Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [55]
He was beaten to the knees, and knew it.
Riding knee to knee with the Cleg, one of the ten whom his own recklessness had nearly killed, he had muttered some sort of apology.
The Cleg had received it with no more than his usual vacant good humour.
“Marry, man, that’s just the way it goes,” he’d said. “The Maister gave us our choice—twa-three hours in jail with you, he said, or ride bare-arsed with him an’ get a new set o’ clothes for it; and mindin’ I catch cold easy, I chose to come wi’ you. Not but what,” he said warmly, “I never saw a loon put up wi’ all what you put up wi’, for a scatterbrain scheme like yon. They must have fair bashed the brains out o’ ye.”
Scott covered a burning eye with one hand. “You mean Lymond told you I’d be asking for volunteers to go to Hume with me?” It was, of course, impossible. He had only decided yesterday to contradict Lymond’s own express orders not to go to the castle.
The Cleg said, “Ay, like I told you. He gave us all our choice, an’ told us forbye you’d maybe not let on the plan to us, as you’d likely take a fair bashing.” He smiled cheerfully. “I ken you dinna think we’d keep our mouths shut, but ye’ll admit we did ye proud the day.”
“You did indeed,” said Scott, and turned his head away from the ungrudging admiration in the Cleg’s eyes.
At ten miles, they overtook Mat with the pack horses, Lymond’s own bunch of riding hacks, their clothes, and the remaining cart: the genuine English prisoners were already, Scott gathered, on their way, bound, to Melrose—the job ostensibly given to himself.
In the short breathing space before they set off again, Scott dismounted and, moving stiffly, walked forward to where Turkey and the Master were having a brief conversation.
“S’wounds,” said Mat. He eyed Scott’s face. “It looks to me as if someone has sat on our William.”
The Master turned, passementerie glittering. He might have changed sex, so complete was the change from the haughty, choleric Don.
“Barbarossa! We are covered with admiration. An actor manqué, my dear, to convince them so thoroughly that you expected to perish directly. You have had,” he said inquiringly, “a little accident to the mouth?”
Busy as they were, the men around them were not deaf: the nearest, taking the remark at its face value, grinned sympathetically at Scott. It was obvious they had all known of the double plan—except him. Obvious, too, that they assumed to a man that he knew as well.
So there it was. First, corporal punishment, carefully applied. Next, spiritual chastisement—and not the obvious, open ridicule. Not with Lymond. Instead, the dreadful humiliation of accepting his own reputation, intact, from the chastising hand. That, and the corollary that Lymond found him so inconsiderable that he could cheerfully add to his stature.
What now? Reject the heroic role Lymond had prepared for him? He could explain that the Master had goaded him into a private attempt to take Grey: had made an opportunity for him to do it; had foreseen that he would bungle it; and had in fact based his entire plan on that certainty … and on the genuineness of the apprehension that he, Scott, would betray inside Hume. He could easily say all that, and earn himself the biggest guffaw since Cuckoo-spit hooked his own ears at the salmon.
Young Scott heaved a long sigh, and meeting the sardonic blue eye, said flatly, “Not an actor, an apprentice … but I hope to learn. And one day to be able to play without the gift of a pawn.”
The glittering eyes appraised him. “Certainly. But next time take care, or you may be receiving the Bishop, with appropriate rites. Any questions?”
One puzzle still nagged. “How,” asked Scott, “did you know that the leader of the