Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [335]
‘To me!’ the King said. ‘Who will fight at my side! Who will march to England, with me, today?’
He realised then that the roar of assent, that the masses shouting his name were far off, and that the armed men about him were Huntly’s, and Campbells and Ogilvies. And that, as he watched, the disssenting parts of the army were moving against each other, pikes in hand, so that screams began to be heard over the shouting. Until then, no one had laid hands on him but Roger, and even now, the commanders stood back. It was the young men—he recognised them—the firebrand Lindsay, the mad Fleming heir—who thrust forward and seized him, while all his own servants were knocked out of the way. He saw Will Roger fighting ineptly to reach him, until Fleming turned aside and flung him into the arms of his men who passed him back, like a struggling sheep. He saw the whistle fall into the mud. He even heard, as they dragged him back into his splendid silk tent, the great shout that rose from the riverside, followed by an even greater roar from the bridge.
JOHN LE GRANT was already at the brimming river by that time, gazing at the gouged mud and deep tracks where the ox-teams and the gun-carriages had been. Moriz, battling through the crowd on his short legs, heard him repeating, ‘The bastard! The bastard! The bastard!’ It was unlikely that he was talking of anyone but Cochrane. Big Tam.
‘He’s started off south,’ Moriz suggested. ‘With all the guns. Without telling us. And he’ll attract all the King’s men in the army.’
‘All the Blind Harries,’ said John le Grant bitterly.
‘Men willing to die for their country,’ Moriz said. ‘To mock is unfair.’
‘I know it is,’ John said. ‘But it makes me feel better. Well, Tam won’t get very far.’
‘Why not?’ said Moriz. But, sinkingly, he thought that he knew.
‘Because I doctored the wagons,’ said John. ‘I’ve a knack for it. They’ll get so far on the road to Coldstream, then stick. In fact’—there came a great roar from ahead—‘it sounds as if they already have. Come on, come on.’
He was a decent man, John; just single-minded. He looked eager. He looked almost pleased.
‘Just the place for a pitched battle,’ said Moriz.
• • •
WITHIN THE SILKEN pavilion, in the battlefield that was Lauder, the King had ceased to struggle and shout and was sitting, restrained by many men’s hands, weeping from anger and weakness. Colin Campbell, kneeling bareheaded before him in cuirass and surcoat, was saying over and over, in Gaelic, ‘My lord; my lord; my lord.’ Colin Campbell, Master of the King’s Household, whose men were swaying shoulder to shoulder with others outside, blocking the way to the King, striving to hold off the men who wanted to rescue him, and have him lead them to victory against England.
Argyll knew it himself: bowing his head, he got to his feet and looked over the King’s head at Tobie. ‘I must go. Can you ease him?’
‘He has had no sleep,’ said Tobie.
‘If you can calm him?’ Argyll said. ‘For a little. He will have nothing but love and respect. It is for his own sake.’ He spoke with authority. But he had been moved to tears himself, a moment before.
He left. The King, who was thirsty, took what Tobie gave him and slowly descended into sleep. They put him to bed, in a tent pink with dawn, outside which several thousand men were still milling in turmoil, disputing the half-executed exodus to the south and the east. The King’s supporters, if not stopped, would march along the Coldstream road, securing the way, in advance of freeing the King. Cavalry was now playing a part: Tobie could hear the drumming of hooves and marshalling orders. He thought of Moriz and John. He thought of the guns. He shut his box, the King settled, and tried to talk his way out of the tent, which was lined with armed men. The refusal was vehement enough to make him realise that if he walked