The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [239]
And Austin must have been mistaken. That was her first thought when the door opened and John Dee came in, and then the man one remembered so well, in the saddle, talking to Kate at Flaw Valleys, at the whipping-post at St Mary’s; rolling over and over with Graham Malett before the high altar at St Giles and again, confronting Graham Reid Malett in Stamboul in the chess game where Kuzúm was nearly lost, and the other child died. And who, without touching her, had shared a bed with her in Stamboul, on the night forced upon them by malice, which had resulted in his prosaic offer of temporary marriage.
Since then, he had grown in authority. Used to assessing those in authority around her, she could feel the strength of his presence; the concealed blaze of nervous energy, lightly controlled. In everything he was sharper and brighter and harder than she had remembered and the shock when he smiled was such that she was sure, staring back at him, that Austin had misconstrued what happened at Berwick. And then realized that, of course, her letters had probably never come near to reaching him.
He said something, and she said, ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ and then, as he was turning away she said, ‘Did you get my letters?’
She was sure of his answer. She was still happily sure of it as he stopped, and the faint smile left his lips to be replaced slowly by a delightful one, full of open-eyed candour. ‘Yes,’ Lymond said. ‘The first and the second. What infinite trouble you took with them. If there was a third, it must, I’m afraid, have eluded me. Unless you sent it direct to my mother?’
And he turned to the table leaving her, silent, to find her place opposite him.
Through the first part of that meal Austin held her hand, and she needed it. She drank her wine and had it refilled, smoothly, by Lady Mary’s expert men servants as the conversation flowed easily all about her. They were asking questions, naturally, about Russia and as the answers caught her attention her hand slid out of Austin’s and her composure came back; sufficiently at least to allow her to catch the talk when it veered in her direction, and finally to ask a question or two herself.
Lymond neither avoided her nor singled her out in the course of it. Because it was an informed and intelligent gathering, the conversation was never monopolized, and moved lightly among matters concerning them all for which the Russian parallel became only the springboard: the philosophy of government, the use of power, the place of religion and education, the exploitation of natural resources. They discussed the strategic problems of moving large armies across empty steppeland, where none could live off the country and the violent changes of climate made communication a hazardous thing at the best. Master Dee propounded his theories on the use of the burning-glass and tried to impress on the tapestry, until halted by his dinner partner, a design for a new form of traction. The question of health arose, and they pondered, with fascination, the treatment employed by the Samoyèdes. Dr Dee said to Philippa, in an uncompromising aside, ‘I also have been attacked as a marauder. It is because of the letters?’
It was not a subject she intended being questioned about. ‘Yes,’ Philippa said.
‘You touched on something personal. An odd flaw in an otherwise rational being. If you will take my advice, peace may be restored by referring to Richard Chancellor. There was some friendship, I would collect. At least it will place you on neutral ground.… I don’t suppose you happen to know the date and time of his birth?’
‘Mr Chancellor’s?’ Philippa said. ‘No, I’m afraid that I don’t.’ And restored to combat raised her voice at last directly for Lymond’s attention. ‘Did you have a physician, Mr Crawford?’
He glanced at her. ‘They are hard to come by. I am hoping the company will send one with the next voyage. There was an elderly