Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [87]
Even to Scott, most of this was news. If it were true—and Maxwell would certainly know—it was a show of strength that even he could not afford to ignore. John Maxwell stretched his long legs, put down his cup, and lay back, the yellow eyes fixed on Lymond. “Do you own the Ostrich? Or only a capacity for pleasing Molly?”
The blue eyes smiled. “A distinction without a difference.”
Maxwell said, “Mr. Crawford, there is no need to show me the hood. I respond quite well to the lure. Our last talk intrigued me a good deal.”
“Sufficiently?”
“Sufficiently for your purpose.” The luminous eyes, apparently satisfied with their diet, released their grip. Maxwell rose, refilled his cup and sat down, continuing in his dry, brisk voice. “I have the information you wanted. Samuel Harvey, who is a bachelor, lives in London and is there at present on duty and unlikely to come north. Gideon Somerville is a wealthy man, now retired from court, with a manor called Flaw Valleys on Tyneside near Hexham. He is married and has a ten-year-old daughter. I made these inquiries privately when last in Carlisle: there is nothing to connect them with your name.”
“I’m obliged for your care. As it turns out, it hardly matters.”
“You’ve no interest in these men?”
“I intend to meet them both. But one of your brothers-in-law is aware of it, and either he or Grey will almost certainly prepare the ground for me. No matter. Of Cat, nor Fall, nor Trap, I haif nae Dreid.”
“Your self-confidence is incredible, sir,” said Maxwell dryly.
“Subject to intelligence,” said Lymond, “nothing is incalculable. Your marriage, for instance.”
Scott, fascinated, thought he saw John Maxwell’s eyes narrow. There was the briefest pause, then the tall man said, “I have considered your suggestion. On my present standing with the Queen Dowager, neither she nor the Governor would conceivably agree, even if the plan worked.”
“Your standing might be improved.”
“My brother, Lord Maxwell, is still a prisoner in London. And there are hostages at Carlisle for my good behaviour.”
“It might be improved without overt harm to your reputation in England. It’s now mid-November. In two or three weeks’ time, the Earl of Lennox is due at Carlisle, and if affairs are favourable, he’ll try another experimental march into southern Scotland.”
“And so … ?”
“And so, by pure chance and natural greed, Lennox’s men might bungle the raid. The real nature of the chance being known only to the Scottish Government, acting on your advice. Lennox blames his men for the failure: the Queen knows it is due to the Master of Maxwell.”
Silence. Maxwell moved. “Is this possible?”
“You shall hear. I’ll describe it to you now; and in greater detail later when we know Lennox’s exact movements. And the credit shall be yours.”
The Master of Maxwell said, “I am trying to persuade myself that all this is not a matter of great disadvantage to yourself?”
Lymond smiled gently. “The road Lennox will take passes the road to Hexham,” he said. “I told you there would be a trap. And the English will spring it for me.”
They rose at midnight, Maxwell lifting his cloak and hat, gloves and whip. He nodded to Scott and stooping, turned in the doorway to Lymond. “And curb your mad, antic mind, I beg you. I’ve no heart to spend myself sustaining what you are creating for me.”
“Have no qualms,” said Lymond gravely. “We are well matched.”
Maxwell, astonishingly, laughed and went out.
Lymond shut the door. “And that,” he said to Scott, “is how mulberry trees grow into silk shirts.”
“Yesh,” replied Will Scott.
Lymond tilted the wine jar toward him. Then, with a sardonic flash toward the faintly squinting Scott, he opened the door, crossed the passage and shouted over the gallery rail. “You keep a damned dry house, Molly.”
She was sitting under the blazing lights at a crooning, besotted table of guests: she raised two jewelled arms to Lymond. “Come down, my duck. We’re a poor, sleepy company down here.