The Game of Kings (16 page)

The ex-Mr. Taylor lay on a small carpet, bleeding copiously from the nose and with the beginnings of a glorious black eye. His shirt showed white through the tears in his jerkin, and his skin showed pink through the tears in his shirt; his red hair stood on end.

Surprisingly, he was not an object of pity. His one good eye regarded the two men with a fair assumption of calm, and he even grinned a little, ruefully, at Grey.

“The devil!” he said impertinently. “Now we’ve hardly one whole set of features between us.”

Lord Grey seated himself fastidiously at his desk, first clearing a litter of papers which had whirled from desk to chair. He passed a hand over his thick, fine hair, pulled down his sleeves, and gave a jerk to the short skirt of his doublet.

“Now,” he said, putting thirteen generations of ice into his voice, “let uth thee what we have here.” And he fixed Scott with the kind of look linked with Assizes.

“You have not, of courthe, come from Roxthburgh?”

“Find out!”

“I propothe to thend to Roxthburgh to do jutht that.” He paused.

“Do you know the penalty for arthon and attempted murder? … or wath it a kidnapping? In any cathe, you won’t dithpothe me to lenienthy thith way.”

No reply.

Grey tried again. “I prethume you are a Thcotthman?”

His Lordship’s misfortune was Scott’s downfall as well. He couldn’t resist it.

“Yeth!” said Scott, and got his mouth shut for him by the buckle of his own belt. He tasted blood.

Dudley swung it again, warningly. “Keep a civil tongue, sir. What is your real name?”

“Find out.”

Again the belt. He supposed they questioned him for ten minutes, and still pumped full of excitement, he not only kept them guessing, but in a masochistic way, even enjoyed himself.

Finally Grey swung around to the desk again. “We need to uthe thtronger perthuathion. The men below are obviouthly in colluthion too.”

Dudley said, “They’ve lost their tongues as well,” and went on hurriedly. “Woodward tells me it looks as if most of the stores are missing, even allowing for what was burnt. The boneheaded fool at the gate let them in on the strength of their dress and the seals—they were authentic enough—and—of all things—because he recognized two of the horses. Of course, the train was dead on time, and he was desperate to get the beer in, into the bargain. Which reminds me—”

Lord Grey for the first time looked really disturbed. “Not the beer?”

Dudley said, “There’s not a barrel left. Nor any ordnance to speak of, apart from what blew up. And what’s more, no money.”

“What!” The two men stared at one another. This affair was serious. Water was scarce and unsafe: men had to have ale; and the horses needed hard feed to enable them to foray and keep open their communications. The need for arms and food was equally pressing.

Grey was silent for a long time, and then he got up and, walking over to the prone man, stirred him with one foot. This time, the voice was a general’s voice, and the lisp was not even remotely funny. “Where ith the retht of the train, and where are the men who thet out with it?”

The exhilaration had worn off; extreme mortification was biting at
the edges of his courage. But he fought hard to keep his eyes calmly on Grey, and if the effort was visible to the soldier’s practised eye, Scott didn’t know it. He said dreamily, “Far, far away! And farther every hour!”

Dudley said sharply, “Ah, then you had others with you who didn’t come to Hume?”

They would be halfway home by now, and surprised that he hadn’t joined them. Then they would find the carts had never been driven to Melrose. And tomorrow, wait in vain for himself and his party. And then, somehow, Lymond would find out: against orders, he had got into Hume … but hadn’t the brains or the guts to get out. Scott braced himself.

“Naturally,” he said. “I hope they keep some beer for me.”

This time he had no trouble in meeting their eyes. After a moment Grey swung to the desk and began writing. “Two men to Berwick for replathementth, two to Roxthburgh, to look out for thignth of ambuth, and dithcover the latht point the train got to.” He finished writing and handed both papers to Dudley. “Right away.”

Then he stood up and came over again to Scott.

“I am thorry you’ve thet thuch a thmall prithe on your life. I cannot afford to feed you and your men with what food we have left. Tomorrow you can ekthpect to meet a thpy’th death. We have a prietht. If you Want your relativeth to know, you had better give him your true name.”

Scott said, “My men are mercenaries. If you pay them, they will fight for you as well as your Germans and Spanish do.”

“Pay them?” said Grey. “With what, prithee?”

Scott was silent, in the bitter awareness that his exercise in self-expression had murdered ten men. Grey addressed the pikemen.

“Lock him up. But away from hith men … they might take advantage of him.”

In the revolting hole they took him to, he had only one comfort. He hadn’t said who he was. If they knew he was heir to Buccleuch, he thought cynically, they wouldn’t let him so much as catch cold. They’d take him to Berwick and use him as a tool to make his father do as they wanted.

For all his airy words to Lymond, he didn’t think for a moment his father would stand by in public and watch him murdered. No. He’d do what the English asked him to do—again. And this time, ironically,
he
would be the cause of it. If he told them who he was.

He thought, lying bruised on the cold flags: This time tomorrow I shall be out of the whole damned mess. It didn’t help very much.

*  *  *

Nor did the news that Grey’s small search party had found and brought back the two remaining carts and the original English members of the supply train, found tied up and frozen where he had left them, just off the causeway.

They arrived, packed shivering among the crates, and jumped down from the wagons, shirt-tails flying, to cheer after cheer. There wasn’t a man among them with a pair of hose, breeches or a jerkin on him: their teeth chattered and their feet were blue. Even the masons repairing the explosion breech dropped tools and poured over to watch as the unlucky travellers hopped into the castle. Comment was rife and on well-marked lines.

When the last of the men had gone indoors, Dudley examined the two carts and set a strong guard on them before reporting in high spirits to Grey.

“We’ve got some of the beer after all; and most of the heavy ordnance … culverin and stoneshot—”

What else he was going to say was never known.

The door burst open, the tapestries flapped, and a human tornado, enveloped in a whorl of depot-stamped canvas and trailed by protesting soldiers, erupted into the room.

The visitor brushed off his escorts, slamming the door in their faces, and strode headlong to Grey’s desk.

“Madre Dios! Caballeros, su ayuda … su venganza! Ladrónes!” Hissing, the newcomer fixed his lordship with a burning eye, and even Lord Grey had to admit the magnificence of his rage.

“He sido mortificado, insultado—hombre—me hecho hazmerreír!
—Mirame!”
screamed the insulted one, and peeled off the canvas.

Mr. Secretary Myles, tried beyond endurance, gave a soul-destroying quack. Dudley and Grey, pinned to the petrified edge of diplomacy, gazed at the sorry remains of a ruffled shirt, pleated and trimmed with shredded bullion; hair, once black, oiled and curled, swooning from a coarse woollen cap, askew; and below, bare thighs, blue with cold, and tarred and feathered from toe to knee as a duck goes to market. A single destitute earring winked next to the highbred nose and smooth olive skin.

Lord Grey, recovering an aplomb he had hardly known for a month, rendered sympathy, concern and indignation in a mollifying buzz. By a combined effort he and Dudley got the still-detonating visitor into a chair, rewrapped in Dudley’s cloak, and his feet in a pewter basin of hot water to melt off the tar. He was brought a pot of mulled wine and invited, at last, to address himself to Mr. Myles, who spoke Spanish.

The caballero was displeased. “But,” he said with some hauteur, “I speak the Scottish perfecto.”

“Oh,” said Dudley, taken aback. He, Grey and Myles waited.

The Spanish gentleman inspected his feet, sat back and proceeded to prove his point. He introduced himself: Don Luis Fernando de Cordoba y Avila, leader of the captured supply train, and said much about his relatives on both sides. He referred in passing without deference to His Majesty the Emperor; to the noble and adventurous life of himself and a few compatriots as masters of their own swords in London and Flanders, and drew their attention to the proverb “Un hidalgo no debe a otro que a Dios, y al Rei nada.”

Mr. Myles was anxious to translate. Grey restrained him. “I can gueth.”

“De veras,” said Don Luis politely. “My Lordship has the true Spanish lisp of Castile. His Spanish sin dude is as much good as the mine.”

At this point, discretion came to Mr. Myles, and he studied the floor.

“And now,” said Don Luis. He rose splashily to his feet. “To action, señores. Mas veen quatro ojos que no dos. If the señores will lend clothing to myself and my men, with your aid we shall follow and kill the animals who put the hand on us. By el engaño, the trick.”

The dark face flamed with renewed vitality. “The leader, I wish to meet. The confusion with the horses, the skilful overcoming of such a man as me: there is no man mediocre. Ay, ay, dios. Y cuando … When I meet him …”

“You may meet him now, if you with,” said Grey calmly. “We have him and motht of hith men locked up here.”

“Que pasa? How is this?” Lord Grey saw with satisfaction that the caballero was impressed at last.

“Pero—como asi?”

They explained. Don Luis, the ends of his cloak slopping in the
bath, stood in astonishment. Then he swept out of the tub, imprinting the carpet with black sticky footmarks.

“This terrible Señor Huile! Lead me to him!”

“Señor … Wait a moment,” said Grey sharply.

Don Luis paused in the midst of a characteristic rush to the door.

Grey said, “You don’t by any chanth know how the leader wath called?”

“But of course!” said Don Luis simply. “Do you not? It is Don Huile del Escocia.”

“Don …” Dudley suddenly experienced a terrible nostalgia for the King’s English, unadorned. “He can’t be called that. He’s a Scotsman.”

“No, no.” Don Luis was annoyed at his own stupidity. “This I translate to remember. El nombre de pila …”

(“Christian name,” said Mr. Myles surreptitiously.)

“… It is Huile, that is in Scottish, Oil. An unusual name, is it not?” said Don Luis, amused.

“Oil!” said Grey rather hollowly.

“And the patronimico,” continued Don Luis with undiminished helpfulness. “It is del Escocia, of Scot.”

“Thcot!” said Grey. His face suddenly lightened. “Wait a moment. Thcott! That’th Buccleuch’th name. Huile—It’th the Thpanith pronunthiathion, idiot, not the Englith. What thoundth like Huile …
Will! Will Thcott!
Buccleuch’th oldetht son!”

“Idiota?” said Don Luis stiffly, picking out the insult unerringly from the maze of multisyllables. His feet, a tarry mound, were ringed with pools of water from the cloak, and his eyes were narrowed at Grey. “Idiota?”

The secretary saved the day. He took the señor’s arm and murmured in his ear. Phrases floated to his lordship: “defecto de boca … quiere decir ‘ideal’ …” Mr. Myles did his best, and only ceased when entangled with the unforunate word “embarazar.” He flushed bright pink and released Don Luis, now regarding Lord Grey with unconcealed curiosity.

“Perhapth,” said Grey icily, “Don Luith might be given thome help to clean hith feet and a chanth to dreth, and then we will have Mr. Thcott brought up.”

Dudley opened the door. “Woodward! Get those men below into decent clothes, and fetch a suit for the señor.”

Woodward looked doubtful. “We’ve already fixed up the men below,
sir, and it’s taken nearly all the spare clothing we’ve got. What’s left wouldn’t be”—he hesitated—“entirely suitable for the gentleman.”

“Then strip it off one of the prisoners,” said Dudley impatiently. “The fellow who led them—Scott’s his name—he’s probably wearing the señor’s own suit.”

Woodward said, “Well, even if he is, sir, it’s no good. It’s in ribbons.”

There was a pause. Then the Spanish gentleman said, very distinctly, “I do not hear aright. I trust one does not ask me to wear clothes of the common soldier with, no doubt, the louse?”

They saw with apprehension that his brow had blackened again.

Grey said, “Dudley …”

“Too small, sir,” said Dudley. “Same applies to Woodward and Myles.”

It was true enough. They were all big men, far taller than Don Luis.

Another short, pregnant silence. Dudley and the lieutenant stared into middle space. Mr. Myles thought of something.

“He’s just about your own height, your lordship, if I may say so,” he said co-operatively.

Mr. Woodward murmured “Well played, sir!” under his breath and continued to look woodenly at the wall. Mr. Myles looked surprised.

Lord Grey allowed to lapse the longest possible interval consistent with civility. He then said without any sign of gratification, “Of courth. I am afraid I require my riding clotheth, but I would be happy, naturally, to therve the theñor with my thpare dreth.”

The señor, it was apparent, was also happy. So, too, were Dudley and Woodward, but circumspectly so.

*  *  *

Scott was pitchforked into Grey’s room an hour later.

His lordship, courtesy worn a little thin, sat again at his desk; Dudley, Woodward, Myles and some others at his side and by the window. Beside the desk lounged an elegant gentleman in tawny velvet, with combed black curls and a diamond in one ear.

“Thith,” said Lord Grey, “ith Don Luith Fernando de Cordoba y
Avila, of the forthe of Don Pedro de Gamboa, therving under the King’th Majethty in the North. I believe you had the impertinenthe to capture and unbreech him earlier tonight.” That took the smile off his majesty’s face, he noted sardonically. Scott stared.

Don Luis de Cordoba uncrossed long, exquisite legs, rose languidly from his chair, and strolled toward the prisoner. He contemplated him, face to face in silence, through half-closed eyes, blue as cornflowers. Then, before Scott had time to dodge, he brought the percussion of his right hand with the savagery of a machine across the boy’s swollen lips.