Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [254]
Facts were there: facts he recognized as half-true, built up out of the legend other people had created for him; facts he had never troubled to deny. Conjecture was there, and in this also, distorted, one could see the original image, the original flaw from which it sprang. He stood still, in the presence of other men, and heard applied to Sybilla his own mother a string of terms he had learned long ago in the galleys, but had rarely heard since.
And still, he managed to keep his temper. He could not move, unless he wished to commit suicide. He could only speak, and hope to channel the dirt. He waited until the big man paused for breath, his face yellow with loathing, his fine-cut lips wet. ‘Don’t stop,’ said Lymond pleasantly. ‘You’ve my father, my brother, my late sister and a whole clecking of aunts to get through. Auntie May is a good one to start with. Fifteen stone, and every spring she goes broody; and we find her out in the hen run on a clutch of burst yolks; except the year mother got there first and hard-boiled them.’
No one breathed; but under the bent mask of Abernaci’s face, something cracked.
Lord d’Aubigny said, ‘So they’re mad in the whorehouse as well, are they? And how many mad brats have you sired?’
‘Ask your sister-in-law,’ said Lymond. ‘Do they ever rule England, you can be proud.…’ But before he finished, he felt the silence alter, and turned. Framed in the doorway was Matthew Stewart, Earl of Lennox, Lord d’Aubigny’s dear older brother, white hatred in his face. Behind him, shadows outside his tent, were his men. Slowly, unshackling his white hands, Lord d’Aubigny rose.
They had been brought up as boys together in the long exile in France. Because of Matthew, three years of John’s life had passed in the Bastille. Nine years since, John had elected to stay, his great-uncle’s heir, and Matthew had gone to betray France, to betray Scotland, to marry England in his frantic search for a crown—a crown which had seemed within reach, but for one weak child’s body; a crown a younger brother, surely, could share.
‘I have come,’ said the Earl of Lennox, ignoring Lymond, staring straight at the bright-fleshed face of his brother, ‘to escort this man to receive the praise and thanks of all good citizens, whether of England, Scotland or France. It is plain that you serve no one in keeping him in custody, and I take upon myself the duty of release.’
‘The King has sent you?’ The cultured voice was harsh.
‘No one has sent me. The banquet continues. Sergeant, untie him.’
Fast-moving in spite of his size, formidable in spite of his dress, John Stewart strode forward and placed himself, his hand on his hilt, between the man-at-arms and the prisoner. ‘Are you crazy? No one has sent you? Then, by God, you’ll have to use force first. You’ve no right to take this man!’
‘I am taking him by right,’ said Lennox coldly, ‘of the grave doubts now expressed about your own past conduct, and my judgment, as a citizen, of your unfitness to continue in this post. For God’s sake, are you tying or untying him?’
The sergeant, who had simply sidestepped Lord d’Aubigny to go on with his task, stepped back, rope in hand. ‘He’s free, sir.’
And free he was. Bare, dirty, unsteady with fatigue, Lymond looked from one brother to the other, brows raised, as he massaged his arms, and glancing beyond, to the Keeper’s dim corner, allowed one heavy eyelid to droop. Lord d’Aubigny, rigid, remained where he was, all the implications of the events dizzy in his brain. He was outnumbered. And in any case, what use to resist? This, before him, was Matthew disowning