Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [79]
“International incident my—!” said her husband rudely, going red in the face. “Let the Council put the chains on Will, and he’ll be lucky to escape with his silly neck. You wouldn’t be so rarin’ keen to haul him into the light of grace if he were a son of your own, Janet Beaton. And why the sour mouth, pray?” pursued Buccleuch, who on a celebrated occasion had pulled an even sourer. “What unnatural sort of corruption is Will to meet at Lymond’s that’s new in the French court? Credit the boy with more strength of mind than a new-gutted lamp-wick. Or are you maybe not so much worried about Will as anxious to put a bit rope round that yellow-headed cacodemon’s neck? I told you at the time, if you kept your mouth shut, you wouldn’t have got a hole in your shoulder.… Dod!”—as a storm of juvenile complaint exploded in the rafters—“Woman, can you not keep those brats quiet! Some folk,” said Buccleuch to Lord Culter with heavy sarcasm, “have woodworm and weevils. Branxholm has weans.”
Lady Buccleuch was tart. “And whose fault is that?”
“Oh, mine; mine; mine, I suppose,” bawled Sir Wat. “I’m a fair oddity: I can raise my weans in an annual crop like barley all on my own, and I’d think a wife just a plain interference in the business.”
“I wouldn’t just say you were wrong,” said Dame Janet cruelly. “At least you were getting some fine yields, by all accounts, before ever a priest said a marriage service over you.”
“Oh, is it sermons now? You’ll make a bonny figure in a surplice, my lady: Sister Berchta with the long, iron nose and the ae big foot; and it forever slap in someone else’s business.…”
The Buccleuchs, foaming pleasurably, pranced into battle. Richard stood still, his eyes on Sir Wat’s profile: a cheek more than usually red proved that Buccleuch was aware of it. The exchange continued. The argument became corybantic and public; it blared; it stopped. A commotion at the door, a magnetic tumescence of children, a bright voice and a beaming servant announced the unlooked-for arrival of Lord Culter’s mother.
“Sybilla!” Buccleuch, in a spray of cushions and offended dogs, got up and went forward. Janet, her tongue arrested in blistering flight, rose likewise from her coiling threads and hugged the small, self-contained figure. “Come and sit down.”
“Well, Richard!” The Dowager, relinquishing her furs, approached the fire and offered a cheek to her son. He was courteous, but with a wariness in his manner which did not escape Lady Buccleuch. They all sat, Sybilla capturing the nearest child, drying its thumb and setting it firmly on her lap. “I want sanctuary from the Herries child. You’re looking very well, Wat. Being in a decline suits you.”
Janet said quickly, “What’s wrong with young Agnes?”
“We have had a visit,” said the Dowager gloomily, “from the prospective bridegroom. Arran’s son. He was not well received.”
“What about it?” said Buccleuch. “She’s a ward of the Crown. Arran can dispose of her as he wants, and if he wants the Herries lands for his son, who’s to stop him?”
“His son,” said the Dowager prosaically.
“Good lord.” Buccleuch stared. “There’s nothing wrong with that lassie’s face her dowry won’t correct.”
“I don’t think even her dowry can drown her voice,” said the Dowager. “When exercised with intent. Besides, she’s waiting for a thin man with a romantic smile named Jack: palmistry can be so embarrassing. Which reminds me. Janet, you’re bid to Midculter tomorrow week. We are to have a dissertation on the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“The Phil … ?”
“I knew Wat would forget to tell you.” In greatest detail, Sybilla explained. She outlined the properties of the talisman and the subtleties of its manufacture. From there she launched into a technical description of the cure for a tertiary.
Thus drummed out of the conversational stakes, her son rose. The