Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [61]
How he broke the lock, Hunter never knew, but he afterward wondered if the strength which surged up in him would have done so but for anger at the stupid jibe. He jerked, broke the hold on his legs and threw the other man half on his side, driving off at the same time the predatory fingers feeling for his throat. Then he flung himself on his opponent. The clenched figures rolled over completely, then again; a fine stool splintered, its prowling leopards bifurcated, and a row of medicine bottles fell from the bedside table with a tympanitic crash. Catherine Hunter, her eyes like charcoal above her bound mouth, stared without expression at her son. Crouch, pink with emotion, watched, squirming in his bonds.
Hunter was on top. He wanted to shout, but all the power of his lungs was occupied in driving his body: the sound of both men’s breathing was like tearing cloth. Feeling the black eyes on him, Hunter set his teeth and grinned; then, listening to his muscles speaking, exerted all his force to flatten the other’s body and approach the twisting throat with his thumbs. The masked figure writhed desperately; its arms threshed; it began to go limp. Sir Andrew, his fingers finding and burying themselves at last in the flesh over the great vessels, threw caution to the winds and, raising himself, exerted all his power in pressing on the neck below him. He had an instant’s vision of eyes screwed, not in pain, but a kind of barbarous hilarity, and then booted feet curled themselves neatly and smashed into his unguarded and exposed groin; one of the searching hands, now armed with iron from the hearth, cracked open his face and beat him back as he knelt, retching; then Black-mask, rising, threw away his andiron and bent over him.
Hunter, racked with the torments of the damned, heard him say through the throbbing in his brain, “Come along, Dandy … observe the modus operandi … How can thou float … without feather or fin.” He was gripped by wanton arms, balanced a moment, helplessly convulsed, and then with a sickening wrench sent hurtling across the room. Chairs, candlesticks, books, fell. The world vanished in a bloody mist, reappeared inspissate with pain, disappeared. Playful, inhuman fingers rested on his collar, hooked below it, and methodically began to flay his head against the high gloss of the tiles.
The voice said, erratically, “Who … falls upon rushes, falls soft; beware of … vain pride in terrestrial treasure, Sir Andrew. And … doused lights … and fireirons … and wrestling in slippers.” He was released, and lay, three parts unconscious, looking up at his tormentor.
“And of tempting me further,” said Black-mask, smiling. “I have come to see your little English friend, Sir Andrew; but I’ll break you a limb in the Turkish style as often as you like.…”
Hunter, drowning in tides of nausea, closed his eyes, and shut out the mask, and the black, unwinking eyes in the bed.
VII
A Variety of Mating Replies
For suth ye Rok in to his first moving …
He may nocht pass, nor of his steid to steire,
Quhill knycht or powne is standand hī so nere,
And in mydfield, gif he be stedit still,
To four poyntis he passis at his will …
Two rokis may a king alione put downe,
And him depryve of his lyf and his crowne.
1. Play with a Rook Proves Dangerous
THE shop of Patey Liddell, goldsmith, was on the south side of the Middle Raw in Stirling, handy for the Burgh Yett, and only a short walk from St. John Street. It was a tall thin building, with a coloured timber arcade, and outside steps to the first floor where Patey stored his stock, and Lady Culter was sitting having her miniature painted.
From time to time Patey peered down, Cyclops-fashion, to the shop proper through a neat hole in the floor boards, partly to watch for customers, and partly to howl threats at his apprentices, known caustically as the Seven Little Masters, who dwelt among mystic coloured fires