Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [86]
A cloud of musk approached and Molly in it, a cherub in its nest. “You’re ready, dear?”
“We are. And the room?” asked Lymond.
“Waiting for you. Number four, dear.” A key changed hands. “You remember the stairs?”
She laughed, and Lymond said, “They haven’t left any great impression, but I recall they exist. We’ll find them. Come, Marigold.”
Where there is no custom of reticence in childhood, there is no vice of which a well-brought-up young man need be ignorant—even a young man who three months before has cherished the purest ideals. When Will Scott got to his feet, his heartbeats were behaving oddly, but he was not slow in following the Master across the jammed, leg-strewn room, up a dark stairway leading from arcade to gallery, and along a long, stifling passage railed off on one side from the room they had just left. Wooden doors on the other side of the corridor were numbered. Lymond unlocked the fourth and went in, with Scott at his heels. The Master turned, and kicked the door shut.
The room held an uncurtained bed, a mirror, an armory, a table, two candlesticks and a youngish man, sitting on a low, cushioned bench. As Scott approached, the man jumped to his feet, frowning. He was tall, with long, fine hair and pale, opalesque eyes set shallowly in a triangular face. He said, “I am expecting a gentleman. Are you … ?”
“I am Lymond.” The Master moved into the candlelight, and recognition and relief showed in the other’s eyes. “And this is my lieutenant, Mr. Scott. Will—the Master of Maxwell.”
Three months of Lymond’s company had taught Will Scott presence of mind. He bowed, and out of the wreckage of his emotions salvaged the necessary recollection: of the Master staging a rescue on the Carlisle road on a dark, October night, and of his voice saying afterward, “The Master of Maxwell is an important personage almost entirely surrounded by English.… Consider this an opening for smothered mate.” Scott, directing a private grimace at Lymond’s unresponsive back, seated himself fatalistically on the edge of the bed; the Master of Maxwell was also reseated. Lymond, bringing a jug and cups from the armory, said, “You’re making for Carlisle, Mr. Maxwell?”
“If it’s any affair of yours, I am, sir.” Yellow tiercel eyes notched with black stared at the Master; Lymond, impervious, poured wine. Scott, his interest suddenly commanded, thought, A show of muscle, by God! Have we found one gentleman who hasn’t yet succumbed to the legend?
In silence, Lymond offered Maxwell wine; in silence, he took it. Then the Master hitched himself smoothly on the edge of the table, glanced at Scott, who had buried his nose in a cup, and said, “I chose the Ostrich as our rendezvous, Mr. Maxwell, because of its uncommon properties. This is the sounding board of the North. No whisper is too low for the Ostrich. No movement too faint for its eyes. Consider, for example, who passed north recently. Ireland, for one—your brother’s priest from London. He’ll be waiting for you at Threave, anxious to have your views on Lord Maxwell’s offer to surrender Lochmaben to the English. Who else? A surveyor from Calais, on his way to Wharton. The Scots garrisons at Crawford and Langholm are worrying his lordship: Mr. Petit is to advise on the best ways of fortifying Dumfries, and Kirkcudbright, and Lochwood, and Milk, and Cockpool Tower, and Lochmaben—when they have it.
“Then Mr. Thomson, Lord Wharton’s deputy, came north. That was in order to meet your uncle, Drumlanrig. Sir James failed, I’m afraid, to persuade him that between men of integrity hostages are irrelevant. And, of course, a number of gentlemen from the West Marches passed through to Carlisle to sign the celebrated oath. To serve the King of England, renounce the Bishop of Rome, do all in their power to advance the King’s marriage with the Queen of Scotland; take part with all who serve him against their enemies, and obey the commands of the Lord Protector, lords lieutenant and wardens.… And most recently, one of Wharton’s men came south with an indiscreet