Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [85]
She smiled at him. She was beautiful. The round, rose-petal face was clear and young and yet maternal in its look; her hair was shining and clean, her great bulging torso massy with velvets and ermines cut to show the great snowy shelf of her breast, on which rubies lay, calm, beaming testimony to her serenity.
He rose uncertainly. She put down wine and two tankards, bread, sweetmeats, cheese and knives and salt; then swung off her tray with one hand and pressed him back into his seat with the other. “You don’t get Molly serving you every day … but then, you travel in very special company.” Her fine eyes with their dyed lashes appraised him. “Nice manners! You’re strong, but you’re kind: that means gentle birth and a pitying heart … What’s your name, my dear?”
Her sweetness was irresistible, and her bulk meant nothing. He smiled back. “I’m called Will.”
“Will! That’s better!” The lovely eyes and mouth melted; she ruffled his hair gently, as his mother might have done. “Make a good meal, my dear, and your golden-haired friend will be with you shortly. Oh, God!” said Molly, and raised heavenly blue eyes to the rafters. “That hair! He was born to wreck us, body and soul, that one. Look at this!”
She lifted a white arm and fished below the rubies. A thin chain came into view, and at its end a ring with a single, magnificent square diamond. “I suppose I’ve had more jewels in my life than most, but this is the one I wear; the one I got from him.” She laughed, and let it slip back. “Don’t look scared! Diamond rings are proper currency for such as him, but you won’t need to pay for your dinner at the silversmiths. Never mind my babbling. Go on, eat up, and drink, and forget your troubles, whatever they are. That’s what the Ostrich is for.”
She went quickly, gentle-footed, and he saw her go with a pang, and with a sudden, pleased resolve to do with diamonds. Then he turned to the table and forgot her. The venison was rich and savoury and cooked to tender perfection. The wine was warmly fumed and superb. The candies were strange and sweet; the cheeses firm and flavoured.
Life was glorious.
With a soft elegance Lymond slid into the seat opposite, and drew wine and plate toward him. He had changed into fine, fresh clothes: studying him, Scott was made conscious of his own splashed jacket and breeches. Slicing the venison, the Master remarked, apropos, “Molly doesn’t clothe giants, unhappily, my Pyrrha. You’ve met her?” Will nodded.
“Molly married an innkeeper,” said Lymond. He poured wine and drank it, his eyes studying the other tables. “And the innkeeper was never seen again. He married Molly, and brought her to the Ostrich—and next month, there was just Molly. Molly and her girls.”
Will said, “She’s a great admirer of yours.”
“She likes my money,” said Lymond, and catching the look in Scott’s eye, grinned nastily. “Which ring did she show you? The diamond or the seed pearl?”
Resentment on Molly’s behalf faltered. “She showed me a diamond ring,” said Scott defensively.
Lymond grinned again. “If you’re fool enough to wear a valuable stone in your bonnet, you must expect to be sized up accordingly.” He laughed outright. “Never mind, my innocence: everyone falls in love with Molly. But not, of course, uniquely with Molly.” The pensive blue gaze continued to travel. “The dark wench by the other fire is Sal; the redhead by the kitchen door is Elizabeth, and the one at the next table Joan.”
Will looked at Joan. She was pink and brown; her eyes sparkled like tourmalines and she had sharp ankles and red-heeled shoes. “I’ve seen worse,” he remarked, and raised his tankard with an air. Lymond refilled it, and his own; and when Scott had finished his, filled it again. “Multa bibens …” Then he looked around, signalled, and returned the gentle, appraising stare to Will’s face. “And now,” said the Master,