Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [72]
“Well, you gave us a shaking-up all right, Culter,” said Buccleuch. “Thought you were away with the papingo, my lad!”
The Dowager, who had been, for her, unusually silent, remarked at once, “Well, it wasn’t very reassuring, I admit, coming back fo find Richard laid out all bloody in one bed and Mariotta fainting in the next, but then Wapenshaws are notorious, aren’t they? Did anyone remember to ask who got the prize?”
Tom said, “Well I suppose, strictly speaking, they ought to give it to Lymond, but I should put it past even his impudence to claim it.”
“I don’t know.” Mariotta’s voice was detached. “He seems able to do almost anything he wants.”
Agnes, her eyes fixed on Culter, heaved a sigh. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Well, you behaved very sensibly, darling,” said the Dowager. “And now we shall enjoy the gypsies all the more.”
“Gypsies!”
“Yes, of course. From the fair: had you forgotten? And here they are,” said Sybilla.
It was a triumphant example, in the outcome, of her own brand of humane genius. Under the spell of the entertainment, even Mariotta’s taut nerves slackened, and colour came back into her face. Christian Stewart, listening gravely to Erskine’s commentary, sat with her hand on Agnes’s shoulder, thus regulating (but not eliminating) her interruptions, aided by a tactful Sir Andrew. Culter himself lay quietly, his eyes heavy, under the watchful gaze of the Dowager, who was having a long and intermittent discussion at the same time with the leading gypsy.
Toward the end of the performance, and during a phase which involved something noisy with a tambourine and much stamping, she caught Buccleuch’s rather distracted eye, and slipped out of the room, followed by Sir Wat.
Sybilla shut the door on the noise.
“Dod!” Sir Wat, breathing the cold air on the deserted landing, wiped his forehead. “Clever rascals, Sybilla, but not just my meat, y’know.”
“I thought you stood it very well,” commented the Dowager. “And really it’s a great comfort to have you, for I mustn’t bother Richard, and Sir Andrew and Tom are dear boys but a little occupied; and they have their own troubles anyway.”
Sir Wat looked apprehensive, not without reason.
“About the bloodhounds,” said Sybilla.
“Bloodhound yourself,” said Buccleuch, jerked, in his alarm, out of even the nominal form of courtesy he usually practised. “How did you know—”
“Oh, I know Richard,” said Sybilla. “I always could interpret these silences, you know, more easily than half an hour of his brother’s chatter. He was performing very prettily in there, and I’m sure all the girls felt better for it, but I didn’t. What did he ask you to do?”
Buccleuch shrugged, and gave up. “Track down Lymond, of course. There’s the glove, and—you’re right—I still have the dogs at Branxholm.” He looked down at her, an unaccustomed diffidence struggling among the appalling burst-whinbush whiskers.
“He’s been made a fool of—twice, you know,” he said. “Feels like a sulky fat goose in a barrel, being shot at by gutter boys. Can’t stomach it—won’t stand for it. Wouldn’t try to stop him, either.”
“I shall,” said Sybilla.
“Why? Discredits you all—sorry, m’dear—as it is. The boy’s no good to himself or anyone else till it’s settled.”
“Yes,” said the Dowager. “But I shall settle it, not Richard. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be ill? You are a fool, Wat,” she added, with a kind of affectionate resignation. “You know perfectly well word’ll reach England inside forty-eight hours that you’re playing games at Stirling when you’re supposed to be too ill to go and speak nicely to old Grey at Norham.”
Sir Wat accepted the stricture with surprising meekness. “Well, as to that—” He scowled at the landing arras. “That’s what makes it unco knotty, if you want the truth, to do what Richard asked.”
“Which was?”
“Well, to let go everything else and hoe up the country till we find Lymond. We could do it—but—”
“—But in Richard’s present mood, in bringing Lymond to face his deserts, he’s also liable to bring Will Scott to face his,” said the Dowager