Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [7]
Only three months since, back in Scotland, he had called her his friend, although she was English and he Scots. That was when he had matched his wits against the man called Graham Reid Malett, whose nickname was Gabriel. And although he had prevailed, Gabriel had escaped and fled overseas. Philippa said, temperately, ‘My mother thinks I’m with Lord Grey’s wife in London. I was, but I got to Guisnes, and Mr Guthrie took me to Nantes, and Mr Blyth brought me here.’
‘How benign of them,’ said Lymond. ‘I understood that, in my absence, Mr Guthrie was mustering my company at Sevigny and that Mr Blyth was taking it to the French camp at Hesdin. I have, after all, accepted the King’s hire and paid you to fight.’
Jerott Blyth pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly to Philippa. Below the smooth tan, his skin was carnation-coloured from the obstinate jaw to the fall of his splendid black hair. ‘Unless, of course, your mother’s dear friend is proposing to throw you out in the snow.’ Erect and hostile, he faced Francis Crawford. ‘The company is already on its way to Hesdin under Alec Guthrie and Adam Blacklock. By my own request I was relieved of the command.’
‘I am enchanted to hear it,’ said Lymond. ‘You are now free to take the girl back to Hexham, starting tomorrow. If you will ring the bell nearest to you, I believe they will bring us some food.’ He wore dark velvet over dark, toning satin, and a ring of some price on one hand.
Jerott made no move to the bell. ‘We are surely agreed,’ he said, ‘that Graham Reid Malett must be found, and when found, must be killed. He’s evil; he’s dangerous. He’ll never forgive us for what we did to him in Scotland. He will certainly kill you if he can.… You know what else he can do. I demand,’ said Jerott staunchly, ‘to take my share in the execution. I am staying. And if you think you can make Philippa go back to England, good luck to you. It’s more than Guthrie or I managed to do.’
Francis Crawford of Lymond, Comte de Sevigny, walked slowly towards them. He lifted the small brass bell from the table, rang and replaced it, allowing the unflattering stare to move from Philippa’s unwashed brown rats’ tails to Jerott’s prickly splendours. ‘But I’m not going to kill Graham Reid Malett,’ said Lymond. ‘So you might as well pack your godly emotions into your bronze chariot and get back to Malta, don’t you suppose?’
‘And that’s a bloody lie. You’re going to kill him all right,’ said Jerott Blyth. ‘Unless he kills you first. He found you today, didn’t he? Or his agents did. They could hardly help it with your coat of arms painted all over Baden.… You were meant to believe those nuns and go to Algiers, weren’t you? Are you trying to tell me that wasn’t Gabriel’s work?’
‘Oh, Graham Malett arranged it,’ said Lymond. ‘Through our ardent friend in shell-pink, I believe. The nuns were killed when he saw their little deception had failed.’
‘And a fine death you’d have met in Algiers if you’d fallen into the trap.’
‘Yes. Expensive, of course,’ said Lymond. ‘After all, if he could have the two nuns killed, why not simply cut my throat here? Think of all the wages he’d save.’
‘No,’ said Philippa reflectively. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud; and scarcely knew indeed that she had done so: it was a problem which interested her. ‘Having to fly from Scotland meant a frightful loss of face for him, surely. After all, he used to be a Knight Grand Cross of Malta fighting for Christ, and now he’s a renegade without standing in Malta or Scotland. He’s a lot of old scores to wipe off before he kills Mr Crawford. If I were Gabriel,’ said Philippa, her brown eyes accusing, ‘I’d want to humiliate him first. I’d taunt him: I’d shame him. And then I’d kill him,