Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [95]
Neither Albany nor Liddell was interested enough to rescue him, so he had to devise his own means of countering it all. It reminded him of the old days at Haddington, and Kathi, aged fourteen, driven to wild exasperation by this same shallow, wilful inquisitiveness. And yet there was no malice in it. Bleezie Meg, the small royal hoyden, was as natural now as she had been then, and was not deserving of harshness, so he showed her none. It dragged on for a long while, and by the time it finished, he was too late to call and see how Robin had settled, so he walked down, in the lamp-studded redolent darkness, past the descent to the Horse Market and on to his own house in the High Street.
Lowrie, the latest in the long line of chamber-servants, had already unpacked the saddlebags brought from the ship, and the wall-sconces were trimmed, and some dishes set out under cloths. Nothing in parlour or bedroom appeared to be smashed, torn or burned, although Master Henry, said Lowrie, had spent that day in the house, and was in his chamber at present. Nicholas, not entirely depressed by the news, did not at the time observe the man’s slight hesitation when dismissed. He was disposed, deep in thought, on the window-seat, the candles dimmed, the elements of his small feast strewn about him, when the door opened silently and Henry came in.
From the window, his head lodged in a resigned way against the wainscoting, Nicholas could not read his expression. As Henry said nothing, he spoke. ‘I’m sorry I had to go without warning. It was to bring Berecrofts back. There is some pasty left, if you want it.’
‘Not particularly,’ Henry said. His voice sounded blurred, as if he were drunk. He added, in the same blurred voice, ‘But you should be pleased. Are you pleased, Uncle? Your friends did this to me, once.’ But before he had halfway finished speaking, Nicholas had crossed the room and was confronting him with a muttered word that would have earned him short shrift from the Abbot of Holyrood. Then he turned the boy to the light.
The bones of the face were intact. The skin clung to them in glazed and discoloured pillows; the eyes were slits; the lips bloated and shapeless. And the bruising ran down below the throat of his shirt and was part of the reason, no doubt, why he held his shoulders so stiffly. When he moved, he moved with a limp. Of all his beauty, only the golden waves of his hair were untouched.
‘Who?’ said Nicholas.
‘You don’t need to know,’ Henry said. ‘I am going to kill him tomorrow. I only wanted you to note the provocation.’
‘I am noting it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Strip. I want to see the rest of it.’
‘It has been seen,’ Henry said. He detached himself, concentrating a little, and let himself into a seat. ‘There is nothing broken.’
‘How many?’ Nicholas said.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Henry. ‘So you don’t imagine I just got the worst of it against a very big man?’
‘Not unless you’ve wasted every penny spent on your training,’ Nicholas said. ‘So when, where and how many? And, of course, why?’
‘I upset people,’ Henry said. ‘There were six of them. Paid bullies, of course. In the dark, on my way home. Someone came by and interrupted them.’
The words emerged from the fluffed lips with all the old insolence. Looking down, scanning all he could see, Nicholas recognised, as he always had, the kind of courage that was greater than other people’s, because it was not instinctive. He said, ‘I’m going to try and give you some wine. Does your grandfather know?’
‘No,’ Henry said. ‘That is why I am telling you.’
Of course. His grandfather would try to stop him—would stop him. Nicholas, the enemy,