Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [162]
No soldier stood at Brice’s elbow; nor did Brice, in any of his languages, utter a word.
‘I thank God,’ said Sir John Atkinson, rolling up his parchment and passing it to the clerk, ‘that a warning of this wicked plot was given by Master Harisson here to an emissary of the French Ambassador, so that the affair could be prevented in time. I have no doubt what your fate will be. The King of France will have a short way with intended murder and high treason.’
Stewart heard the first half of this; then, with a conscious suspension of understanding, stood thinking of nothing at all. A distorted picture, slipping glutinously from nowhere into his vacant mind, showed him Tosh, chatting amiably among the wood shavings, and a pearwood block with the Culter arms.
Then Tosh’s asthmatic face gave way to Brice’s, flat and white; and Brice’s voice, higher-pitched than usual, saying, ‘That’s all, then. That’s all, isn’t it? I assume he can go away now. He had better go before Crawford comes back.’
Stewart missed it. Because understanding was only now coming dizzily into his brain, like the agony of blood refilling a limb long benumbed, he missed it and bleated, his own voice breathlessly tight, ‘You gave it away!’
Harisson looked quickly at the sheriff and away again, saying nothing.
This time Stewart’s voice was louder. ‘You went to the Ambassador! You told them what we were doing! You sent for me just now! You pretended to go to Warwick and help, and all the time … An impossible truth, a dreadful certainty, burst upon Robin Stewart, raking back wildly among Harisson’s recent affairs. ‘Ah, dear Christ send you to hell, you filthy tattle-bearing runt—you’re in league with O’LiamRoe!’
‘I really wish you would take him away,’ said Brice Harisson angrily. He faced Stewart, the veins of his dark, high forehead standing out, his hands clenched behind his flat back. ‘No one could have gone on with it, I tell you. My God, you might as well conspire with an elephant. Blundering in and out of boats in broad daylight, putting your horse in my stables. You never did one thing well in your life—Christ, not even killing that fellow you talked about. O’LiamRoe didn’t persuade me to make a clean breast of it, Stewart. Only one man did that—tried to force me to tell the French Ambassador the whole transaction, and begged me to betray you. Not O’LiamRoe, you fool, you stupid, long, witless fool. But your friend Crawford of Lymond.’
There was a shocking silence. When you least expect it, the true, rending blow falls. ‘He’s dead,’ said Robin Stewart, his voice bleached of colour.
‘He was here in this room a few hours ago. Laughing,’ said Brice Harisson spitefully. ‘You and your vile plots and your deadly nightshade. They must be fair palsied with laughter in the Loire Valley by now. High treason! You poor, puking villain,’ said Harisson, carried back in his nervous hysteria to the frightened defiance of boyhood, ‘you couldna knock the head off a buttercup!’
The numb nerves were alive now. The blood was boiling in his veins; his head and heart were full as the stiff core of the earth with hard-packed purpose and power. On either side, the two men still stood, but neither crowded him; carelessly, they had left him his sword. He did not even think. As Harisson spoke, the Archer drew his blade and took a step forward.
Harisson backed, his voice choking off in mid-air. Stewart took another step. Harisson screamed, a dry, unexpected sound which continued for a long time; he was jammed, now, against the window, as far away as he could get. Through the window the apprentices’ calls floated, thinly, like gulls. The sheriff said, ‘Stop him!’ in a loud voice. The clerk and the usher hesitated, and the two guards ran uncertainly forward.
They were far too late. Staring down into the sallow face, the grey hair wild, the braided epaulettes twisted—’It’s about time I practised then, isn’t it? Go to hell where you belong,’ said