Part 4 (2/2)

”Well, it opens up a number of interesting possibilities, doesn't it?” said Lymond. ”I wonder if the Protector insists on merchetis, and his princely free access to the bedchamber, or anything novel like that. I used to know a number of women who would be all the better for a fate plus mal que morte. Which brings me rather to the point: Changeons propos, c'est trop chants d'amours. . . .” And he laid a gentle hand on his sword.

With an uneasy twist of relief, Scott recognized the climax, and drew a fortifying breath. At the same instant, Lymond said suddenly, ”Richard, my child, have you by any chance more brains than I gave you credit for?.

The words were hardly out when the rumour of noise, the furtive boot on the heather and the laboured breath resolved themselves into a torrent of crumbling sound as Erskine's incoming Scottish force flooded the wood.

In the last flare of the torches, Scott saw Lord Culter, his face alight, s.n.a.t.c.h a bow and raise it. Pa.s.sion lent to the silent tongue the drama once derided by his brother. ”Your turn now, Lymond! And by G.o.d, before I let you take over my s.h.i.+eld and my bed, l'll give you one night to remember the head of your family by!.

And as he swung his horse frantically and went cras.h.i.+ng and b.u.mping outward through the confusion, Scott also heard Lymond's reply.

”All right: a challenge, Richard! I'll meet you at the Popinjay in the next Stirling Wapenshaw, and we'll try then who's Master!.

He laughed, and the excitement in the laugh was the last thing Scott remembered.

Blindfold Play.

And hit is not fittynge ne convenable thynge for a woman to goo to bataylle for thefragilitie and feblenes of her. And therfore holdeth she not the waye in her draught as theKnyghtes doon.

IN THE long gra.s.s by the water's edge a man lay half buried, with small life moving past his head and a tarnis.h.i.+ng damp spread into his clothing. Behind him, four miles of bog rolled and steamed in the morning sun. Ahead, the turgid waters of the moat sucked and plopped in a leisurely way against the grazing meadows and scrub which lay behind Boghall Castle.

The sun moved.

At the castle, from which Richard, Lord Culter, had once watched the smoke of his mother's burning house, the watch changed with weary abuse on both sides. ”If one more old body,” said Hugh the Warden( to his junior, ”asks me to send a horseman to Pinkie to inquire after her great-nephew Jacob, I'll skin her alive. Old quarry-faced Wharton on the road north, and ten men and twenty-two women to hold this castle and look after all of Biggar . .

But breakfast and a pint of beer must have modified his temper, because he was patient with the next anxious inquirer. ”Don't fret. The boys'll be back all right..

He was reminded as he spoke that some were already back: thebarber-surgeon with his knives and ointments had already made the double journey twice between the castle and the thatched houses of Biggar. Hugh thought of that: he thought of his master, the dead Lord Fleming; he swore loudly and shot up to the watchtower, there to gaze earnestly and hopefully at the unstirring south.

”Oh, G.o.d! Let them come!” said he, addressing the hills. ”Oh, G.o.d! Let them come, and me and Dod Young'll make collops of them!.

The morning dragged on. At noon Simon Bogle, bodyguard, got his lady's permission to fish for one hour, and left by the back postem. A dark, angular child, Sym was Stirling bred, and had for three years served the household with fierce attachment. At present, however, his mind was on fish. He pa.s.sed through the bushes, untied the skiff, and s.h.i.+pped himself and his rod to the other side of the water. He thereupon walked twenty yards, stumbled, walked another yard, and went back to look.

A man's foot, lying in his path, proved to be attached to a body, and the body to an English cloak. He bent, gripped and rolled it over. Among a wealth of impressive detail there appeared a young man's profile, splendidly unconscious. ”Whoops, c.o.c.k and the devil!” said Simon Bogle breathlessly and pounced, like divine Calypso, on his prey.

He reached the postern with his burden, dispensing pulses of excitement and bog smells as his mistress opened it from the inside; and as he explained, Christian Stewart knelt beside their captive in her garden, her dark red hair fallen forward, her blind eyes resigned.

What to Sym was an English magnifico, ripe for ransom, took, bearlike, a different shape under the hypertactile fingers-the shape of an unconscious boy, with a dirty wound, raised and sticky, in the short hair over the nape. She drew together the s.h.i.+rt cords thoughtfully and rose.

”Um. Well, you've hooked a twenty-pounder this time, my lad, by the feel of his clothes. . . . If I were married or promised to that young gentleman I'd sell the lead off the roof to ransom him back. Unless he's a Spaniard, do you think?.

”Not with that hair, m'lady. Maybe,” said Sym with a sort of agonized calm, ”maybe it's the Protector Somerset? Or Lord Grey?.

”Och, Sym, he's too young,” said Christian. ”Although in a way it's a pity he's not, because, Sym my lad: what are you going to do about Hugh?.

”Oh, c.o.c.k!” said Sym, his excitement checked. ”Right enough. Hugh's in an awful bad temper about the English..

”Hugh's bad temper takes practical forms,” said Christian thoughtfully. ”Ransom or no ransom, your gentleman will find himself in multiple array on the wall spikes if Hugh sets eyes on him..

Sym devoted some thought to this. ”Of course, we can't write for ransom anyway until he wakes up and says who he is..

”And by that time, Hugh might be feeling more like himself..

”I find the resemblance to himself at the present moment quite startling,” said Christian. ”But never mind. Go on..

”So,” said Sym hurriedly, ”if we got him up the privy stairs and put him into Jamie's room, no one need know. All that wing's empty except for me, and I could look after him. Until he says who he isand the window's too high to let him escape and the door could be lockit..

Christian said slowly, ”We could, I suppose, certainly . .

”And if he's n.o.body,” said Sym fairly, ”we can just hand him over to Hugh..

”In which event,” said Christian, ”he will certainly become n.o.body in record time. All right. I agree..

* * *To carry the prisoner within, to strip, wash and bed him, to surround him with hot bricks in socks and light a fire to heat c.o.c.k-a-leeky and milk and honey sneaked from the b.u.t.tery took Sym, borne on the wings of simple cupidity, less time than bedding a child.

Christian, pulled by outside necessity, set aside ten minutes to examine his handiwork and used the time to relax, hands clasped, on a chair by the bedside while Sym, a cudgel beside him, bestowed himself hopefully on the window seat.

Blessed silence, and the slow dissolving of the nagging images of the day into something near dreams. Flurried movements of the big fire, to her left. Silk, p.r.i.c.king her right hand as the bed curtains stirred in an eddy. A rustle from Sym's feet in the rushes. A voice far below in the courtyard, crying something she could not quite catch. A creak from the bed.

Another.

A languid stir of the bedclothes.

It was, thought Christian, fully awake and gripped with laughter, like attending a birth. Were they wrong and he was Scottish, a purebred orthodox achievement with full honours: all well.

There was a thin crackle of pillow-feather; a stifled expletive; then a voice said resignedly, ”G.o.d: my skull's split..

It was a cultured voice, with no inflection which would have seemed out of place at any point north of the Tyne. Like the jewelled aiglettes it announced consequence, character and money. Considering it, she spoke rea.s.suringly. ”Better not move. There's a b.u.mp on your head like the Old Man of Storr.” And to save him time and breath she added, ”I'm Christian Stewart of Boghall. My lad over there picked you up off the moor..

There was a long pause; then he spoke, clearly with his head turned toward her. ”Bog-Bog . . .

”Boghall. Yes. You were thoroughly cold and damp, and here's Sym with some broth for you..

Unexpectedly, underneath shock and weakness there was the accent of laughter. ”Think of the Cauldron of h.e.l.l,” remarked their prisoner, ”and you have my inside arrangements. But I'll tiy. Like the spider, I'll try. That lightlie comes will lightlie ga . . . steadyThat's it. I can feed myself-or can I? I'm so sorry. The counterpane is not improved by spilt broth..

He ate, and much intrigued, Christian waited. At the end, he spoke again. ”I was not, I hope, wearing a nights.h.i.+rt when discovered?.

An artless gentleman. Christian followed the lead. ”Your clothes are drying, sir. Your weapons were impounded when we found you were English..

”Englis.h.!.+ Lucifer, Lord of h.e.l.l!” (Here was pa.s.sion.) ”Do I look like an Englishman?.

”I,” said Christian with wicked simplicity, ”am blind. How should I know?.

Used rarely and with reluctance this was, she had found, the infallible test. Braced, she waited: for remorse, embarra.s.sment, dismay, pity, forced sympathy, naked fear.

”Oh, are you? I'm sorry. You hide it extremely well. Then what,” he asked anxiously, ”made your friends think I was English?.

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