Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [199]
‘Hanged in irons within the floodmarks of thy pride. I know it. How did Lord d’Aubigny contrive your escape?’
‘Lord d’Aubigny!’ After a second, flummoxed both by the suggestion and the unexpectedness of the subject, Stewart exclaimed, ‘I escaped with no man’s help, thank you. Are ye wud? His lordship as you well know has more reason to want me executed than anyone.’
‘Why? Your cannon misfired last time, my dear. Free, you can do him nothing but good.’
‘How?’ It was guttural in its contempt.
‘By killing me, for one thing,’ said Lymond gently. ‘And when he kills the Queen, by taking the blame. Afterwards, your body will be found.’ He paused. ‘Someone in the escort was sympathetic, wasn’t he? And made sure that after you had escaped, you would know how to reach him? Someone rather clever, by the way; for a man of mine who was following you quite closely saw nothing at all.’
No one had helped him escape. He said as much again, blasphemously, with André Spens’s address burning in his pouch, and André Spens’s bow lying back there in the wood. The man had been friendly, yes. But as to conniving at his escape …
His expression, as he worked it out from that point, must have told its own story, for Lymond said quietly, ‘I thought you might prefer to know. Mary’s death might make of d’Aubigny a very exalted person indeed. Do you want him to kill her?’
Success for that aesthetic gentleman was the last thing he wanted. But how, anyway, to prevent it? Stewart said coarsely, ‘I forgot—you were raised in a coven. A bit juggle here and a puff of smoke there, and his lordship vanishes into a bottle—if I spare you.’
‘I’m not indispensable,’ said Lymond surprisingly. ‘Not to you, anyway. If you want to kill me, I should find you hard to stop. No. The only certain way of embarrassing d’Aubigny—surely—is for you to give yourself up.’ And, as Stewart’s snort of disbelief grew into a single, outraged laugh, Lymond added coolly, ‘Why not? What else in God’s name did you escape for? You claim you don’t want to live.’
But the Archer’s mind was busy. ‘Why didn’t you have yon silly loon come and help take me, then? Ah, of course! For greed, come ben! Witness wanted against his lordship! Ye thought out of gratitude I’d help you trace my escape back to him!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Francis Crawford. During all this exchange he had remained seated, his weight thrown back on his hands, his expression obliterated by the dark, like a face seen through gauze. ‘It seems likely that the man suborned for your escape might well have been used, or might be used yet on an actual murder attempt. You could injure d’Aubigny to my benefit by telling me who. The only way you can injure us both is by killing me now, and by giving yourself instantly up to the Constable, throwing in the facts about your escape for good measure. With you once more in prison, d’Aubigny really dare not try; and in the meantime, proof may appear against him through your helper.’
And having stated his premise, Lymond took out a square of linen, unfolded it, and removed neatly, by touch, the trace of blood on his face.
Stewart, staring at him in the milky light, the mild leaves still and undemanding about them, listened to the exposition of logic which, half an hour ago, in his blood fever, would have meant nothing at all. You had to admire the skill which had brought this about; you had to say, however unwillingly, ‘If you’d taken me between you, just now, I’d still have overthrown Lord d’Aubigny, very likely, by telling the facts, as you call it, of my escape.’ His first conclusions, obviously, needed amending. ‘Why then do as you did?’
‘I owe you a little free will,’ said Lymond shortly. ‘The crossroads may not be of your seeking, but at least the road you choose will be your own.’
Stewart advanced. It was impossible to see the other man’s face. Standing so that the sword threw its shadow across the white gullet, the Archer said, ‘Take off that mail shirt of yours, then.’
The silence lengthened. Then Lymond, without