To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [88]
‘Not always,’ said Robin.
‘Then he’ll have to learn to keep sober,’ said Kathi tartly. The ball came out at her feet and she could hardly believe it: she and Robin fled with it a full four yards before they were felled by the rush from behind. The ball, squeezed among all the bodies, squirted up in the air and began to descend again to the roof-tops below. This time, she was the quickest to follow it, sliding down slopes and crawling up inclines and jumping from one roof to another. Meg was chasing her, screaming and giggling, and, out of sheer good nature, Kathi let her have the ball.
Once returned, however and into the game, she found herself glancing from time to time to see what their red-headed hitter was doing, as she observed Robin’s gaze was following Mar. She refused to consider whether Wodman, the servant of Jordan de Ribérac, might also harbour designs against M. de Fleury. There was a limit to what one could do. The simple truth was that the whole opposing team was out to murder M. de Fleury if it led to winning the game, as he could hardly have failed to notice. She felt rather the same way herself about them. She saw Whistle Willie laughing at her, and she laughed back as she ran.
It had not occurred to Nicholas up to that point that he was the object of anyone’s concern. He was vaguely sensible that all four royals were capable of any extreme of misconduct, with John of Mar the worst offender by far. Against that, he seldom obeyed rules himself. It was true that he didn’t much like having the representative of the Vatachino at his back, but he had found ways of dealing with it which Martin didn’t much like either. The weak links in his own side were Adorne’s niece and Robin; not because they were young, but because they were vulnerable. He also felt some confused responsibility for Roger who, however willing, was far from being a natural athlete.
On the other side, he welcomed the moderating influence of Liddell, but faced a continuing enigma in Wodman.
Nicholas, after all, was a secret pensioner of the French King, and should have Wodman’s support, if he knew as much. On the other hand, accidents happened. Especially accidents to a man who had humiliated Jordan de Ribérac’s son. He thought, hazily, that it was time to start taking charge of this game. He thought it was even time that someone began scoring goals.
Down below, a spreading sense of relief caused an increase in the noise, in the shouting and even the laughter, as the wagering became less discreet, and as more emerged to jump about and comment and watch. Lamplight from windows and doors picked out the coifs and aprons of women, as the torchlight made ruddy the faces and tunics of men, and sparkled on half-armour and helmets, and picked out the gold thread of livery badges and the chain across Will Sinclair’s shoulders and the jewel in James Hamilton’s hat. The Abbot’s cloak tossed in the wind, as the smoke and flame from the torches streamed sideways and joined the peat smoke and the soot in the air. The King burned coal in his fires.
The King, it was clear, was hot enough with his present exertion not to think about fires, although the wind on the battlements was strong enough now to bustle the ball in the air, and deflect its angle of fall. It showed against the black, starry sky from time to time, a dull blister of light, and sometimes its rap could be heard amongst the pounding of feet and the chorus of twelve people shouting. The sounds descended in waves, sometimes faint and sometimes loud, with the young voice of the lassie screaming highest. Bleezie Meg. A survivor.
It had begun to seem likely now that all might be well. The outer wall of the parapet was four feet in height and the space between the crenellations was narrow. It would take a very drunk man to climb up and fall over that, and as time went on, the effects of the wine must be lessening. It silenced them