The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [319]
‘And the dead man?’ said Fergie Hoddim. ‘Graham Malett?’
And Lymond standing up, said, ‘Put him in the earth. It is where he belongs. In the earth, but not in the sea.’
The jewelled robe he had worn at the banquet was too conspicuous. Dee gave him an old jerkin, dark and shabby, to cover his shirt, and he ripped the jewels from his girdle and put them with the rest of his money, to serve him on the journey.
His hands were not very steady. Because he knew they were watching him, he did not avoid passing the open sarcophagus where his old, vanquished enemy lay. Someone had had to destroy Graham Malett, and this he had elected to do. It was his misfortune that the death of Gabriel was linked for ever with the death of a child.
Of two tainted children, he had chosen to preserve the boy best equipped to survive, who had already won a place in Philippa’s life. The child whose mother was Joleta Malett; whose father, despite all d’Harcourt’s hysterical claims, was almost certainly her brother Gabriel. Or so Güzel had told him. And since Güzel seemed to know, he believed her.
In order to rule, one must face reality. For Russia, no hardship must be beyond one’s endurance.
John Dee said, ‘But man’s body is not an enemy, but a partner and collaborator with his soul.’ And Lymond, who had forgotten this time to defend the barriers of his mind, stood up and said pleasantly, ‘For these excursions, I make my own sea-charts.’
And Dee, yielding at once, inclined his head and left him alone.
Danny. Alec. And Fergie. Lymond looked at them all and said, ‘I should like to think that you understood. Perhaps you do. If you find an occasion to send it, I should like to have news of you. And of Adam.’
‘You will hear from us,’ was all Guthrie said. And since there was no time to lose, Lymond turned quietly and left them.
He passed Adam, white face glimmering in the dark, on the stairs; but did not try to speak to him. There was no sign of Philippa. Blacklock would have taken her, of course, through the back door to the Sidneys’. Had it not been for that, he might have called at St Anthony’s himself, for he knew he was going to need help. But it was best to leave things as they were. And Sidney might try to dissuade him again. And he had had enough of that.
Outside there was no moon, and the silence, in the heart of the city, was almost absolute: it must be very late. He had forgotten to find out the hour on leaving Dee’s house. It was not very surprising perhaps that he had forgotten, but a pity, for he had twenty-four miles to cover, and not very long in which to do it. If Dee’s information was correct: if the four ships for Russia were to sail with the dawn tide. King Philip’s men had not known that. He wondered who had arranged it, and when.
He would, he made up his mind, make for Greenwich. It was where he had left the royal barge. With any luck—and surely he deserved a little luck—the barge might be there, and the captain mindful enough of his duty to take him where King Philip wanted him to go. But he had to get to Greenwich first, and that was on the other side of the river.
He could do two things about that. He could find his way to Dimmock’s house, a few streets to the south-west. Or he could make straight for the river and hope to find a boat somewhere, say at Billingsgate or St Botolph’s, where the Muscovy fleet had been loading, which would take him for a fat fee to Greenwich. Or all the way, if need be, to Gravesend.
He decided to make for the river and set off along Threadneedle Street, past the almshouses and the church of St Martin’s, towards the pump at Bishopsgate Street. He kept, for more reasons than one, close to the house walls. It was only now, trying to soften the sound of his breathing, that he realized how much of a beating he had taken, during that savage kidnapping at Greenwich. His shoulders ached; his ribs hurt when