curls tightened. “Lymond!” bawled Buccleuch. “As a prisoner? A hostage?”
Tom shook his head. He told the tale quickly: of the English messenger, of Lymond’s attack on his brother; of his own arrival which saved Lord Culter. At the end there was a short silence; and though Buccleuch’s eyebrows were lowered, there was a pleased spark in his glare. He cleared his throat.
“The fact is, the boy came back from France with a skinful of damned, moony ideas, and I could make nothing of him—nothing at all. So he stamped out, consigning us all to the nethermost hole and the wee deils with the pitchforks. In fact”—he paused, as memory struck him—“he said he’d probably be there before us. Which explains … God, Will!” growled Buccleuch, with a kind of numbed exasperation. “You’d have a damned nerve to choose Lymond to go to hell with.”
“Oh, come.” Sir George’s eyes hadn’t left Buccleuch’s face. “I think we’re all underestimating him. Be patient, and your Will might surprise you one day.”
Buccleuch returned the stare. “If you’re a decent body by nature, you don’t sell your captain, even if he’s captain of nothing but carrion.”
“But surely Will knows what Lymond is?” Tom’s voice told of anxiety as well as puzzlement.
“Will is no innocent,” said Buccleuch flatly. “He’s a cocky youngfool with a head too big for his bonnet, but he’s not daft, and he’s not twisted. If Lymond took him on, he knew what he was doing. Will won’t betray him. He’ll rub his own nose in the midden, to make a point of principle to his soft-heided relations, but his great new code of honour’ll keep the stink from his nose while he does it. That boy,” snarled Sir Wat, “thinks with his nether tripes—Let’s have some claret, for God’s sake.”
* * *
It was evening before Erskine had leave to go.
He took no escort because he knew none was permitted; but turned alone out of the gates of Stirling and rode into the sunset, which flared and died as he went.
It grew dark. Around him, the trees closed in and then fell behind: beyond them were the moors, with the hills of Menteith on his right. In a light wind, grasses hissed like spray. The path became better: he saw cottage lights and smelled wood smoke. Then he was stopped.
That was the first guard. There were two more, past the hamlet of Port, the chapel, the barns, the Law Tree. The last of the beeches moved past him: he gave his name and password and was recognized yet again; and then drew rein.
Black and unrippled at his feet spread the Lake of Menteith, one and a half miles across, island home of his brother’s priory; island seat of the Earls of Menteith. Barring its texture lay like ribbons the thousand lights from the two islands in its centre, and music fled across the water: organ notes from the Priory of Inchmahome, where monks sang at Compline and children slept; a consort playing a galliard from Inchtalla, where the Scottish court took its leisure in hiding.
A ferry, already signalled by its prow lantern, arrived, chuckling; and he got in.
* * *
“My dear man,” said Sybilla next day, placidly stitching before Earl John’s big fire. “Admit you’ve never had to live with eight children on an island, and every one with the instincts of a full-grown lemming.”
The Dowager, who had her own way of reducing tension, sat next to Tom Erskine, her aristocratic nose decorated by a pair of horn-rimmedspectacles hung around her neck on a thin gold chain, the inevitable embroidery on her lap. Christian Stewart was out, and Sybilla was free, which meant that she commandeered both Erskine and Sir Andrew Hunter, newly in with dispatches, to help her entertain Mariotta.
For the attack on Midculter had tumbled Richard’s wife into a cold bath of nerves which the upheaval of the last three weeks had not helped at all. The theft of their silver had hardly touched the ledger pages of Richard’s wealth: what
Tom shook his head. He told the tale quickly: of the English messenger, of Lymond’s attack on his brother; of his own arrival which saved Lord Culter. At the end there was a short silence; and though Buccleuch’s eyebrows were lowered, there was a pleased spark in his glare. He cleared his throat.
“The fact is, the boy came back from France with a skinful of damned, moony ideas, and I could make nothing of him—nothing at all. So he stamped out, consigning us all to the nethermost hole and the wee deils with the pitchforks. In fact”—he paused, as memory struck him—“he said he’d probably be there before us. Which explains … God, Will!” growled Buccleuch, with a kind of numbed exasperation. “You’d have a damned nerve to choose Lymond to go to hell with.”
“Oh, come.” Sir George’s eyes hadn’t left Buccleuch’s face. “I think we’re all underestimating him. Be patient, and your Will might surprise you one day.”
Buccleuch returned the stare. “If you’re a decent body by nature, you don’t sell your captain, even if he’s captain of nothing but carrion.”
“But surely Will knows what Lymond is?” Tom’s voice told of anxiety as well as puzzlement.
“Will is no innocent,” said Buccleuch flatly. “He’s a cocky youngfool with a head too big for his bonnet, but he’s not daft, and he’s not twisted. If Lymond took him on, he knew what he was doing. Will won’t betray him. He’ll rub his own nose in the midden, to make a point of principle to his soft-heided relations, but his great new code of honour’ll keep the stink from his nose while he does it. That boy,” snarled Sir Wat, “thinks with his nether tripes—Let’s have some claret, for God’s sake.”
* * *
It was evening before Erskine had leave to go.
He took no escort because he knew none was permitted; but turned alone out of the gates of Stirling and rode into the sunset, which flared and died as he went.
It grew dark. Around him, the trees closed in and then fell behind: beyond them were the moors, with the hills of Menteith on his right. In a light wind, grasses hissed like spray. The path became better: he saw cottage lights and smelled wood smoke. Then he was stopped.
That was the first guard. There were two more, past the hamlet of Port, the chapel, the barns, the Law Tree. The last of the beeches moved past him: he gave his name and password and was recognized yet again; and then drew rein.
Black and unrippled at his feet spread the Lake of Menteith, one and a half miles across, island home of his brother’s priory; island seat of the Earls of Menteith. Barring its texture lay like ribbons the thousand lights from the two islands in its centre, and music fled across the water: organ notes from the Priory of Inchmahome, where monks sang at Compline and children slept; a consort playing a galliard from Inchtalla, where the Scottish court took its leisure in hiding.
A ferry, already signalled by its prow lantern, arrived, chuckling; and he got in.
* * *
“My dear man,” said Sybilla next day, placidly stitching before Earl John’s big fire. “Admit you’ve never had to live with eight children on an island, and every one with the instincts of a full-grown lemming.”
The Dowager, who had her own way of reducing tension, sat next to Tom Erskine, her aristocratic nose decorated by a pair of horn-rimmedspectacles hung around her neck on a thin gold chain, the inevitable embroidery on her lap. Christian Stewart was out, and Sybilla was free, which meant that she commandeered both Erskine and Sir Andrew Hunter, newly in with dispatches, to help her entertain Mariotta.
For the attack on Midculter had tumbled Richard’s wife into a cold bath of nerves which the upheaval of the last three weeks had not helped at all. The theft of their silver had hardly touched the ledger pages of Richard’s wealth: what
Similar Books
