Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [6]
Sybilla pulled herself together. “Wat knows how to argue, heaven knows. Why not explain?”
“Because Buccleuch isn’t a plaster saint and Will would drive the Archangel Gabriel to lunacy and drink,” said Lady Buccleuch with candour. “Wait till you hear him on the subject of perjury, patriotism and divided loyalties. The last time he trailed his coat Wat and he were shrieking at one another in five minutes like the Ghibellines and the Guelphs. Damn them both,” she said thoughtfully, “for a couple of sumphs,” and paused, her gaze suddenly sharpening.
Sybilla, her smile unimpaired, caught her daughter-in-law’s eye smartly as Lady Buccleuch spoke again. “You’ve heard Lymond’s back.”
For an instant the clever blue eyes focused. Then Lymond’s mother, turning, said, “Oh, Mariotta, my dear. The gypsies. I expect they’ve finished supper below, and it might be safer to send them away before Richard and the horses come back. Although they looked very honest. Could you … ?”
Between Mariotta and the Dowager Lady Culter there was perfect rapport. Mariotta laughed and instantly took herself off to see the gypsies dismissed.
“So fortunate that they came,” said Sybilla, “—with the extra musicians being held up; although acrobatics are not my favourite entertainment. And what do you intend to do about Will?”
“We weren’t discussing Will,” said Lady Buccleuch with brief exactitude. “As you perfectly well know, I was talking about Lymond.”
“Yes,” said the Dowager. “Yes, I remember; and yes, I know he’s been seen about. So they say.”
With difficulty, Janet transfixed the wandering blue eye. “Sybilla. What about this marriage of Richard’s and Lymond?”
“It makes no difference. None at all. Lymond never could be Lord Culter as things are. Even his own estate of Lymond was forfeited when he was outlawed. There isn’t another heir. If Richard and Mariotta both died, the whole fortune would go to the Crown.”
“He couldn’t succeed Richard now, certainly,” said Janet. “But if the English took over? Criminals at the horn with the right kind of politics have died in silk sheets before now.”
“So they say. Perhaps it’s lucky then,” said Sybilla, “that this criminal has cheated his way out of favour with every party in Europe. Did you try some brazil on your curtains?”
And this time, Lady Buccleuch took the hint.
Mariotta was returning from her errand by the wheel stair when she heard the horses in the courtyard and guessed that Richard and his train were coming in. The requirements of dignity fought with a wifely desire to scamper below. She was hesitating still when footsteps turned the stair corner below and an alien and unknown yellow head rose from the serpentine depths, a nautilus from the shell.
Young and exhibitionist by temperament, Lady Culter gathered her skirts, darkly glowing, and just missed a simper. “Can I help you, sir?”
Norman fairness recognizing Celtic darkness howled like a cluricane. “I’ve got the servants’ stair again. This place was built by mouldiewarps for mouldiewarps, and to the devil with lords and gentlemen. Jennie, m’joy, where is thy master? The traces d’amour? The path to a Culter? Any Culter: old Lady Culter, young Lady Culter, or his middle-aged lordship … ?”
If she thought the mistake genuine, it was only for a moment. Then: “A rather primitive sense of humour, surely?” she said pleasantly. “My husband has not yet arrived, but his mother the Dowager is upstairs. I shall take you to her, if you like.”
A crow of delighted laughter answered her. “A Culter, and bad-tempered, and black. Come dance with me in Ireland.”
“I,” said Mariotta firmly, “am Lady Culter. I take you to be a friend of my husband’s.”
He came to rest two steps below her. “Take what you like. Yellow doesn’t suit you,