The Game of Kings (53 page)

“Even to protect you from other crocodiles?”

“On the contrary. We are remarkably pest-free in our part of the world. It’s England, I think, that needs this alliance.”

“Well, of course,” said Gideon impatiently. “Look at the mess at Boulogne. Between the Protector and the Emperor and the King of France, Europe’s become a crocodiles’ convention. I don’t want to become part of the Holy Roman Empire, and it wouldn’t do Scotland any good either. You’re a threat to three million people out of all proportion to your size. You can’t expect us to leave you alone, to watch you siphon up the dregs of Europe and inject them into our backside. Your Government agreed to this miserable marriage, and then broke its word. It announces that it can’t abide anti-Papists and it can’t let down its dear old ally France. But your man Panter has been in Paris all the same, soliciting for a separate peace on behalf of Scotland with the Emperor.”

“Chess,” remarked Lymond. He spoke on equal terms, concisely, with little trace of the dilettante manner. “And France has been to London soliciting for a separate peace with England. All moves in
the game. And sometimes the feint turns into genuine play; sometimes not. France may sell us for Boulogne: I don’t think so, but she may. Or she might simply use us as a temporary blind for her real attack. The Lutherans among us think so, and so does the noble faction in need of English money. Religion and cupidity are on your side.

“Against that, you haven’t seen what your late king managed in the way of practical persuasion, with Somerset following. You haven’t seen abbeys brought to the ground, villages annihilated by the hundred, a nobility decimated, a country brought to poverty which thirty years ago was graced above any other in Europe with the arts of living. That has bred hate, and hate is a factor like any other.”

“If hate can be learned, it can be forgotten,” Gideon said. “I know all about chess: I would rather have an honest emotion—even hatred. The Emperor presses us to help his Flemish subjects recover the money you owe them, since the poorer you are, the more easily you will fall to us, and the worse off the French will be. Nothing emotional about that. Or about the Scots Commissioners trying to reopen negotiations for the royal marriage at every threat of danger, while the Queen Dowager perfects her plans to bring the French in and keeps Arran quiet with a promise to marry the Queen to his son.”

He sat forward in his chair.

“What if she succeeds? Where’s your inde—independence then? You’ll be a province of France, under an implacably Catholic King, with French in your key positions and your fortresses. I know all about Henry’s claim to be King of Scotland. I know all about the broken promises on both sides—the reprisals, the sinkings, the Border raids and the rest of it. But will you be any better off under the French? Because you will be under the French. Mary of Guise will marry that child to the King of France if she possibly can. What has France ever done for Scotland? Look at Flodden.”

“Look at Haddington,” said Lymond. “Now you are conjuring up crocodiles. France has too many commitments to spare enough troops to rule Scotland. Good lord, if England can’t do it, then France isn’t likely to. That leaves Scotland under a regent in the Queen’s absence—and if I were the Scottish Government, the Queen would become absent, damned quickly, from now on.

“Where are they worse off than they are now? And in the future, they can expect the Queen’s children to rule France and Scotland
between them. Another royal line will put in an appearance and the two countries will probably fall apart again with little harm done. That’s French diplomacy.

“The alternative is English force: reprisals and raids and counter-raids and broken promises, as you say. Of course you must try to secure this alliance. You might have achieved it in the last reign but for Henry. It was he who fostered the cult of the honest emotion, and you’re still paying for the mistake.”

He paused, his hand straying unconsciously to his bandaged shoulder. “Chess can be just about as brutalizing; I grant you that. You know about the Border raids last year, back and forth: you burn me and I’ll dismember you. The one the Scots made in March, for instance—Lord Wharton made two reports on it; one for the Protector, and one with all the damage exaggerated to be passed to the King of France. The purpose was to justify your invasion in September. Were you at the battle of Pinkie?”

“No.”

“I was. It was as precise an exhibition of honest emotion as you’re likely to see. It won’t be the last. I told you religion was on your side, and that’s the bloodiest emotion I know. If this develops into a religious war, then God help us.”

Gideon, intensely interested, noticed that his own affairs had no place in Lymond’s mind, and that he had dropped entirely most of his irritating mannerisms. The Englishman scratched his chin with his clasped thumbs. “What’s your solution? Why not let the children marry?”

Lymond said slowly, “I haven’t got a solution. But I’ll give you a few objections, if you like. The Queen’s five and the King’s nine. If Mary’s brought up in London, as Somerset is stipulating, she’ll either lose or be accused of losing interest in Scotland long before she gets to marrying age. And that small excuse is enough to touch off a religious and baronial war up here that might make the Protector’s efforts look silly. It only needs some fool to crown himself, and the whole process of expostulation and invasion begins again.”

“But,” said Gideon, “if she goes to France, won’t the same thing happen?”

“Not quite. There’d be less religious friction. And Mary of Guise would have the power and the standing to keep the throne warm for a little time, at least.”

Gideon said thoughtfully, “The alternative, I suppose, is to let you keep the Queen peacefully until she’s of marriageable age. And then—”

“—To arrange a marriage with Edward as a good conduct prize on both sides. That’s the unemotional solution. France would hate it; so would the Douglases. Would Somerset agree to such a wait?”

Their eyes met.

Gideon shook his head slowly and wryly. “It isn’t any use getting intelligent about it. His Grace’s own position is damned shaky. He needs action, and success, right away. There’s always the Princess Mary, you see. He’s bound to try and get hold of your Queen.”

“In fact, stalemate.”

Gideon studied him, over the rim of his hands. “Why aren’t you at Edinburgh with your people?”

“They threw me out,” said Lymond calmly.

“Why?”

“Youth, women and bad company. Nothing sentimental about that either. Or rather, not women. One woman.”

Gideon said suddenly, “Could I make a guess? Someone connected with Samuel Harvey and Princess Mary’s household? Someone like Margaret Lennox?”

Lymond replied, “Very like,” and didn’t add to it.

After a moment, Gideon probed. “You wouldn’t care to … ?”

“No.”

Somerville got up. Looking at his feet, he walked to the door and back again, aware that the barrier of nationality had fallen between them, and the shutters closed again. He resumed his seat behind the desk. “About Harvey.”

Lymond crossed his legs. “You’re under no obligation in that respect. Similarly, I am in your power of disposal, even though the meeting was never held. That was the arrangement.”

“I have given this some thought,” said Gideon, rolling his pen between pink, clean fingers. “The convoy which passed through here to Haddington will be returning in a week or two’s time. It might be possible for a second interview with Mr. Harvey to be arranged. Unfortunately—”

“I knew it,” said Lymond with equanimity. “The sliding joy, the gladness short; the feigned love, the false comfort. Unfortunately—”

“Unfortunately,” pursued Somerville, laying the pen down, “I’ve got to go and meet Lord Grey on his return at Berwick. I could
guarantee you a certain degree of safety here under my presence, but without me I’m afraid you would end fairly quickly at Carlisle.”

“And so it might be quicker to take me to Carlisle in the first place.”

“What!” said Gideon dryly. “Put such a singer in the soup? No. I hope to be back before Harvey returns. Until then, I am taking you to Flaw Valleys.”

There was a pause. “To your house? I see. But will your wife, almighty Mohammet, whose laws tenderly I have to fulfil?”

Gideon rose. “You’ll find nothing particularly pleasant about your stay. You will be under lock and key, and a regime as strict as my wife cares to make it. I shall return for you when I can.”

Hand on door, Lymond had stopped, his face expressive of conflicting emotions. “I should dearly like to know why,” he said.

But that was something Gideon did not even know clearly himself.

Sybilla heard nothing of her son’s escape from Threave until the Wednesday of that week.

Arriving at the castle in a flurry of women, armed men and boxes, she heard the story piecemeal from Will Scott, who was monosyllabic, and Agnes, who was jubilant, and drew her own conclusions.

She was not, indeed, as impressed by the feat as Agnes expected, but asked sharply, “Have you looked for him?” Scott replied repressively that his father’s men had scoured the countryside with dogs since Saturday without finding a trace. He filled an awkward pause by adding, “How is Mariotta?”

Sybilla, though dressed with her usual éclat, was less fantastic in her manner than usual, and a good deal more pointed. “Very well. Christian told us of Francis’s capture, but she didn’t know, naturally, of his escape. Did you hear,” added the Dowager abruptly, “about the raid on Dalkeith?”

Will Scott, not at all sure what the Dowager thought of all this, followed her with some bewilderment. “Dalkeith? No!”

“It only happened on Sunday night,” said Sybilla, seating herself. “Lord Grey sent out troops from Haddington. Some of them burned up the country all round Edinburgh, and the rest attacked Dalkeith.
George Douglas escaped, I hear, but his wife and all the rest of the household had to give themselves up.”

“I thought Sir George and Grey were on good terms,” said Scott.

“Did you? Agnes, my dear,” said the Dowager. “Bonnie has some new satin for you, if you can find the right box. Just the shade for your turquoises. Will and I shall be quite all right here.”

Scott watched the girl go with a sinking feeling. He said, “I suppose you know my father isn’t altogether pleased with me. I don’t know what he expected. After what happened to Mariotta, no man could stand by and—”

“Rubbish,” said Sybilla. “Mariotta is a silly child, who deserved a lesson, though not quite the one she got. At least you haven’t told your father about Wark.”

Scott flushed. “I don’t believe Lymond went there. He was too late.”

Sybilla smoothed her dress. “Did you know why he had to get there?”

“No.” Scott hesitated under the blue gaze. “Not really.”

“He didn’t tell you—even when you were locked in together afterward?”

“It was some information he wanted,” said Scott sulkily. “Something he expected to put him in a good light with the authorities. I didn’t know. But I don’t see that it could have done him any good now. Not after all he’s done.”

The Dowager made no reply, and the boy found himself overcome with exasperation. “Are you
sorry
I captured him? I can tell you his brother won’t be.”

“Sorry? Yes. Aren’t you?” said the Dowager mildly.

Scott met her eyes squarely. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe. In any case, what could I do about it?”

“You could try and find him,” said Sybilla. “You know where he might be. And you could try and trace Harvey. Then at least—don’t you think?—we might get the truth.”

“The truth?” said Scott harshly. “What good will the truth do to anybody? What good has it done Christian Stewart? The only thing that will help her now is a piece of good, solid lying.” The memory of a promise came back to him. “And I’ve got the job of doing it … I suppose she’s back at Boghall?”

“No,” said Sybilla. “She takes her friendships a little more seriously
than that. The last time I saw her, she was on her way to visit Sir George Douglas at Dalkeith in an effort to neutralize the effects of your little plot here.”

Scott shot to his feet. “Dalkeith!”

“Yes,” said Sybilla pleasantly. “The place the English raided on Sunday. Not a very clever thing to do under the circumstances, was it?”

*  *  *

In delivering Lymond at Flaw Valleys and then returning himself to Berwick, Gideon faced a round trip of something like a hundred and forty miles. It was a measure of his interest that he took it without hesitation, and a measure of his speed that he and his retinue arrived, with the outlaw, in the early afternoon of Monday.

The inevitable skirmish took place as he was changing into fresh clothes, under the amazed brown eyes of his wife. “And where,” said Kate Somerville expansively, “did you say you had put him?”

Her husband’s expression, already wary, became turgid. “In the bedroom at the end of the top passage. Under lock and—”

“Tut!” said Kate. “What are you thinking of! No silk sheets! No goose-feather mattress! And two stairs and a nasty muddy yard to cross before he can even round up the livestock, unless he starts with the mice.”

“Kate—”

“And then food. Is he choosy? We could manage stavesacre and dwale, with a little fool’s parsley and half a thorn apple, stewed, with toadstools.”

“Kate!”

“I think you’re suffering from necrosis of the brain,” said Kate, a little less passionately. “Have you told Philippa?”

Gideon nodded. “I told her he was here to be punished.”

“Oh. In that case she’s probably in the room at the end of the passage with a chabouk. Or is it locked?”

Gideon held out a key. “I must eat and go, sweet. Some of my men will take in his food and look after the room—”

“And here was I, preparing to recede into a gentle old age like Philemon and Baucis. Don’t you think you should retire again? The first retiral seems to have got mislaid. No? Well, I shall have to look
after your nasty friend, but don’t blame me if he isn’t quite the same person when you get back,” said Kate Somerville.