The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [224]
By then the bruises were fading, although the eye of a connoisseur such as Thomas, first Baron Wharton, could distinguish them. Stepping out from under the flag of St George to welcome, as Governor of Berwick and General Warden of all the Marches, the first arrival in England of his Muscovite Majesty’s embassy, Lord Wharton’s gaze fell and remained on the embassy’s sole damaged member. But Lymond, when his turn came to be greeted, was the first, briefly, to refer to it. ‘May we exchange our beaten refugees for your singed ones?’
And Lord Wharton, who knew all about Lymond from both English and Scottish sources and was not a master of riposte in any case, grunted and ushered them in through the gates and up to the castle of Berwick on the banks of the broad and beautiful Tweed.
They were given a banquet that afternoon, attended by the Mayor and officials of Berwick and the lords of all the surrounding countryside whose roads the new snow was not blocking. Best, on English ground and with English food on the table before him, talked himself hoarse answering questions and interpreting Nepeja. Lymond, who might have helped, was placed some distance off, with a purpose he soon came to realize. On one side of him sat the well-dressed, confident person of Sir Thomas Wharton, the Warden’s middle-aged son. Privy Councillor, master of the henchmen, parliamentarian and former steward of Mary Tudor’s own household, Tom Wharton had gone far since the days when hunting down Crawford of Lymond had become a national pastime.
And on Lymond’s other side was a dark and fragile young man he had never met before, but who was now introduced, with inexplicable enthusiasm, as Austin Grey, fourth Marquis of Allendale.
A moment later, and the object of the manoeuvre was obvious. ‘He knows your wife,’ Tom Wharton said. ‘We both do.’
There was no guilt-filled hiatus whatever. ‘The one I married in Stamboul?’ Lymond said kindly. ‘How is she?’
Tom Wharton bellowed and said, ‘Have you got others?’ but Austin Grey did not smile. He said, ‘She is well, and extremely happy in the Queen’s service. Her grace depends on her a great deal.’
The stark blue eyes turned on the long-lashed dark ones, which did not flinch. ‘I am not proposing to take her back to Russia,’ Lymond said. ‘Except perhaps to bottle the soft fruit in season. She cannot possibly excel the other members of my houshold in anything else, I am afraid.’
Austin Grey was rather pale. He said, ‘She is still your wife.’
Tom Wharton was grinning. ‘Don’t be simple, my child. He has a magnificent mistress. I want all the details.’
‘Perhaps after the food?’ Lymond said. ‘I hear you are married yourself, and breeding more Whartons?’
‘A bantling. Philip,’ Tom Wharton said. ‘They’re all called Philip. My wife’s in London; her brother’s just died. I’m coming south—so is Grey—for the burial. You’ll meet Anne, and all the Sidneys. They’re kinsfolk. Great wailings over that fellow Chancellor.’
Lymond said, ‘I thought Henry Sidney was in Ireland.’
‘They come back and forth. My God, the Brussels couriers all look like bricked-up greyhounds. You know there’s war afoot?’
‘So I am told,’ Lymond said. ‘Is the Duke of Alva in Rome?’
‘Not quite yet. They had a try at a truce. Two chairs, a table and a little bell in a tent on an island. It finished last month. That old bastard the Pope!’
‘Wharton!’ said Austin Grey sharply.
‘Yes, well: he’s not religious. You’re not religious?’ said Tom Wharton to Lymond. ‘The last Pope didn’t live through the installation