“If I can’t be personal, I don’t want to argue,” said his hostess categorically. “I may be missing your points, but you’re much too busy dodging mine.”
“Yours aren’t points, they’re probangs. I don’t see why I should help.”
“I do. Because Gideon would help cook his father if the cannibal quoted poetry at him,” said Kate.
“And I have drunk of Castalia as well as bathed in it.”
“It was Charles who bathed in it, as I recall. I forgot,” said Kate sardonically. “You like your privacy. My apologies for scrabbling round the edges in an undignified way. Pay no attention. Grimalkin goes quavering back to the chimney piece.”
The long, slender fingers tightened about the salt cellar. “Leave it, can’t you?” said Lymond softly.
There was fiat challenge in Kate’s rigid spine. “Is there any reason why I should? I want—”
He interrupted her, pushing away the heavy silver vessel so that it slid precisely, like a curling stone, into the centre of the board between them.
“What you want is very clear. You want my confidence. If you can’t have that, you want to goad me into making admissions about myself. If you can’t have that, you use moral pressure. I’m quite conscious of my obligations and misdemeanours toward the members of your family. I disagree about the mode of compensation, that’s all.”
Her cheeks were scarlet. “Mr. Crawford, I really doubt if you’re in a position to agree or disagree about anything.”
The impatient, ruthless gaze lifted to hers. “Nor do I need to be reminded. You may expose me; you may baulk me. I’ve no remedy.”
“If you prize reticence more than your life,” said Kate dryly, “then you’re certainly beyond remedy.”
“Reticence? No,” he said. “But I prize freedom of the mind above freedom of the body. I claim the right to make my own mistakes and keep quiet about them. You have all the licence in the world to protect your husband. My life is at your disposal, but not my thoughts.”
“Dear me,” said Kate, rising. “I doubt if I could stomach your thoughts. It was just a few basic facts I was thinking of, such as whether you were one of these people who can eat goose eggs. The creatures keep laying them: an appalling habit, but we can’t break it.”
Untenable positions were not for Kate. His mouth relaxed, and he rose smoothly and opened the door for her, laughter lines gathering at the corners of the veiled eyes. “I thought the conversation was cutting an ovoid track. I wouldn’t for the world deprive you of the last bite.”
“Thank you,” said Kate. “If we’re referring to snakes. Not if you’re talking about fish.”
“Pythonissa,” retorted Lymond, and unexpectedly smiled.
* * *
She conceded him his victory.
In the days that followed, she did no more probing; partly because she now saw that these ferretings had no relation to the level on which his mind worked; and partly because his wits were too sharp. She could tire him; she could anger him. Four days had taught her that she could nearly shake his self-control and that he was himself shaken and dismayed by his weakening grip of himself. But she could never override him, and she stopped attempting it.
He had tried, she knew, to come to terms with Philippa, but without success. On the last occasion he had entered the music room, roving as he often did to the window; and after a moment, idly picked up Philippa’s lute which lay there.
He had forgotten, obviously, that Kate’s room opened from this one. She had been resting; and although during these last ten days she had found him civilized and undemanding company, she stayed where she was to avoid embarrassing them both. Thus she was able to hear the sweet, preoccupied roulades of the lute, and the crash of Philippa’s eruption into the room. The child stopped just inside the door, as her mother, opening her own door a judicious half inch, was able to see.
“That’s mine!” said Philippa. “That’s my lute you’re playing!”
Lymond laid the instrument gently down, and sat himself before Gideon’s harpsichord. “Lute and harpsichord?” he said. “That’s pretty erudite of you.”
The child pushed back her long hair. It was uncombed, and the hem of her gown, Kate was sorry to see, was grey with dust. Philippa said belligerently, “I can play the rebec as well.”
“Oh?”
“And the recorder.”
Philippa! Philippa! said Kate to herself, grinning. Lymond turned to the harpsichord. “Then you’re the person I want to see. Which d’you like playing best?”
“The lute.” The voice of ownership.
“Then,” said Lymond, rousing the keyboard to delicate life, “tell me how this finishes. I never could find out.”
It was only L’homme armé; a tune Philippa had certainly heard in her cradle and was bound to know every note of. She sauntered across the room.
“It’s L’homme armé.”
“I know. But how does it go on?”
She sidled past. “I don’t know.”
The harpsichord rang with jubilation. “Try.”
Kate could see the pull of the music in her daughter’s eyes; she could imagine the fascination of those magic fingers. Philippa’s arm shot out. She trapped the lute like an insect-eater trapping a fly, and flew to the door, panting.
“That’s my father’s instrument,” she shouted. “You’re not to touch it! Leave my father and my mother alone. Nobody wants you here!”
Kate was afraid for her. Her hand tightened on the door, but the music didn’t stop, although it fell to a murmur. Lymond’s voice said quietly, “Don’t you want me to play?” There sall be mirth, said the harpsichord. There sall be mirth at our meeting.
Philippa looked at him with her mother’s eyes. “No!” she cried. “I hate you!” And clutching her lute, she did indeed run from the room.
The music stopped, and there was a long silence. After a time, Kate slipped through the door.
He was still there, looking unseeing downward, his head on one hand. Then, politely rueful, he saw her. “You see! I’m out of practice, I know; but the effect must be worse than I thought.”
She sat down, her eyes on him. “Who taught you?”
“My mother, first. My father thought that not only did music make men mad, but that only madmen indulged in it in the first place.”
“Then you inherit your military talents from him, perhaps?” said Kate idly. “Not many musicians contrive to be the toast of the Wapenshaws as well.”
“Some do: witness Jamie’s drummer who whipped the English off the butts. I never achieved anything spectacular of that sort; I never cared for it.” He ran one hand down the keyboard. “My brother is the athlete.”
“He’s an archer?”
“Sword or bow. He excels at both.”
So there was a brother. “There is such a thing as a born eye for athletics,” observed Kate. “Two of a kind in one family would be a bit trying. It’s probably just as well for the sake of peace that you were differently gifted.”
He agreed with her amiably, returning to his playing. Watching him, Kate found herself thinking of something Gideon had said after his short stay at Crawfordmuir. “It isn’t all done with words either; he makes damned sure of that. He can outshoot them and outfight them and outplay them: he’s got a co-ordination that a hunting tiger would give its hind legs for.”
She drew a little breath and Lymond looked up. After a moment he observed, still playing, “Versatility is one of the few human traits which are universally intolerable. You may be good at Greek and good at painting and be popular. You may be good at Greek and good at sport, and be wildly popular. But try all three and you’re a mountebank. Nothing arouses suspicion quicker than genuine, all-round proficiency.”
Kate thought. “It needs an extra gift for human relationships, of course; but that can be developed. It’s got to be, because stultified talent is surely the ultimate crime against mankind. Tell your paragons to develop it: with all those gifts it’s o
nly right they should have one hurdle to cross.”
“But that kind of thing needs co-operation from the other side,” said Lymond pleasantly. “No. Like Paris, they have three choices.” And he struck a gently derisive chord between each. “To be accomplished but ingratiating. To be accomplished but resented. Or to hide behind the more outré of their pursuits and be considered erratic but harmless.”
“As you did,” said Kate shrewdly. “Committing the ultimate crime.”
“No,” said Francis Crawford, watching his own fingers slipping down the keys. “Man’s ultimate crimes are always against his brother. Mine, in my competence, my versatility and my self-important, self-imposed embargoes, was against my sister.… For God’s sake,” said Lymond, “don’t speak.”
In the sudden silence she did as he wished, sitting still in her low chair. Then he swore aloud and she looked up, heartened by these expressions of honest rage.
Standing by the window, Lymond regarded her crookedly. “Your fault,” he said. “These were some of the things you wanted to know, weren’t they? And as soon as the pressure was lifted, I started talking about them.… I don’t as a rule inflict my more tawdry reminiscences on people, you must believe me. I’m sorry. It’s one of the penalties of being incommunicado for five years, but I can usually control it better than that.”
She stood up also. “You think a lot of your self-possession, don’t you?”
“I did, when I had any. One can’t, obviously, control other people unless—”
“And you want to control other people?”
He grinned. “I take your point. I have none now to control. But all the same—”
“You would want it in normal life. Are you ever,” said Kate, driven by her own feelings into asking one of the dangerous questions, “are you ever likely to have a normal life?”
Lymond grinned again, slightly, walking to the door. “That depends on Samuel Harvey. There is, of course, another thing. I might be able to gull the law. But as soon as I appear in public, my brother is likely to get himself hanged for killing me.… We’re devils for complications on our side of the Border.”
Kate accompanied him to the door. She said bluntly, “How much more of it can you stand?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, answering what he took to be her anxiety. “If it’s going to happen, it won’t happen here.”
* * *
Gideon arrived next day, and had Crawford brought to the parlour, where he was standing with Kate. After greeting his prisoner he said without preamble, “The man Harvey is in Haddington; he’s seriously wounded and it’s possible he won’t survive. I came here to tell you.”
“Oh,” said Lymond. After a moment he added, “Then that appears to dispose of my problem.”
Gideon had had a talk with his wife. He said abruptly, “I can’t help you to get into Haddington.”
“I know that, of course.”
“But,” said Gideon, “if you think there is any possibility of doing so yourself and coming out alive, I’m willing to lend you a horse to try.”
There was a pause. Lymond drew a steady breath. “I see you mean it,” he said. “I shan’t sicken you with protestations of gratitude. But it means a great deal.”
“I know. What will you do?” asked Gideon.
“Go to George Douglas,” said Lymond slowly. “I can influence him a little, I think … And try and get Harvey out. Or if that fails, to get in myself.”
“But—” said Kate involuntarily, and Lymond’s eyes moved quickly to hers.
“There really is no other choice,” he said, and she was silent.
Gideon had opened the door. “Come then,” he said. “I came as fast as I could, but there’s no saying how long he’ll live. You’ll need all the speed you can make. Quickly. Kate—”
She was already through the door. “I’ll collect what he needs.”
In a very short time he was mounted, and they watched him canter down the avenue, turning with raised hand at the gates. “The fools!” Gideon said. “Those damned fools at Edinburgh! What a waste of a man.”
And they turned and went about their business while Gideon’s stallion, stretched flat with extended rein and curbless mouth, printed with sharp cloisonné the baked green sides of the hills and glens leading to Scotland.
* * *
While Lymond was in Northumberland, Will Scott was scouring the Lowlands for him. He stayed in the vicinity of Wark Castle until he was sure the Master was no longer near the original rendezvous. He visited the farmyard where he had first joined the troop, and the lairs he had learned to know since.
Only twice did he come across any of the men he had fought with for nine months. The Long Cleg, horse-coping placidly with a string of broken-winded hacks, waved a friendly arm and asked mildly if it was right that he and the Master had had a fight over the money and he’d broken Lymond’s head for him. Scott muttered something and got away as soon as possible. The other encounter took the form of a narrowly averted arrow which met him at one of the biggins where they used to keep fodder. He never found out who it was: he didn’t want to know.
Fourteen days after his uncomfortable meeting with Sybilla at Threave, Scott returned to Branxholm empty-handed and full of misgivings, and Lord Culter, calling that day on Buccleuch, found him there, alone in the hall.
“Will Scott!”
The boy looked up. The square, powerful figure, the direct grey eyes, the flat hair, were like phantasmagoria from the bolting, glittering winter: a wood on the way to Annan, and Lymond’s voice saying, “Richard! A challenge!”
He got up slowly, and was unprepared for Richard’s hand chopping masterfully and painfully on his shoulder. “You damned puppy: where is he?”
He reacted as he had been taught: with one smooth violent movement he was out of the other’s grasp and viewing him from a useful distance. “I didn’t come home to be handled,” said Will Scott pleasantly. “My father is outside, I believe.”
“You’ve learned manners to fit your morals, I see. Have you brought your master with you or not?”
“What, again?” said Scott insolently. “I’ve already brought him to Threave at the beginning of the month—did nobody tell you? How often am I supposed to repeat the service?”
Lord Culter wouldn’t show excitement again. “I’ve already asked you. Where is he?”
Scott shrugged. “Who knows? Linlithgow? London? Midculter? He escaped.”
“From Threave!” said Richard.
“Aye, from Threave,” blared a new voice. Buccleuch, sweating, came into the room in his shirt sleeves, sneezed in the cooler air, and bawled for something to drink. “Lifted the latch and walked out. You’d think the damned place was a sieve. Ye see Will’s back?” said Sir Wat unnecessarily. “It was Will got your lassie away from Lymond, you know.”
“A Herculean task, I feel sure,” said Lord Culter. It struck Sir Wat too late that it was no use trying to ingratiate with his lordship any man who had witnessed his wife and his brother together. He dropped the attempt and said, “You’ve come for me? Sit down; sit down. I’m ready packit. I’ve got to take this damned fool anyway to Edinburgh to get a formal pardon for him. What’s happening?”
The answer was brief. “We’re to muster on Monday to attack the English garrison at Haddington.”
Sir Wat put down his beer, and the seamed skin about his eyes puckered alarmingly. “Wait a minute. Have the French promised to attack?”
“On the obvious conditions. You’ll hear them tomorrow. They want the main forts, of course—Dunbar, Edinburgh, Stirling. They have Dumbarton already.”
“By kind permission of her French Majesty. Uh-huh. Well, they might get Dunbar, but I’m damned if I’d let them sniff the threshold of the other two. What else do they want?”
“What they’ve always wanted,” said Lord Culter. “But I think that’s a matter for discussion elsewhere.”
So absorbed was Buccleuch in his calculations that he missed the imp
lication. His son didn’t. Rising, Will said flatly, “Naturally. Any associate of Lymond’s is suspect. I’ll go.”
The door banged, as Buccleuch rounded on his neighbour with a bellow. “There was no need for that! Dod, are ye wandered! It was the laddie who led us to capture Lymond in the first place!”
Richard’s expression did not vary. “I’m not trying to offend you, Wat. But this is one secret nobody dare take risks with. There’s a good chance the country is going to agree to France’s main stipulation, which is—”
“—To send the young Queen to France.”
“Yes. To be brought up at the French court, and to be married in due course as her mother and the French King decide. If we and Parliament agree. Otherwise the French fleet lifts anchor and sails back home without a fight.”
He studied the wayward eyebrows, the falcate nose and the stubborn chin. “Would you agree, Wat? Which side are you for?”
Buccleuch, slapping a hand on the table, heaved himself up. “The same as yourself: what’s the alternative? The Protector’s black face bobbing up the Canongate and France in a huff and making dainty wee steps in the direction of the Emperor? No. We’re stuck like a toggle in a bite, and we’ve got to put up with it.… Are ye in lodgings in town?”
“I’ve taken a house,” said Richard. “In the High Street.”
“And Sybilla?” demanded Sir Wat, with a brilliant lack of tact.
“I’ve no idea what my mother’s movements are,” said Richard. “I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“She’s got your wife back at Midculter,” offered Buccleuch, and pursed his cracked lips so that the whiskers leaped. He said, “Have ye ever thought that your brother might be driving a wedge deliberately between you and your family? Because if so, he’s finding you easy meat.”
“I must ask him when I find him,” said Lord Culter.
“Dod,” said Buccleuch caustically, “I’m glad to hear he’ll survive long enough to listen to ye.”
“Oh … he’ll survive,” said Richard. “For a long time, after he’s caught. I’m in no hurry. None at all.”