The Game of Kings (44 page)

Mariotta recoiled in her chair. “You’re still trying to frighten me. I don’t believe you; but please will you stop?”

“It’s the air of nasty reality that frightens you,” explained her brother-in-law with abandon. “Corrupt, ill-smelling and five days old. I don’t give a damn whether you’re frightened or not, because in a month’s time you won’t be here anyway. If you had a brain rather larger than a chick-pea, sweetheart, that would have occurred to you. I should hardly trouble to rid Culter of his heir without making sure he had grounds for divorce also. The peripetia will be so tidy. If he were a little more sprightly by nature he might even oblige by removing himself; but I doubt he’ll have to be encouraged. Prior exiit, prior intravit, as the good old saying goes.”

“My jewellery,” said Mariotta in a whisper.

“My angel, I had to prise you away somehow, although I had no idea Richard would throw you out so fast. I wish I’d been present. Richard displaying emotion! It must have been magnificent: Atlas in labour, no less.”

She said dully, “Why do you hate each other? What does it matter—a paltry title—can’t you forget?”

“Forget! With Richard tapping on my funny bone like a yaffle on a pear tree?”

“You’re brothers!”

“Well: I am his brother as much as he is mine,” said Lymond
with perfect clarity. “One gets a little tired of too much Suivez François and Fan Fan feyne. It’s Richard’s turn, dammit, to call off the hounds.”

In her weakness and misery Mariotta was crying, the tears washing unchecked over her thin face. “Why shouldn’t he hurt you? You tried to kill him at Stirling!”

Lymond looked shocked. “Mariotta, my Sarmatian poppy! Such a violent volte-face! I thought you loved me as the marabou loves its one-legged mother. I thought we should be shikk to shikk, indivisible, like Richard and his piglets. And now!”

But drowned in dreary, heartbroken tears, Mariotta was beyond retort, or argument or complaint; beyond speech and beyond the lash of his mockery. She did not even hear the door slam as he left.

Lymond received Molly’s scolding that night without comment, only remarking that if the girl needed company she had better tell her sorrows to Will Scott for a change, and they could moan together.

The fine, sharp eyes had already noted the redheaded boy, so high in favour at the Ostrich. Because he was like the son of one of her girls and she was sorry for him, and because in the long run she usually did as Lymond asked, Molly did send Will upstairs to sit with the invalid. It was the last time anyone did so.

Next morning Mariotta had vanished. Lashed by the Master’s furious tongue they hunted for her all that day, but of his sick and errant sister-in-law there was no trace.

*  *  *

It was a chance meeting with a drunken piper of Argyll’s which led Sir Andrew Hunter to haunt the Ostrich Inn where, eventually, he met and spoke to Will Scott. From there, he went straight to Branxholm.

Buccleuch listened to Hunter’s account of the meeting in relative silence. At the end, he spoke sharply. “Lymond’s selling my son, you say?”

“Will isn’t sure. But I’ve told him what I know. Lord Grey is being pushed by the Protector, and he’s even more anxious to lay hands on Will than before. And Lymond’s been seen twice in the neighborhood of George Douglas’s house. The boy won’t leave Lymond. He won’t say anything about his life, or the Master’s plans—”

“Or about young Lady Culter?”

Janet, listening, interjected. “Dandy didn’t know that Lymond had Mariotta, and Will never mentioned her although—”

“Although he looked ill, Wat,” said Hunter soberly. “I made him promise to tell me if ever he thinks the Master is about to get rid of him. It was all I could do. And if that happens, of course I shall send you word instantly.

“Instantly,” he repeated; and the slightest rough edge was audible in the kindly, courteous voice.

*  *  *

Prinked and painted and stencilled with spring sunlight, the city of Edinburgh celebrated the wedding of the Lady Herries and John, Master of Maxwell, and the sound of its bells ploughed the fields of Linlithgow nearly deep enough for the barley, and made the coals quake underground at Tranent.

Inside the palace of Holyrood, the scene seized the eye with light and flowers, cloth of gold and bunting, and a sparkling multitude, their rents and pensions glittering on their sturdy backs. Agnes Herries had a smile—a blinding smile full of teeth—for everybody; and an unaccustomed vivacity in John Maxwell was also noted. “And wha wouldna leer like a sprung joist,” said the cynics, “that’s just merrit the hale chump-end of Scotland?”

Once, during the evening, bride and groom slipped away to keep a private appointment. In a remote room of the Palace, John Maxwell introduced his wife to a stranger: a cool, fair-haired figure with an easy, disturbing voice.

“Agnes, this is someone without whom we might never have been able to marry. He—made it possible in many ways; and not least in helping me escape young Wharton’s sword last month at Durisdeer.”

She was instantly thrilled. “You didn’t tell me. He saved your life? But how can we thank him?”

“No need for thanks. I have all the reward I need.” Both Jack and the stranger seemed to be affected with an uncommon sonority. “I was merely the Baptist, the Bean King: the helical star before the sun. My anonymity you must forgive—I am no longer master of my own identity. Nevertheless”—as sympathy and delight shot into her eyes—“nevertheless, if nameless, I am not empty-handed. In remembrance of an experience—a rewarding, if tantalizing experience—will you accept this?”

It was a crystal and onyx brooch, set with diamonds and angels’ heads, and worth more than her total parure put together.

Maxwell’s eyes met the other’s, their curiosity undisguised. “There was absolutely no need …” he said.

“Not at all. My pleasure. Although I must, as you’ll understand, ask your forbearance in not revealing where it came from.”

They promised, and took a warm and even tender farewell of him.

*  *  *

Christian also received a summons on this, the day on which she had promised her answer to Tom Erskine. It took her along the same corridor and into the same empty room, where she waited, steeling herself for Tom’s cheerful presence.

She filled in the time by pacing out the room. It seemed small, with a side table, three chairs, and a fireplace giving off a good deal of smoke. Not the ideal place for a proposal, she thought drearily; but what on earth do you expect, woman? Some seedy cavalier to sing beneath your window?

She sat down determinedly in the nearest chair and turned her mind to counting up sheets and bedcovers. Acute though her ears were, she missed the footsteps in the passage and heard nothing until the door opened and closed with the softest of clicks.

“Good God!” said someone gently. “The Pythia in a lemon fog. Do you like smoke? Cheer up: it’s spring outside.”

A window opened, and fresh, grass-scented air flowed into the room, and the song of thrushes. Christian felt the blood spinning to the ends of her fingers. “It’s not—I was expecting—Is it you?” she asked, out of bodily and spiritual chaos.

“Unless like the elephant I have two hearts, or like Janus two heads, or the boa two skins, it is I, indeed. I have stopped writing double letters under a pen name, and am re-registering my interest with you in person. You’ve lost weight.”

She was, by now, herself again. She said tartly, “It doesn’t help to find oneself bedevilled with persons making Eulenspiegel-like appearances and disappearances. I live for the day when we can be formally introduced. Don’t you think it would be better than coming to me like—”

“A thief in the night is the phrase. Have I upset you? But I did offer once to tell you my name, and you refused. I’m sorry. I should
infinitely prefer to call on you with sixteen pearly elephants and a litter of jade, with silver trumpets and sarcanet and schorl and satin-wood, spring water and roses from Shiraz … would you receive me?”

“Provided you gave me time to array my dusky charms. ‘And who is this? Great Alexander? Charle le Maigne?’”

“Royster-Doister, visiting the Castle of Perseverence. Have good day: I goo to helle.”

“I think you manage to carry it about with you,” said Christian.

“Perhaps. I have been gifted with a surfeit of Satanity and the need to live up to it. Frère Estienne, do we not make excellent fiends?”

“Far too well. It seems devilish, for example, for anyone with such a passion for secrecy to contrive not only to enter a royal palace, but to deal in appointments and summons therein.”

“I have friends at Court.”

“Oh. At which Court?” she quoted, and he broke in on her words. “I won’t put up with Skelton as well as Stewart. At this Court, lady.”

“I had no idea you were so powerful. Do
they
know who you are?”

“Whose temper are you trying to lose?” the pleasant voice said. “Your own, or mine? I have behaved atrociously, I freely admit, but my object is exemplary: to convey gratitude and keep you at all costs out of my ruinous affairs.”

“Don’t you think that if you didn’t clutch them to your evil chest like Epaminondas and his javelin, your affairs might be less ruinous?”

“No.”

“I see,” said Christian. “Then either you don’t think much of my discretion, or you think I couldn’t stomach your conduct. Either way, it casts a certain shade over your continued visits, doesn’t it?” This was risky. Once, to accept his confidence was to lose him. She was secure now from that; but he might still rebuff her for asking.

When he did speak, however, it was with a shade of resignation in his voice. “So I’ve got to spin you some sort of tale, have I?”

“I should prefer you to measure me the truth.”

“—But it all depends on what kind of worm I am. I see. I’m not sure, you know. My kind of story would go down better with Agnes Herries.”

“Then pretend I’m Lady Herries,” said Christian.

“God forbid. The fact is, that like many another gentleman in
trouble, I was misunderstood in my youth. A situation which I thought could be retrieved by one person. Unfortunately I didn’t know this fellow’s name; only his station, and this left the field open for three people—”

“Jonathan Crouch, Gideon Somerville and Samuel Harvey.”

“Yes. You see, it all fits in rather cunningly with what you know already. Crouch was ruled out; Somerville was ruled out; and that leaves Mr. Harvey.”

“And how,” she asked, “are you going to find Mr. Harvey?”

“I have found him. At least, through a distressingly commercial transaction which would only bore you, I hope to have him soon.”

She pursued: “This transaction: do you act directly with England? Or do you need an intermediary?”

“I have an intermediary ready-made. An embarrassingly eager one.”

“Of course. George Douglas,” said Christian lightheartedly. “You needn’t tell me. But it seems fairly inevitable, after your transaction with Crouch … Do you think Harvey can help you?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “He might. On the other hand, it’s always easy to undermine a statement—even a true statement—made under duress, and he mightn’t be believed. And even if he is believed—”

“Yes?” she demanded as he came to a stop. He laughed. “I don’t know. I have money. I may find I have the habit of lying on my face even when turned, like George Faustus.”

“I don’t think, if I were Agnes Herries, I should believe that,” said Christian.

“No. That was an off-stage observation. We end, in fact, with a long piece about the evils of absolute monarchy and unreliable women, with a graceful aside exculpating the fair audience. I should make a wonderful epopee, don’t you think?”

“You could make anything,” said Christian, “including a perfect farce of your epics; but I shan’t worry you. It was a magnificently economical performance.”

“I dislike being candid in public. Christian—this may or may not succeed. If it doesn’t, this will be our last meeting.”

“And if it does?”

“Then it would be rather pleasant. I should be all on the right side like a halibut, and someone may formally introduce us. But whatever happens, you have from these fossorial depths my unstinted gratitude
and fondest applause. Whatever you touch will return warmth to you and whoever you share it with will be twelve feet tall like St. Christopher.” He hesitated. “You know that if you hadn’t been blind, these meetings would never have been possible?”

She nodded.

“I’m not being thick-skinned. But I want you to remember that—if you’ve been entertained, or diverted, or found some enjoyment in this adventure—it was one small thing brought you by your lack of sight.”

A bitter pill, that: for the long tolerance was over, and she had begun to live with her blindness in rage. But she managed a smile, and heard him approach and take her hand.

He kissed it, and then, unexpectedly, her cheek. “A woman,” he said, “with a familiar spirit. I won’t promise any grand transformations for your lame duck, but at least it will bear your crutches proudly. Goodbye, my dear girl.”

“Goodbye,” said Christian, and sat still as the door closed.

*  *  *

While she was away, Tom Erskine had been looking for her. Sybilla told her as much, and added, her manner a little odd, “Also … You know Richard is here?”

“Richard!”
Christian, her mind recalled from miles away, cried out. “But isn’t he still … ?”

“In prison? No. I’ve just been told the Queen has pardoned and released him so that he can attend the celebrations. He should be here soon.”

“Oh, Sybilla!”

“Yes, I know,” said the Dowager. “I think I must be getting old. Do you know, I’m rather frightened. My sons sometimes seem so much stronger than I am.”

Very soon afterward, Tom Erskine found her, and in five minutes, during which her heart in its cold cage took wearily to itself a new, lifelong burden of protective and fond understanding, Christian Stewart became his affianced wife.

*  *  *

The third Baron Culter had the sort of pride that makes a man walk straight back to the place where he has been publicly undressed
and dare the universe to look down on him. He entered the crowded ballroom at Holyrood with the flourish of an emperor, and reaped the reward of it in the first minutes of an encounter with Sir Andrew Hunter.