The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

made her flesh shiver was the thought of Lymond, and the cool, impertinent grip of the mind he had used; in five indifferent minutes pioneering where Richard’s diffident courtesy had never taken him. On her husband, too, the incident had borne grossly. She realized as much during the two sleepless, congested days before he left to join the army in the east. Since then, the only news of or from Richard had been that brought by Erskine—news received without comment by the Dowager, who continued to arrange her affairs without further reference to the uncomfortable and icy springs of satire and denunciation. Mariotta turned to Sir Andrew Hunter.
    He had been watching her. A distant neighbour, a near-contemporary, a gentle and distinguished landowner and courtier, Andrew Hunter was well known to the Culters, and Mariotta had learned to like him, and to enjoy his kindness, his willing attentions, and an articulate turn of speech which made her now and then sick for home. Now, on a sudden impulse, she addressed him. “Tell me, Dandy, what do men talk about? Richard, for example?”
    He was taken aback, but he answered her. “What does Richard discuss with other men? Horses, of course. And pigs. And the state of the barley, and the new cocks, and the hawking, and what the Estates are up to, and the wrestlers, and any new shiploads he’s expecting, and the rates of exchange, and taxes, and poaching, and pistols, and the price of roofing, and his deerhound litter, and Milanese armour, and the lambing.… Richard’s interests,” said Sir Andrew, with a hint of defensiveness in the soft voice, “are pretty wide.”
    “But never dull. I wonder,” said Mariotta, her eyes expressionless, “what Lymond makes of light conversation?”
    Hunter sat up. “Lymond’s conversation doesn’t give me a moment’s alarm. It’s his actions that hurt. Richard’s bent on this challenge at the Wapenshaw and, my God! if he goes, it’ll be suicide.”
    Mariotta’s eyes opened. “But the challenge wasn’t serious! Lymond at Stirling’d be under instant arrest. And besides, Richard’s the finest shot in—”
    She broke off. Hunter was right. What use was all that with an arrow in the back? “God has a thousand handes to chastise,” had said Lymond, and at Annan he had nearly succeeded. Mariotta opened her mouth, but Sybilla, stabbing industriously with her needle, spoke first. “Did you hear any word of Will Scott in town, Tom?” And added, composedly, “We know he’s with my son. Sir Andrew brought back news from Annan of his meeting with Richard.”
    Saved from plunging a second time into the same diplomatic whirlpool, Erskine sat back, relieved. “There’s nothing new. Saw Buccleuch, as a matter of fact, yesterday and broke the news to him. And that fool George Douglas hovering by while I told him.”
    “Where? At Stirling?” Hunter was interested. “I thought Sir George was with his brother.”
    Erskine shrugged. “He’s off to Drumlanrig by now, anyway, thank God: can’t thole the man.” His mind was not on George Douglas, but on Christian, and her odd behavior last night. He had gone to the Priory first, with his report, and had been worried because the Queen Dowager kept him late, and Christian might have gone to bed. But when the ferry took him over to Inchtalla, she was waiting in the hall, pulling him by the arm before the usher led him away. “Tom—in case we have no other chance—the name I asked about? Jonathan Crouch?”
    He had told her what she wanted to know, breaking off because the Dowager materialized, carrying her embroidery and standing on his toe because she had forgotten to take off her spectacles. After that, Christian had done no more than thank him firmly for his help and indicate the matter was closed. He was slightly nettled. Despite the noble disclaimers he remembered making she might, he thought, have let him into the secret.…
    The next day, the autumn trumpets gave tongue, the sun