Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [81]
“Mr. Scott has a quick mind.” Since his enforced residence at, and his lightning departure from, Ballaggan, Mr. Crouch had been short of an audience, and he was not the man to lose a chance. He said, a trifle wistfully, “The best man I ever saw at the tables was Buskin Palmer—”
“Him King Harry hanged for taking too much off him at cards?”
“Him. He,” said Mr. Crouch, a stickler for accuracy. “The great master, that was. I owe any little touch I might have at cards to that man and his brother. When I was in the Princess Mary’s household—”
“And when would that be, now?” inquired a new voice.
The trio turned. With some forethought, table and stakes had been set up at a distance from the other activity in the crowded room, and the authority of Mat had so far kept their bailiwick exclusive. When Turkey turned, it was with a snarl which changed to a mild roar. “Johnnie Bullo! Man, I wish you’d take to wearing clappers on your breeches; you’re desperate sore on the arteries. And that last damned powder you gave me would have done Jimmie of Fynnart a twelve-month and pointed up the whole of Linlithgow if you laid it on with a trowel. Will ye bring to mind it’s my inner workings you’re repairing, not the Toll Brig o’ Dumfries.”
Johnnie Bullo, gently oblivious, drew up a barrel, sat on it, and again addressed the Englishman. “So you were in the Princess Mary’s household, were you? When? Was it the year of Solway Moss?”
Jonathan Crouch looked blank.
Johnnie expounded. “The year the Scots King James died, and the small Queen was born. The year Wharton broke up the Scottish army on the Solway and took half of it prisoner to London, including Lymond. The year Lymond’s pastime was first discovered in Scotland, and the English gave him a fine manor for his pains. Fifteen forty-two.”
Mr. Crouch said, “Well now … Yes. I’d be with the Princess about that time. Five years ago, near enough.”
“I thought so,” said Johnnie. Mr. Crouch looked confused, Matthew seemed vaguely annoyed and Will Scott, removing Turkey’s purse from the board and laying down a fresh card, said, “Well, go on. We can’t bear the suspense.”
The gypsy settled on his barrel and flashed the white teeth. “Why,” he asked Mr. Crouch, “did Lymond release you from Ballaggan?”
“You may well ask,” said Jonathan strongly. “To send me home: that’s what he said. And what does he do? Lock me up to catch my death in an upended quarry I wouldn’t dignify by the name of a house, with robbers and cutthroats for companions—present company excepted; no intellectual resources—present company excepted; and no clothes but the one clean shirt on my back.”
“You’re away ahead of present company there,” said Johnnie.
“Why?”
“Why? How should I know?” exclaimed Mr. Crouch with exasperation. “The man hasn’t spoken two words to me since I came here.”
“Matthew knows why,” said Johnnie, and smiled to himself.
The Englishman presented Turkey with a face of indignant inquiry, and Matthew sighed. “The Master has notions about being discussed behind his back. But it’s not all that private. The fact is that since the money began coming in fairly easy we’ve been filling in our time looking for a gentleman, and Lymond thought you were maybe him.”
“And it’s a fine thing for you that you’re not.” Bullo’s white teeth shone. “For—at a guess—the man the Master is looking for is the man who betrayed all those treasonable games of his to the Scottish Government five years ago. Am I right, Mat?”
Mr. Crouch got up so quickly he upset the cards. “Is that true? Because—”
“It’s right enough. What of it?”
“Because,” said Mr. Crouch with agitation, “I gave him the names of the two other officers of the household of my own rank in those days. Somerville and Harvey. I told him the names in all good faith. And now, from what you say—”
“You’ve dispatched at least one of them to a very fancy death,” said Johnnie Bullo cheerfully; and watched Mr.