He exploded to Gideon, there to smooth his lordship’s first hours. “Margaret Lennox: what next? She got herself into a fine mess in February; and all her father did was laugh in her face and march over to the Scots. Well! I’ve taught that family a lesson!”
“I heard about the Dalkeith raid,” said Gideon. “How did it go?”
Grey looked pleased. “Splendidly, splendidly. I hope everyone heard about it. I hope all friend Douglas’s allies and sycophants noticed it and took a lesson from it. Sent Bowes and Gamboa out on Sunday night, and they burned around Edinburgh while Wilford and Wyndham went for Dalkeith. We undermined from the base-court and the white sheets were hanging out of the windows before we’d blunted a pick. Got the whole garrison—Douglas’s wife, second son, lairds and Douglases in dozens, and cartloads of furnishings—I tell you, Gideon,” said Lord Grey, flushed with recollection, “we came back from that day’s work richer by three thousand pounds and two thousand head of cattle, and three thousand sheep, not to mention as notable a bunch of prisoners as you’d wish to get compensation for.”
“But Sir George himself got away?”
Pleased reminiscence faded. “Damned coward,” said Lord Grey. “Slipped out of a postern and fled to Edinburgh, leaving his own wife to be taken. Well, he’s got little enough reward for it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s back on his knees by the end of the week. His wife thinks so. I sent her back to him.”
“Sent Lady Douglas back?”
“Yes. She thought she could persuade him to be honest with us at last. But it doesn’t matter,” said Grey expansively. “We’ve got half his relations in custody here, including his two sons. And an odd creature—nice-looking, too—a blind girl called Stewart. Ward of the Fleming family and well thought of at Court. She’ll be worth quite a bit. You’ll see her in a moment—I’ve sent for her.”
He bent down heavily for his shoes. “I could do with six months out to grass. I’ve got all this damned coming and going to Haddington—convoys three times weekly; serpentine pouches, hackbuts, iron, matches, sickles, scythes, pickaxes, what have you. And the horses are being used too much. And the French fleet is here.”
Gideon, whose attention had slackened, sat up sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Saw them myself,” said his commander gloomily. “They’re lying off Dunbar. A hundred and twenty sail, I should judge. A damned great navy.”
Gideon said, “What about our fleet?” and saw Grey’s lip curl. “What about it? Fitting out in the south. It’s been fitting out since it was launched, and it’ll be fitting out at Christmas, I shouldn’t wonder.…”
He was still talking when Christian Stewart was ushered in. After her came Grey’s secretary Myles.
During the introductions, Gideon observed the blind girl curiously. She was sturdily built, by his standards, with good features and shining, dark red hair framing a surprisingly calm face. While Myles kept Grey’s attention, Gideon spoke.
“Have we met before, I wonder? You seemed to recognize my name.”
She had a splendid smile. “I’ve heard of you. Through a friend.”
Gideon made the commonplace answer. “Nothing too bad, I hope;” and the girl smiled again.
“Quite the reverse. He—we thought at one time you had had an injudicious past, but now we know better.”
“Good,” said Gideon, but the reply was mechanical. “But now we know better.” Was it possible she was referring to … ?
He looked up, saw that Grey was still engaged, and took a chance. “Or perhaps … not so good for Mr. Harvey?” he said.
There was a little silence. Then the colour came back into the girl’s fair skin. “Do you know him?” she said quietly.
“Who? Harvey?” He was disingenuous.
“No.”
A friend of Lymond’s. Well, well, thought Gideon. “I’ve met him,” he said circumspectly, aloud.
She was uncertain, obviously, of his standing; and doubtful also of being overheard. She made a small pause and then said, “As an antagonist?” Which made Gideon himself stop to think.
“At first; yes,” he said. “Things are a little different now. Do you know him well?”
“Know who?” said Lord Grey, piling the last paper on Myles’ outstretched arms. “Harvey? She probably met him at Haddington.” He looked up accusingly. “You asked me about that man before. I told you. He’s got this wound in the leg and he can’t get back to Berwick yet—maybe not for weeks. It’s damned awkward. I only put him into that convoy as an excuse for bringing him here, and now he isn’t here, and that Lymond fellow has disappeared into smoke.”
Neither Gideon nor the girl said anything.
“Anyway,” said Lord Grey, calming down. “I’ve got a job for you, Gideon. Have to tear you away from our fair company here. Which reminds me.” He pinched a lip, staring with vague approval at the blind face. “I must get a proper chaperone for you. Wish my wife were here. Or—by God, that’s it!” he exclaimed, struck by a brilliant idea. “The Countess of Lennox! Get the damned woman away from under our feet!”
There was no change in the girl’s serene face. Gideon said without thinking too much, “But—Willie, I don’t think that very suitable.”
“Why not?”
Gideon couldn’t think why not. He repeated, emphatically, “I don’t think Lady Christian and Meg Douglas would have anything in common. Lady Lennox’s dealings with her countrymen—some of them—haven’t been particularly savoury,” he said distinctly, and saw the girl’s intelligent face turn questioningly toward him.
She said tentatively, “You mean the Countess might try to harm my friends through me?” and Gideon knew that although Grey might and did think it nonsense, the girl understood.
He gave her a friendly farewell a little later, and went off, in high good humour for no evident reason.
* * *
The interview between Lord Grey and Margaret, Countess of Lennox, was everything he was afraid it might be. It began with the lady’s cool voice saying, “I’m afraid I have to convey to you the Lord Protector’s displeasure, Lord Grey,” and included some plain questions.
“And am I supposed to believe that of all the officers in London this person Harvey was the only one capable of leading a convoy to Haddington?”
“Harvey,” said Lord Grey with an effort, “is a very able man. I’m sorry, since you take such an interest in him, that you can’t meet him. A slight wound made it necessary for him to stay at Haddington.”
The black eyes were sparkling. “I do take an interest in him, as it happens. I came here expressly to make sure that he returned to London directly. I believe Mr. Palmer leaves you today?”
Lord Grey agreed that Harvey’s cousin was due to leave Berwick for London.
“Then I hope he can take to His Grace the assurance that Mr. Harvey will follow directly he can travel?”
Lord Grey, with private reservations, agreed again.
“I am glad to hear it. I shall remain and see that he does,” said the Countess and ruthlessly delivered the coup de grace. “You will have heard that your friend Lymond has been caught.”
“Caught! By Wharton?”
“No. By the Scots. When,” said Margaret, having applied the black draught, “do you think Harvey will be able to travel?”
The Lord Lieutenant rested vague eyes on her. “What? Oh. I’ve no idea. I’ll ask the girl.”
Margaret stopped arranging her dress. “What girl?”
“There was a girl among the prisoners from George Douglas’s who took an interest in him at Haddington. They were all kept there for a spell before coming here.”
“Took an interest in Harvey!” exclaimed the Countess. “Who is she?”
Grey told her what he knew, and felt much better. “Lymond and she seem quite friendly,” he concluded, and raking in his desk, found a letter. “We took that from Lady Douglas just before we released her. It’s a letter to Sir George from the Stewart girl, written for her by h
er servant lad. She’s blind, you see. See what it says.”
“Blind!” Her face fixed in astonishment, Margaret Lennox read the paper once, then a second time. “Signed, Christian Stewart.”
She looked up. “This assumes that the Master of Culter will be in touch with Sir George … ‘or someone on his behalf.’ He is to be told that all is well, and he need pursue his objective no longer, because she has done all that is necessary. What does that mean?”
Lord Grey shook his head. “I had the girl in today asking her about it, but she’d say nothing.”
“Did Lady Douglas know what was in the letter? No? I should like to see this girl,” said Lady Lennox with a ringing and unanswerable finality.
* * *
Since the shock and physical buffeting of her capture at Dalkeith, Christian Stewart had stumbled unwillingly to Haddington, and then in a kind of stupor of relief and anxiety here to Berwick.
Miraculously, the key to the whole strange problem lay now in her hands. But to use it, she must be free. And whether Francis Crawford had been helped to escape, or whether he was still in prison, she must prevent him from appearing on trial, or from risking his liberty again before she could find him.
Her letter to Sir George—a hopeless attempt to do just that—had failed. She had no other means of sending a message. She had tried to persuade them to release Sym, without success. She had even contemplated approaching the man Somerville, who had seemed friendly, and might perhaps be trusted. But he had left the castle, she had been told.
What next? All day she walked up and down, thinking: of Boghall; of Inchmahome; of Stirling; of Edinburgh. “If I told you I’d murdered my sister you’d feel hate and revulsion.” “I haven’t tried to kill anyone today, I give you my word.” “A thief in the night is the phrase.” And the bleak “The darts which make me suffer are my own.”
She smashed her fists in sudden anger on the sill of her window. Oh, to get out! To get out of here!
To the Countess of Lennox, paying a regal prison visit, Christian was an astonishing, a calm, an impenetrable steel wall.
The name was soon spoken: Francis Crawford of Lymond. “I don’t suppose you know him. It isn’t thought patriotic to know him these days,” said Margaret ruefully. “But we were once very good friends.”
The blind girl answered serenely. “As a matter of fact, I do know him,” and Margaret was softly eager. “You do? Is he the same? Where is he, these days?”
“In prison,” said Christian prosaically. “I suppose he’s the same. He talks a great deal.”
“In prison!” echoed Margaret, her voice sharpening just too much.
“In Scotland? But that means he’ll hang! Is that true?”
“I believe so.”
Lady Lennox said agitatedly, “But can’t something be done? Is anyone helping him?”
“Who could help him?”
Margaret said, “You’re his friend. I’m sure you are. If you were free, couldn’t you do something?”
If she were free.…
A crease appeared between the large, direct eyes. “I don’t see what. I’ve done him a small service—I got him the home address of a man he wanted to see for some reason. But that won’t be any good to him now, naturally.”
So simple an explanation. Margaret, comforted, gave a sigh. “So sad. All that talent—but people, I suppose, make their own ruin, however much their friends try to help. Now,” said the Countess cheerfully, “Is there anything I can bring that you would like?”
After she had gone, Christian sat alone for a long time in her own black world, conquering a rage which would have alarmed her visitor. Then, dismissing the incident with an effort, she spared a moment to thank the well-intentioned spirit of Gideon Somerville before resuming the furious pacing of her prison.
Gideon’s errand for Grey took him to Norham, and he was forced to stay overnight. Making casual inquiries on his return, he found that the prisoners taken at Dalkeith had been dispatched that day to the Archbishop of York; and that, before she left, the blind girl had asked once or twice after himself.
He might, left to himself, have pursued the party; but Lord Grey had other ideas. With his best men scattered like caraway seed over the countryside from Roxburgh to Broughty, he needed an able officer at his side.
Gideon tolerated it, his desire to return home tempered by the discovery that Margaret Lennox was still at Berwick, and meant to stay there until the man Harvey was well enough to return. If the Countess could play a waiting game, then so could he, thought Gideon, and caught himself with a surprised grimace. One would think it was his affair.
The following Monday, he was ordered to Newcastle to discuss finance with the Treasurer. “By the time that’s over, I shall probably be in Newcastle myself,” said Lord Grey. “Probably see you there. You ought to be off, anyway, by the morning. Oh—you were interested in Sam Harvey?”
“Yes!” said Gideon, suddenly alert.
“That Stewart girl said he was slightly injured. Well, he isn’t. He’s got a ball in the thigh and it’s damned dangerous. They’re not sure if he’ll live.”
Gideon said quickly, “When did you hear?”
“Just now. Bad luck on the fellow. I feel a shade guilty,” said Lord Grey peevishly. “I shouldn’t have brought him up at all if I’d known that Lymond fellow was out of action.”
“Yes. Bad luck,” said Gideon. “Willie—d’you mind if I leave now instead of tomorrow? I could call in on Kate on my way.”
“On your way?” said Grey indulgently. “Twenty miles out of it, I should have thought. But never mind. That’s husbands for you: I’ve done the same myself. All right. Give her my love.”
“Yes, I will,” said Gideon, and slipped out, calling for his man. He was on the road in less than an hour; and by next day, Tuesday, the nineteenth of June, he was home at Flaw Valleys.
II
The Ultimate Check
The corrouers and berars of lettres ought
hastily and spedily do her viage that
comanded hem with oute taryenge. For
their taryenge might noye and greve them
that sende hem forth, or ellis them to
whom they ben sent too. And torne hem
to ryght grete domage or villonye.
1. The Fast Moves
LYMOND recovered from his wound with characteristic rapidity; from the beginning, in fact, he acted as if it did not exist, and Kate was perfectly willing to do the same.
A frangible and archaic courtesy reigned at Flaw Valleys. Katherine forbade none of its offices to her guest: he was under permanent escort, but free to wander where he chose. At her request, he shared her table and occasionally her parlour. His unspoken resistance to the situation delighted her, as did the way he dealt with it.
He set the tenor for their encounters the first morning after the incident with Charles. He unlocked his door, made some necessary apologies and conformed to the reigning atmosphere of frigid politeness.
Kate, however, was only choosing her weapons. By suppertime on Friday, and after four days of shrewd observation, she opened fire. “I notice,” she said, passing the salt, “that you were outside today. Did you meet Philippa?”
Lymond accepted the condiment, but not the challenge. “We had a few words,” he said. “She is a—striking young person already.”
Kate helped herself. “We think so. What did she say to you?”
“Her remarks were few and deflatory,” he said. This was an understatement, as Kate knew very well. She observed, “I’m afraid she’s being rather unresponsive. We’ve been trying to teach her to feel sorry for you. I do dislike personal hatreds in a child.”
This time, after a moment, he called her bluff. “Perhaps Philippa and I should be thrown together a little more. She might become attached to me if she knew me better.”
Kate, brightening visibly, ignored the gleam in his eye. “That would make her sorry for you?”
“It might. The
object of any sort of clinical study deserves compassion, don’t you think?”
“Snakes don’t,” said Katherine inconsequently. “I hate snakes.”
“And yet you feed them on honey cakes and forbid them to defend themselves.”
“Defencelessness is not a noted characteristic of serpents. Anyhow, I can’t have them lying rattling about the house. It gets on the nerves.”
“It does if you handle it by rattling back. I’ve no objection, you know to practising the social arts.”
Kate viewed him suspiciously. “I don’t see why I should abandon my entertainment because of your conscience.”
“It isn’t quite conscience so much as horrified admiration,” said Lymond. “From cuticle to corium in four days.”
“You have to be quick with them. They grow another skin. I thought it mightn’t be conscience,” said Kate, collecting platters.
He was gazing down at the table. “I really can’t go on apologizing. It would be too monotonous.”
Kate, taking a dish from the cupboard, halted beside him. “You don’t owe me anything, except a little amusement. Why not bite back?”
“Because,” said Lymond, lifting his eyes suddenly, “I’m a constant practitioner of the art and you are not.”
“I don’t mind,” said Kate wistfully. “Won’t you bite?”
“Like a shark. It’s a habit. And habits are hell’s own substitute for good intentions. Habits are the ruin of ambition, of initiative, of imagination. They’re the curse of marriage and the after-bane of death.”
Katherine surveyed the indifferent face critically. “For an advocate of chaos, you’re quite convincing. There is such a thing, you know, as habitual disorder—as of course you know: few have had such a permanently unsettled regime as you have. Suppose you had a chance to lead a normal life?”
“Let’s leave my sordid affairs out of this, shall we?” he said. “You’ve missed a point. There’s a nice difference between rootless excitement and careful variety.”