Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [250]
The arrow, shot from beyond all the crowding heads of keepers and friends, took Cholet full in the throat. He turned, bent like a withy, and fell; and the monkeys clawed at his buttons in passing. Then, like a dam, the space between the cages was filled with white and silver, girded with steel. It poured amongst the livery, the wet and turbaned heads, turning them aside; it cleared a path sheer to the little group around Cholet’s dead body and surrounded it. Then practised hands fell like levers on Lymond’s damp arms, wrenched the sword from his grasp, gripped him neck and body and turned him, held fast, to face the oncoming flood. The sun glittered on white plumes and on drawn steel, and on the silver-gilt crescents of the Archers of the Royal Guard, still now, filling all the paths, crushing out the royal livery of the menagerie and leaving just room enough for their lieutenant to come forward together with a Gentleman of the King’s Household; broad, handsome, his fine dress immaculate, his face set like lard. ‘In the name of the King,’ said John Stewart of Aubigny, his voice pleasant, his bearing that of a temple god condescending to a ragged recalcitrant. ‘The King whose despicable prisoner you are … Return to your cell to await his good justice.’
And Lymond, his eyes sparkling, called clearly and cheerfully to the Keeper, ‘Here is a mate for your camel, friend.’
It was Michel Hérisson who lost his head, because in this matter more than his head was engaged. As Lymond spoke, Abernaci played to his thought with the ease of old experience and, stepping forward, exposed the lion. The lion roared. The grip on Lymond slackened, and he might have taken his chance had not Hérisson also seized the moment to whip the sword from his neighbour’s scabbard and brandish it in Lord d’Aubigny’s face.
‘You mis-hacked boulder of butter rock, did I trap that man Cholet with my brain and my guts and my two gouty legs for you to kill off like pigmeat? I’ll split ye! I’ll smash that fine neb like a cup handle, if I have to seethe quick in a pot for it!’ And elbows flailing, he leaped, blind with fury, at his lordship.
The guards dropped their grasp and started forward, but Lymond got there first, swiftly, from behind, wrenching the sword from the sculptor’s furious hand. ‘For God’s sake, Michel, in law he is right. It would suit him to kill.’
He was too late in one way. Hérisson fell back, fuming, without drawing blood; but d’Aubigny, ready to fight for his life, was in no mind to let any man off so easily. As Lymond wrenched away the steel, John Stewart stepped forward, in all the avenging grandeur of his dress, and cut low, hard and deliberately at the sculptor’s legs.
The sword was still in Lymond’s hand. He drove it straight between the sculptor and the oncoming blow, the blades meeting flat on flat like the hammer of a bell. Then, disengaging, he jumped back, the sword steady, a threat as plain in the blue eyes above. Lord d’Aubigny hesitated, halted, and before they could try to disarm him, Lymond raised his sword and threw it from him, rattling on the ground. Hérisson stood panting, O’LiamRoe’s hand on his arm, but no on touched him.
Then they lashed Lymond’s arms, as they had once before; and the seigneur of Aubigny looked about. The crowd was increasing. So far, what had happened within the tight circle of the Archers had not been public; only the killing of Cholet had been seen by all, and that could be justified, to those who did not know, as d’Aubigny had known, that the man had no chance of escape.
Likewise, it was reasonable to restore an escaped criminal to custody, whatever he had achieved, to await the King’s pleasure.
But still, the fellow had achieved a dashing performance; men admired such things. ‘You,’ said Lord d’Aubigny to Abernaci. ‘Is there a tent here