The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [77]
The wages of meddling. If she had never seen Leonard Bailey: if she had resisted this one final impulse to take to Lymond in Russia this final and authenticated piece of equipment: his own blameless blood line. To Russia, with Rob Best and Diccon Chancellor, with Christopher and Killingworth and John Buckland, Diccon’s sardonic sailing-master. To the sea, and bright adventure, away from the incense and whisperings. To the Dwina, where the white rose of Muscovy smoked on the bushes, and laced the wind with its cold scent.…
She was riding still, the tears still under her veiling, when the chance riders about them became suddenly many, and less than chance: and resolved themselves into a circle of men, armed and bearded, whose leader thrust aside George and Fogge, and riding up to her side said, ‘Mistress Somerville? Do not be frightened. But it seems this rascal here has misled you. This is not the way to Hampton Court Palace.’
He was not young, but his voice carried every authority, and among the soldiers beside him, there was no friendly face. Philippa said, ‘Who are you, sir? My escort is perfectly adequate. I am not going to Hampton Court Palace, but to some friends in the City.’
The man shook his helmeted head. ‘In the City? No, mistress. The Queen has given leave for no one to visit the City. Your place is at Court, in the Palace.’
‘But——’ said Philippa; and then cut off her protest. George, his hand falling back from his sword, could do nothing against all these men; still less could one girl. They had been sent here to take her; they had been sent to bring her back to her duty.
Or worse. Who were they? Who had thought it important to find her?
It was then that Philippa saw the Lennox cipher on every cloak.
*
Philippa was ill, or so Lady Lennox was certain. Ill from her loving and onerous duties, and deserving of rest in the Countess’s own fine apartments quite apart from the hubbub of Court, where she could sew, and read, and be quiet, and forget about the odd aberration which sent her wandering on some unspecified journey to London. ‘It is for your health,’ she insisted sweetly, on Philippa’s every protest. ‘The Queen understands. The child tarries still: there are more ladies at Court than any accouchement has need of, and the Duchess of Alva besides. Why fret? Are we so harsh in our care of you? Even if you returned, Philippa, the Queen would merely send you straight back to me.’
The prison was gilded: the jailers charming and quick with every dainty attention. But, of intention or not, it was a prison. And a man at arms stood before every door. The Edward Bonaventure sailed, but without Philippa Somerville. And the week after she sailed, Jane Dormer came to take Philippa back to her duty.
She curtseyed to Lady Lennox, and put both hands on Philippa’s shoulders. ‘You are well. I am so glad to see you restored. It is your first season at Court: we were thoughtless to bear quite so hard on you.… Are you sure you wish to return?’
She herself looked less than well; her white skin sallow, and blue hollows between eye and cheekbone. Philippa, who for ten days had betrayed neither resentment nor anger, snowed neither now, but kissed her cheek, and smiled, and went in her turn to curtsey to the Countess of Lennox, adding the necessary, neatly phrased thanks. Surprise and docility were all she had shown from the beginning, and docility was the essence of her leavetaking now. The Countess, smiling, touched the girl on the cheek. ‘Charming. You do not know how you have brightened my household. I declare, I wish that Harry were older.’
Jane Dormer’s fingers closed on her own, and Philippa smiled