Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [53]
“Oil!” said Grey rather hollowly.
“And the patronimico,” continued Don Luis with undiminished helpfulness. “It is del Escocia, of Scot.”
“Thcot!” said Grey. His face suddenly lightened. “Wait a moment. Thcott! That’th Buccleuch’th name. Huile—It’th the Thpanith pronunthiathion, idiot, not the Englith. What thoundth like Huile … Will! Will Thcott! Buccleuch’th oldetht son!”
“Idiota?” said Don Luis stiffly, picking out the insult unerringly from the maze of multisyllables. His feet, a tarry mound, were ringed with pools of water from the cloak, and his eyes were narrowed at Grey. “Idiota?”
The secretary saved the day. He took the señor’s arm and murmured in his ear. Phrases floated to his lordship: “defecto de boca … quiere decir ‘ideal’ …” Mr. Myles did his best, and only ceased when entangled with the unforunate word “embarazar.” He flushed bright pink and released Don Luis, now regarding Lord Grey with unconcealed curiosity.
“Perhapth,” said Grey icily, “Don Luith might be given thome help to clean hith feet and a chanth to dreth, and then we will have Mr. Thcott brought up.”
Dudley opened the door. “Woodward! Get those men below into decent clothes, and fetch a suit for the señor.”
Woodward looked doubtful. “We’ve already fixed up the men below, sir, and it’s taken nearly all the spare clothing we’ve got. What’s left wouldn’t be”—he hesitated—“entirely suitable for the gentleman.”
“Then strip it off one of the prisoners,” said Dudley impatiently. “The fellow who led them—Scott’s his name—he’s probably wearing the señor’s own suit.”
Woodward said, “Well, even if he is, sir, it’s no good. It’s in ribbons.”
There was a pause. Then the Spanish gentleman said, very distinctly, “I do not hear aright. I trust one does not ask me to wear clothes of the common soldier with, no doubt, the louse?”
They saw with apprehension that his brow had blackened again.
Grey said, “Dudley …”
“Too small, sir,” said Dudley. “Same applies to Woodward and Myles.”
It was true enough. They were all big men, far taller than Don Luis.
Another short, pregnant silence. Dudley and the lieutenant stared into middle space. Mr. Myles thought of something.
“He’s just about your own height, your lordship, if I may say so,” he said co-operatively.
Mr. Woodward murmured “Well played, sir!” under his breath and continued to look woodenly at the wall. Mr. Myles looked surprised.
Lord Grey allowed to lapse the longest possible interval consistent with civility. He then said without any sign of gratification, “Of courth. I am afraid I require my riding clotheth, but I would be happy, naturally, to therve the theñor with my thpare dreth.”
The señor, it was apparent, was also happy. So, too, were Dudley and Woodward, but circumspectly so.
* * *
Scott was pitchforked into Grey’s room an hour later.
His lordship, courtesy worn a little thin, sat again at his desk; Dudley, Woodward, Myles and some others at his side and by the window. Beside the desk lounged an elegant gentleman in tawny velvet, with combed black curls and a diamond in one ear.
“Thith,” said Lord Grey, “ith Don Luith Fernando de Cordoba y Avila, of the forthe of Don Pedro de Gamboa, therving under the King’th Majethty in the North. I believe you had the impertinenthe to capture and unbreech him earlier tonight.” That took the smile off his majesty’s face, he noted sardonically. Scott stared.
Don Luis de Cordoba uncrossed long, exquisite legs, rose languidly from his chair, and strolled toward the prisoner. He contemplated him, face to face in silence, through half-closed eyes, blue as cornflowers. Then, before Scott had time to dodge, he brought the percussion of his right hand with the savagery of a machine across the boy’s swollen lips.
Blood from the smashed mouth welled and poured.
“We have a proverb, Señor Huile,” said Don Luis sweetly. “Aunque manso tu sabuesso, no le muerdas en el beco.”
Scott moved bleeding lips. “Hay un otro, Señor Luis. Ruin señor cria ruin servidor.”
The malicious