The Disorderly Knights (70 page)

Patches of colour in her cheeks, Mary of Guise was unsmiling. ‘Your intentions are possibly of the highest. But unless they are matched by your capabilities, this force is too prone to misuse. And were you Alexander himself, you are mortal. Into whose hands might not it fall when you die?’

‘Sir Graham Malett’s?’ said Lymond with interest. ‘There’s public-spiritedness for you. Except that into whose hands might it not fall when
he
dies?’

‘Sir Graham Malett has no wish to command St Mary’s,’ said M. d’Oisel a little stiffly.

‘Oh?’ Lymond was quick. ‘So you’ve asked him?’

The Queen Mother broke in. ‘It was hardly necessary. He has made plain his views over many weeks.’

‘Then,’ said Lymond quietly, ‘may I be given the privilege of one day in which to do the same? St Mary’s has achieved more, I believe, than you know. It is documented. I should like to be given time in which to present the facts to your Grace.’

The glassy, heavily metalled rings flashed; the pearls on her cap jerked, as the Queen Mother slowly shook her head. ‘I have the only facts of significance. However well-intentioned, however successful, this army in private hands is a danger. It must be disbanded. And you, sir, will remain in our charge until it has done so.’

Watching Lymond, Margaret Erskine wondered what was happening behind that façade. If he did not disperse his company, it would be done for him, and all this great and formidable achievement would go for nothing. With his mercenaries scattered, and the confidence of his officers lost following this foolish indictment, he would never team them again.

And there was more behind it than that. He would know, as she did, that there was trouble ahead under French rule—or what would virtually become French rule if Mary of Guise was made Regent, and her daughter Mary’s future husband was proclaimed King of both Scotland and France. She would then need all the armed support she could get. She had wanted Lymond to build her a personal army. She would not risk the presence of an army which might unite and even support the powerful families of Scotland against her. Thank God, thought Margaret bitterly, that Gabriel is what he is. But even Gabriel could not move against the pressure of national expediency.

And while she was thinking so, a whispered consultation at the doors turned into an announcement; a sharp question by the Queen Dowager and a comment by M. d’Oisel; and there, entering the room in his dark, cheap clothes, his burnished head bent, his expression grimly determined, was Graham Malett himself.

He glanced, once, at Lymond; and then in a moment was on one knee at his side. ‘Forgive me, your Grace. If I offend you, punish me. But in the name of truth and in the light of my vows, and in token of the loving friendship in which I hold this man, I must speak. Francis—’

‘Sir Graham!’ The Queen Dowager’s voice, when she chose, could grate like flaked metal. ‘Afterwards, in private, we shall speak of this.’

Graham Malett rose and said, without answering her, ‘Francis. They have ordered you to disband?’

‘Yes.’ Curiously, Lymond scanned the intent face at his side.

‘There is another chance—’

‘
Sir Graham!
’

Again, Gabriel ignored the Dowager. And such was his sheer force of personality that of all the entourage in the room, no one stepped forward to remove him. Instead, he went on rapidly. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you. But this is no time for hurt pride. At the request of the King of France, an expeditionary force is to be raised of Scots to
fight on the continent. I have been asked, and have refused, to depose you and lead St Mary’s there myself. The alternative was to disband the company. There is a third choice. Prove to her Grace in the next month without a shadow of doubt that St Mary’s is great, as you and I know that it is, and then lead them to France under the Queen Dowager’s banner. On your conduct there, she can decide whether or not Scotland would be the better for your return. If she still cannot bring herself to believe that nothing but good will come of this idea of yours, then at least you will be free and with your army, and able to go where you please and name your own price.’

His face pale, the fire of appeal in his blue eyes, Graham Malett turned to the Dowager. ‘Forgive me,’ he said again. ‘But you do not know what you are destroying. Will you not let us have this final chance? The King of France will receive a weapon for which he will be in your debt all his life. And I myself will stand surety for Mr Crawford until the expedition leaves.’

‘You are eloquent.’ The Queen Dowager was abrupt. ‘The force you have seen fit to mention may not set sail until autumn.’

‘Then will you not trust us, on my personal bond, until then?’

‘My God,’ said Lymond then, and the sheer incredulity of the tone betrayed, at last, the violence of his true feelings. ‘May I speak, do you think? I don’t recall having begged anyone to trust me, or to give me a last chance, or even to stand selfless bond to me. Nor do I negotiate at second hand.’

As suddenly as his temper flared, he had it controlled. ‘It is even possible,’ said Lymond thoughtfully, ‘that the Queen Dowager might have been about to put forward this proposal herself?’

There was a little pause. ‘Does this matter?’ said the Queen Dowager at length. Within each eyebrow was a sharp line of displeasure. She had not wished, Margaret guessed, for the matter of the French expedition to be raised yet in public. Sir Graham would earn a reprimand, whatever his rank, for that.

‘You are fortunate,’ said Mary of Guise to Lymond, ‘in having a friend so staunch, despite your discourtesy towards him. I put this to you at first hand therefore. Would you and your army join such an expedition, placing yourselves under my chosen leader’—(‘
Cassillis
,’ said Gabriel, quickly, in Lymond’s ear)—‘and undertake both to refrain from all fighting in the weeks before such an army would leave, and to accept as final my eventual decision as to whether you and your company should return?’

To Margaret’s amazement, Lymond appeared to be giving it thought. ‘If during this interval we were attacked, might we defend ourselves?’ he inquired.

‘If you could prove that you fought in self-defence. Understand her Grace,’ said le Seigneur d’Oisel et de Villeparisis forcefully.
‘There is to be no trouble while you wait at St Mary’s. You may help, yes. You may protect, yes. You may train as you wish, and prepare your arms. But no bloodshed. No hostile or criminal action. Or I shall be forced to muster my garrisons against you and, as her Grace has said, your men would be dispersed and you yourself taken into custody. As for the Scottish expedition, I can offer noble prosspects and no small fees. Details I cannot yet give, but I can assure you that the King’s Majesty’s wars will be renowned, and full of honour to be won.’

‘I am subjugated,’ said Lymond drily.

‘You would agree to those terms?’

‘I should hate to disband Randy Bell,’ said Lymond. ‘The Flowers of the Forest would be Flowers no more.’

‘
Do you agree?
’

‘Yes,’ said Lymond cheerfully. ‘Provided that Sir Graham comes
formally
lawburrows that neither the Queen Dowager nor yourself will suffer for it. He’s standing surety, remember; not I.’

Soon after that, it was over. Adam Blacklock, informed by Gabriel of the outcome, packed his bags and took his leave to meet Lymond, as instructed, at the livery stables. Lymond, having brought his baggage from Creich that morning, was already there, leavetaking behind him. He had spoken warmly to Robert Beaton and Margaret Erskine, and fleetingly to Gabriel himself. Graham Malett was to stay at Falkland for some days yet. Then, as he mentioned with a kind of anxious deprecation, he was to return to St Mary’s to help Lymond maintain the Queen’s peace. He did not say, and Lymond did not discover, that early that morning he had had a guarded exchange with the departing Cormac O’Connor; nor did he mention the name of Oonagh O’Dwyer that day.

When Adam Blacklock got to the stables, a hundred questions stuttering to his tongue, Lymond was standing inside, next to his horse, reading a letter with one arm on the pommel. Beside him was a lad Adam knew well from the group of messengers at St Mary’s. ‘News?’ Blacklock said. And then, taking a closer look at Lymond’s face, ‘Trouble?’

For a moment more, Lymond read on, saying nothing. Then, quickly, he pushed the pages into his doublet, checked his girths, swung into the saddle, and throwing a silver coin to the boy said, ‘Well done. Home tomorrow, when you’ve had a night’s rest. Leave the girls alone—they’ve sorrows enough. Adam!’

‘Yes?’ He had led out his horse, and was busy saddling her. Silently Salablanca, slipping from Lymond’s side, took the task from him and began methodically strapping on Adam’s bags, his own mule and the spare saddle-horse waiting patiently, while Blacklock crossed to where Lymond sat.

‘Trouble,’ said Lymond, confirming. ‘I’ve paid the reckoning for us both. Quietly through the town, and then ride for your life. For in this country be many white elephants without number, and of unicorns and of lions of many manners.’

‘White elephants such as what?’ said Blacklock, his voice insouciant, his hand suddenly unsteady.

‘Such as Jock Thompson, pirate,’ said Lymond. ‘And Jim Logan, of the same brethren, who ran the Irish customars out to the
Magdalena
, off the Head of Howth. And half the officers of St Mary’s, who might be in Dublin jail this moment accused of smuggling gunpowder to the Irish rebels, except that they sank the customs boat, burst up Logan’s ship, killed six of Logan’s best men, and sailed the
Magdalena
rejoicing back to Dumbarton with all Logan’s cargo, including his contraband.’

Adam Blacklock’s grey eyes were bright and steady on Lymond’s. ‘Sir Graham said that if there were any more incidents the Dowager had threatened to break you.’

‘Yes. Well. This isn’t an incident, it’s a cataclysm,’ said Lymond. ‘It’s more than that. It’s the end of a nightmare. One way or the other. Come, Adam. You must be in time to draw the death mask of St Mary’s.’

‘How long will it take the news to reach the palace?’ Adam asked. All three pacing soberly through the little town, spoke in murmurs.

‘If the garrison at Dumbarton get to hear of it … say another day only. If Thompson is discreet, and I think he will be, it will go from Dublin to London, and thence here. Two weeks, then. If the expeditionary force goes in September—a month from now say—the Queen Dowager has two further weeks in which to—what’s the phrase?—break us. If she wants to. And catch me. If she can.’

There was a short silence, during which they reached the open country, and then a long interval, filled breathlessly by some very fast riding indeed. At the first pause for rest, ‘It really is exceedingly neat,’ said Lymond, apparently in the belief that he was continuing the conversation, but without explaining in the least. His tone was one of deepest admiration. He said, walking round and round Adam as the artist lay, arms outflung in the deep grass, a bannock half-eaten on his chest, ‘And Joleta.’

It was the last name Blacklock expected to hear. He raised a hand, removed the bannock slowly from his jerkin, and took a bite. ‘Yes?’

‘Oh, come on, Adam,’ said Lymond with derision, standing over him. ‘You’re an artist. You saw her at Dumbarton. Sixteen, convent-bred and the light of Gabriel’s life. Family pride kept my brother from breaking the awful news to Graham Malett, but you have no reason to hold back. Yet you haven’t told him of my night with his sister, have you? Why?’

Some crumbs from the scone had got into his windpipe. When he had finished choking Adam sat up, scarlet, with tears in his eyes. ‘It was none of my f-f … none of my business,’ he said.

‘Because you saw what I did,’ said Lymond gently. ‘What did you see, Adam?’

‘All right,’ said Blacklock suddenly and angrily. He got to his knees, brushing crumbs from the leather, and then rose face to face with Lymond. Neither man gave way.

‘All right,’ Adam repeated grimly. ‘When I saw Joleta in Dumbarton that night she was pregnant, and it wasn’t her first pregnancy at that.’

‘Adam!’ Lymond said; then stopped, and said in a more moderate tone, ‘The eye of the master. You may have, from my personal storehouse, pens, ink, paper, colours, oils and pregnant women to sketch in unlimited supply from now until your dotage. She was not a virgin, and she had had a baby. She was also pregnant. Which makes her about five months gone with the baby she is going to foist on me.… No wonder Sybilla noticed.’

Adam sat down, confused. ‘How do you know she’s going to foist it on you?’

‘Because she has done everything in her power, since I came, first to attract me, and then when that failed, to compromise me, willy-nilly.’ He smiled faintly. ‘That night at Dumbarton was a classic of its kind. She had hopes still, I think, of enslaving me despite myself with her charms. And I probably thought the same. We both found we were mistaken. It had its moments; but she has the mind and morals of a jungle cat. She didn’t enjoy meeting … another of the same.’

‘So she wants to take her revenge?’

‘She has threatened that, unless I marry her, to Gabriel’s fond applause, she will name me as her seducer. Grand climax to Gabriel’s loving comradeship with Crawford of Lymond.’

‘And to your control over St Mary’s,’ said Adam Blacklock slowly. ‘She and Gabriel are mystic symbols of fortune to at least half your men. One whisper of this, and they’ll leave you.’

‘It’ll be more than a whisper by mid-September,’ said Lymond, calculating. ‘Even if she wears tablecloths.… I wonder whose it is?’

‘It isn’t yours?’ asked Adam. But he knew already, from that cool ‘
What are you doing here?
’ heard that night in Dumbarton, that it was not.

‘No. And could be proved not to be, I suppose. But that doesn’t matter a damn in an emotional crisis of that kind. It’ll be too late when they turn out to be baby Berbers, or a litter of Moors. Poor bastards. Sybilla will do something for them.’

‘My advice,’ said Adam thoughtfully, ‘would be to get your mother to immure her in a convent for a very long time.’