this levity. What do you suggest?”
Turkey Mat’s face broke into a relieved grin. “Well, now; there’s maybe one of the Douglas houses would repay a visit. Or Cothally Castle—Seton’s away? Or a nice puckle sows from the Malinshaw—”
“Grey of Wilton’s in Hume Castle,” said Scott.
“Or there’s old Gledstanes, who broke his bond to us last month—”
“—If you took Grey—”
“—And Jardine of Applegarth must have got a consideration from Wharton—”
“—If you took Grey, you could set Arran and the Protector bidding against each other for him. Damn it, am I invisible?” said Scott, irritated, as Lymond’s eyes remained speculatively on Mat.
Absently, Lymond shook his head. “Fond Folie, sall I be thy Clark? And answer thee ay, with Amen?” He bent a cornflower-blue gaze on Scott. “One: have you seen Hume since it was fortified? I thought not. Two: we should be outnumbered roughly four to one. Three: this is a diversion, not an act of war; and four: you have a hole in one elbow, and I wish to God you’d keep your boots clean.”
Scott did not bother to look down. He persevered. “If the men will follow me, will you give me leave to try it on my own?”
The Master was flippant.
“And he took out his little knife
Loot a’ his duddies fa’
And he was the brawest gentleman
That was amang them a’.…”
He grinned and got up. “Not yet, my Hinnysopps. My gentlemen are quaint cattle. You must teach them to trust you before you set up as their Rex Nemorensis.… Well, Mat!” He clapped Turkey on the shoulder. “Go summon the sheep before the wolf, and we’ll see.”
By the time the Master walked onto the broken dais and hitched himself on the edge of a board, the men were alerted and waiting, chewing, hugging their knees in the straw, and reasonably quiet.
Lymond collected eyes; began: “A number of curious blunders have come to light, gentlemen, which seem to be of a piece with your general behaviour over the last week …” And finished ten retching minutes later with: “I would remind you that you’re here to carry out orders, not to discuss them. That’s the only reason you are here, and not in quicklime at the crossroads. Disobey me in action or in spirit, gentlemen, and you’ll stay alive for much longer than you want to.…” Absolute silence.
“That being so,” continued the Master gently, “I want volunteers for work tomorrow night. No one who isn’t ready to exert his talents to the fullest need trouble. The rest can put up a hand. Now!”
The hands rose, slowly at first, then multiplying. Behind their chief’s back, Scott and Turkey scanned the hall. Every arm was up.
The shadow of a smile crossed