The Game of Kings (54 page)

*  *  *

She put off no time. With Philippa out of the way and Gideon eating, Kate set off along the top passage and, leaving her bodyguard militantly outside, unlocked the end bedroom and went in.

The room seemed empty. Nobody at the window, or on the window seat: no one in the bed; nobody before the empty grate. That left the Legacy, a chair inherited from Gideon’s family and carved by a failed student in zoomorphics. Snarling with oaken tooth and paw, the Legacy was drawn before the window, its back to the door. Kate walked firmly round it and found him.

Slack by the palsied Behemoths, hands open, head thrown back, Lymond slept. It was an uncommonly sound sleep. Stretching one finger, Kate drew aside the stained jerkin without rousing him. It was enough to tell her what she wanted to know.

Below, she confronted her husband. “Why, Gideon?”

He was obtuse. “Why what?”

“Invoke the maternal instinct precisely now. I should rather be rancorous too.”

Somerville wiped his mouth. “Scourge away. That’s what he’s here for.”

“Whatever he’s here for, he’s bleeding over Grandpa Gideon’s oak chair like a Martinmas pig,” said Kate bluntly.

There was a faint smile in Gideon’s eyes. “Not my doing. But I admit to setting a fast pace this morning. He didn’t complain.”

“Then allow me to make up for it,” said Kate. “The air is filling in a familiar way with hideous subtleties. All right. Instinct it shall be. After all, everybody always brings the old broken-down things for me to patch up: there’s nothing actually new about it. When will you be back?”

“Soon, I hope.” Gideon rose, and presently took leave of his wife, running lightly downstairs to the courtyard. Kate watched him go, observing with misgiving the bland assurance on the kind face.

The procession next time along the top corridor was formidable: a kind of barmecide feast of invalid diet as well as jugs, bowls, bandages and clothes, towels, ointment and a small wooden bathtub
bound in brass. Walking through the assembled equipment, Kate unlocked the end door this time without ceremony, and went in.

He was not to be caught a second time unawares. Lounging in the window, Lymond viewed her acolytes with a faintly etched interest. “Coals of fire. No. I observe that’s the only thing lacking: such a warm day. Was it you who came in just now?”

“It was,” said Kate grimly. “And I had a good look at you, so you might as well sit down.”

The blue eyes were cool. “Why? Are you going to bathe me?”

“Hold your tongue,” said Kate. “Charles will do that. And then, for no gratification that it will afford me, I’ll dress your shoulder. Who performed the public service of perforating it?”

“Oh … a worm that turned,” said Crawford of Lymond. “A bait which refused to be hooked. A brandling which snatched itself from the burning. I am quite capable of washing and repairing myself, if your people will leave the wherewithal.”

Kate paid no attention, but mustered her materials and ushered in Gideon’s servant. “Charles. I’ll be back in half an hour,” she said, and shut the door.

The noise of hammering brought her back before then. She found the man Charles, streaming with soapy water and pounding on the outside of the captive’s room, which was ludicrously locked from inside. Kate pushed him aside and vibrated the handle. “What do you think you’re doing? Let me in!”

Through the thickness of the door, his voice came, slow and flippant. “Mistress Somerville! The proprieties!” said Lymond; and though they banged and rattled and threatened, nothing more could they get out of him that day.

*  *  *

A week after this event, Lord Grey of Wilton crossed the Border back into England and put up at Berwick Castle, leaving behind his newly fortified Haddington under a captain. On arrival Lord Grey, who had had a very hard month, was told that the Countess of Lennox was waiting to see him.

He exploded to Gideon, there to smooth his lordship’s first hours. “Margaret Lennox: what next? She got herself into a fine mess in February; and all her father did was laugh in her face and march over to the Scots. Well! I’ve taught that family a lesson!”

“I heard about the Dalkeith raid,” said Gideon. “How did it go?”

Grey looked pleased. “Splendidly, splendidly. I hope everyone heard about it. I hope all friend Douglas’s allies and sycophants noticed it and took a lesson from it. Sent Bowes and Gamboa out on Sunday night, and they burned around Edinburgh while Wilford and Wyndham went for Dalkeith. We undermined from the base-court and the white sheets were hanging out of the windows before we’d blunted a pick. Got the whole garrison—Douglas’s wife, second son, lairds and Douglases in dozens, and cartloads of furnishings—I tell you, Gideon,” said Lord Grey, flushed with recollection, “we came back from that day’s work richer by three thousand pounds
and
two thousand head of cattle,
and
three thousand sheep, not to mention as notable a bunch of prisoners as you’d wish to get compensation for.”

“But Sir George himself got away?”

Pleased reminiscence faded. “Damned coward,” said Lord Grey. “Slipped out of a postern and fled to Edinburgh, leaving his own wife to be taken. Well, he’s got little enough reward for it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s back on his knees by the end of the week. His wife thinks so. I sent her back to him.”

“Sent Lady Douglas back?”

“Yes. She thought she could persuade him to be honest with us at last. But it doesn’t matter,” said Grey expansively. “We’ve got half his relations in custody here, including his two sons. And an odd creature—nice-looking, too—a blind girl called Stewart. Ward of the Fleming family and well thought of at Court. She’ll be worth quite a bit. You’ll see her in a moment—I’ve sent for her.”

He bent down heavily for his shoes. “I could do with six months out to grass. I’ve got all this damned coming and going to Haddington—convoys three times weekly; serpentine pouches, hackbuts, iron, matches, sickles, scythes, pickaxes, what have you. And the horses are being used too much. And the French fleet is here.”

Gideon, whose attention had slackened, sat up sharply. “Are you sure?”

“Saw them myself,” said his commander gloomily. “They’re lying off Dunbar. A hundred and twenty sail, I should judge. A damned great navy.”

Gideon said, “What about our fleet?” and saw Grey’s lip curl. “What about it? Fitting out in the south. It’s been fitting out since
it was launched, and it’ll be fitting out at Christmas, I shouldn’t wonder.…”

He was still talking when Christian Stewart was ushered in. After her came Grey’s secretary Myles.

During the introductions, Gideon observed the blind girl curiously. She was sturdily built, by his standards, with good features and shining, dark red hair framing a surprisingly calm face. While Myles kept Grey’s attention, Gideon spoke.

“Have we met before, I wonder? You seemed to recognize my name.”

She had a splendid smile. “I’ve heard of you. Through a friend.”

Gideon made the commonplace answer. “Nothing too bad, I hope;” and the girl smiled again.

“Quite the reverse. He—we thought at one time you had had an injudicious past, but now we know better.”

“Good,” said Gideon, but the reply was mechanical. “But now we know better.” Was it possible she was referring to … ?

He looked up, saw that Grey was still engaged, and took a chance. “Or perhaps … not so good for Mr. Harvey?” he said.

There was a little silence. Then the colour came back into the girl’s fair skin. “Do you know him?” she said quietly.

“Who? Harvey?” He was disingenuous.

“No.”

A friend of Lymond’s. Well, well, thought Gideon. “I’ve met him,” he said circumspectly, aloud.

She was uncertain, obviously, of his standing; and doubtful also of being overheard. She made a small pause and then said, “As an antagonist?” Which made Gideon himself stop to think.

“At first; yes,” he said. “Things are a little different now. Do you know him well?”

“Know who?” said Lord Grey, piling the last paper on Myles’ outstretched arms. “Harvey? She probably met him at Haddington.” He looked up accusingly. “You asked me about that man before. I told you. He’s got this wound in the leg and he can’t get back to Berwick yet—maybe not for weeks. It’s damned awkward. I only put him into that convoy as an excuse for bringing him here, and now he isn’t here, and that Lymond fellow has disappeared into smoke.”

Neither Gideon nor the girl said anything.

“Anyway,” said Lord Grey, calming down. “I’ve got a job for you, Gideon. Have to tear you away from our fair company here. Which
reminds me.” He pinched a lip, staring with vague approval at the blind face. “I must get a proper chaperone for you. Wish my wife were here. Or—by God, that’s it!” he exclaimed, struck by a brilliant idea. “The Countess of Lennox! Get the damned woman away from under our feet!”

There was no change in the girl’s serene face. Gideon said without thinking too much, “But—Willie, I don’t think that very suitable.”

“Why not?”

Gideon couldn’t think why not. He repeated, emphatically, “I don’t think Lady Christian and Meg Douglas would have anything in common. Lady Lennox’s dealings with her countrymen—some of them—haven’t been particularly savoury,” he said distinctly, and saw the girl’s intelligent face turn questioningly toward him.

She said tentatively, “You mean the Countess might try to harm my friends through me?” and Gideon knew that although Grey might and did think it nonsense, the girl understood.

He gave her a friendly farewell a little later, and went off, in high good humour for no evident reason.

*  *  *

The interview between Lord Grey and Margaret, Countess of Lennox, was everything he was afraid it might be. It began with the lady’s cool voice saying, “I’m afraid I have to convey to you the Lord Protector’s displeasure, Lord Grey,” and included some plain questions.

“And am I supposed to believe that of all the officers in London this person Harvey was the only one capable of leading a convoy to Haddington?”

“Harvey,” said Lord Grey with an effort, “is a very able man. I’m sorry, since you take such an interest in him, that you can’t meet him. A slight wound made it necessary for him to stay at Haddington.”

The black eyes were sparkling. “I do take an interest in him, as it happens. I came here expressly to make sure that he returned to London directly. I believe Mr. Palmer leaves you today?”

Lord Grey agreed that Harvey’s cousin was due to leave Berwick for London.

“Then I hope he can take to His Grace the assurance that Mr. Harvey will follow directly he can travel?”

Lord Grey, with private reservations, agreed again.

“I am glad to hear it. I shall remain and see that he does,” said the Countess and ruthlessly delivered the coup de grace. “You will have heard that your friend Lymond has been caught.”

“Caught! By Wharton?”

“No. By the Scots. When,” said Margaret, having applied the black draught, “do you think Harvey will be able to travel?”

The Lord Lieutenant rested vague eyes on her. “What? Oh. I’ve no idea. I’ll ask the girl.”

Margaret stopped arranging her dress. “What girl?”

“There was a girl among the prisoners from George Douglas’s who took an interest in him at Haddington. They were all kept there for a spell before coming here.”

“Took an interest in
Harvey!”
exclaimed the Countess. “Who is she?”

Grey told her what he knew, and felt much better. “Lymond and she seem quite friendly,” he concluded, and raking in his desk, found a letter. “We took that from Lady Douglas just before we released her. It’s a letter to Sir George from the Stewart girl, written for her by her servant lad. She’s blind, you see. See what it says.”

“Blind!” Her face fixed in astonishment, Margaret Lennox read the paper once, then a second time. “Signed, Christian Stewart.”

She looked up. “This assumes that the Master of Culter will be in touch with Sir George … ‘or someone on his behalf.’ He is to be told that all is well, and he need pursue his objective no longer, because she has done all that is necessary. What does that mean?”

Lord Grey shook his head. “I had the girl in today asking her about it, but she’d say nothing.”

“Did Lady Douglas know what was in the letter? No? I should like to see this girl,” said Lady Lennox with a ringing and unanswerable finality.

*  *  *

Since the shock and physical buffeting of her capture at Dalkeith, Christian Stewart had stumbled unwillingly to Haddington, and then in a kind of stupor of relief and anxiety here to Berwick.

Miraculously, the key to the whole strange problem lay now in her hands. But to use it, she must be free. And whether Francis Crawford had been helped to escape, or whether he was still in prison, she
must prevent him from appearing on trial, or from risking his liberty again before she could find him.

Her letter to Sir George—a hopeless attempt to do just that—had failed. She had no other means of sending a message. She had tried to persuade them to release Sym, without success. She had even contemplated approaching the man Somerville, who had seemed friendly, and might perhaps be trusted. But he had left the castle, she had been told.

What next? All day she walked up and down, thinking: of Boghall; of Inchmahome; of Stirling; of Edinburgh.
“If I told you I’d murdered my sister you’d feel hate and revulsion.” “I haven’t tried to kill anyone today, I give you my word.” “A thief in the night is the phrase.”
And the bleak
“The darts which make me suffer are my own.”

She smashed her fists in sudden anger on the sill of her window. Oh, to get out! To get out of here!

To the Countess of Lennox, paying a regal prison visit, Christian was an astonishing, a calm, an impenetrable steel wall.

The name was soon spoken: Francis Crawford of Lymond. “I don’t suppose you know him. It isn’t thought patriotic to know him these days,” said Margaret ruefully. “But we were once very good friends.”

The blind girl answered serenely. “As a matter of fact, I do know him,” and Margaret was softly eager. “You do? Is he the same? Where is he, these days?”