Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [120]
‘Nightshade,’ said the quiet voice. ‘Put, I suppose, into the mulled wine. They put it on elephants for a skinned bottom,’ said Lymond, and laughed suddenly and incautiously; then pressed his hands, sweating, against his face.
After a moment she said, ‘If you recognized it, why didn’t you get help? O’LiamRoe—’
‘O’LiamRoe has gone.’ The statement was laconic. ‘If someone is going to be disappointed tomorrow … they may as well believe it to be drunkard’s … good luck.’
Silence fell. The huge fire had roared and flamed its way down to a great, silky pillar of heat, and the burning air shook. The floor had dried. In the steady red light the mired and fingermarked walls, the upset furniture, the ravaged bed, looked urbanely dramatic, as if done in stained glass. Nothing had sublimated the stench. It would have made a fitting tomb, she supposed, for Thady Boy Ballagh. That it was fitting for Francis Crawford she would not believe.
His eyes were shut. On its shadowed side, his face gave away nothing. His profile was rimmed with light, convincing in its purity; reflected light touched the underlid, and the highest part of the cheekbone, and the thick muscle joining cheekbone to jaw. In the darkness, the rest was mercifully lost.
Margaret sat without moving until the first, finest sounds told her that somewhere people were dressing for a new day. Then she stirred, and learned for the first time that he was not asleep. His eyes opened, heavy-lidded but blue, and he said, ‘Yes, you must go,’ and paused, then added, dry-voiced, ‘As a family, the Erskines always seem to be saving me from myself.’
Her own shaken nerves shied from emotion quite as much as his disordered ones. She wondered how much stoicism it had taken to continue playing the fool, knowing the poison was working, and trusting to drink, to oil, to God knew what other impromptu expedients, to preserve his life and also his appearance of ignorance. Understanding, she had made no effort to tidy the room.
Now, there was so much to say and so little it was possible to put into words without going beyond her control and his own. In the end she bent, adjusting the blanket underneath his head, and said, ‘I told you my role was to sit by the hearth.’
Under his eyes, the light deepened. She had never seen a conscious man lie so still. He said, ‘My role has been less to light fires than to extinguish them, it seems. I was sorry about the little girl. But it couldn’t be helped.’
He had seen Mary’s face, then. She said, ‘You will be able to put it right one day,’ and knew sinkingly that she must bring herself to go, even while he looked like this. And he was alone; there was no one she could confide him to.… God knew what abuses he would lay upon his strength tomorrow, next week, next month—whatever murderous terms this abominable undertaking would occupy. Out of her despair, resting irresolute by his pillow, she burst out, ‘If only Robin Stewart, even, were here. Who will look after you?’
Even without looking, she felt beneath her the little shock of his surprise. Then he gave a stifled sound not far distant from a laugh, arrested it, then unfolding his arm slowly, like a man in a dream, touched her hand and then lightly held it. His fingers felt cool and insubstantial, and thoughtlessly indulgent. ‘But, my dear,’ said Lymond. ‘Robin Stewart is the murderer.’
Part Three
LONDON:
THE EXCITEMENT OF BEING HUNTED
The excitement of being hunted takes half off it; just as the excitement of being ridden takes half off the horse, when it is a sensible adult that excites both.
I: Blois: The Mill in Motion
II: Amboise: An Accident Happens
III: Blois: Distress Is Not Released
IV: London: Wolves All Around Him
V: London: The Intentional Betrayal
VI: London: The Nettle and the Venom
VII: London: Pledge to Fasting
I
Blois: The Mill in Motion
As to the mill, however, inasmuch as it could not do anything illegal if it were not set in motion; it