He pulled himself together. If she didn’t want him she should say so, directly, to him. He hesitated only a moment longer, and then put out his hand and knocked.
Through a welter of necromantic, smoke-ridden dreams Mariotta became aware of the light tap. When after a moment it was repeated, she sat up, fencing with the supernatural, and called, “Yes? Who is it?” The answer took her by the throat.
Silence had fallen again. Her breathing had become erratic. Unable to talk with this chaos in her lungs she was quiet, trying to control the disorder.
“Mariotta?” He was speaking again, very low. “May I come in?”
It didn’t occur to her to refuse. She pulled a bedgown over her ruffled linen, gave a despairing thought to her hair, and called to him levelly. “Come in if you wish.”
She was paralysed by the change in him; because she had expected time to have stood still for him, as it had done for her. He was brown-skinned and light-haired with the sun, the corner of his eyes seamed with white. He was thinner and harder, and his quietness had a quality of power and repose in it which was new to him.
Coming no nearer than the foot of the bed he said, “I wakened you. I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave until sunset, and I thought it might be better to speak now, in private.”
Mariotta’s eyes were unchanging violet in the glimmer of the candle. “What is there to say?”
You may know the devil by the inverted image in his eyes. The candle flame in her husband’s showed her, sanely, herself twice over. He dropped abruptly on the low chest below her bed and taking the fringe of her coverlet in his fingers, twisted and plied it with his eyes on his hands.
He said, “I was brought up to distrust talkers. A foolish thing which recoiled, naturally, on my own head. I was taught to judge people by their actions, and I do—and it works—except sometimes, when it matters most. I probably haven’t learned much, but I’ve learned that people don’t always say what they mean, for good reasons as well as bad.”
“People don’t always say what they mean for no reason at all,” said Mariotta lightly. “Especially feminine people.” She saw he was troubled by this vein and watched him, her chin cushioned on her updrawn knees. She went on in the same deceptive voice. “But you accused me of being Lymond’s lover before I claimed I was.”
The trouble in his eyes deepened as she brought out, irresponsibly, the difficult thing he had to discuss. He rolled the tortured fringe in his hands and she went on, before he could speak. “You’re trying to tell me you know there was nothing between us. But I think you must tell me how you know. You didn’t believe me. Whom did you find to believe?”
It was hard, but she meant to be hard. She watched him as he groped painfully for an honest and lucid answer; trying with all his strength to satisfy her and win through to her without invoking the shadows of the last five months, and of the last three weeks. It couldn’t be done, and she made it clear to him that he mustn’t try. “Richard? What have you done?”
He didn’t look up, or call his brother by name. “Nothing. He’s alive. This isn’t an act of expiation.”
“Did he tell you what passed between us?”
Richard’s face was buried in his hands. “Some of it.”
“He told you he had never laid hands on me?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yes. I don’t know. Not when he told me. But later on—I’ve had a long time to think.”
“And when he took me to Crawfordmuir?”
“It was an accident: he intended you to be taken straight home. He did what he could for you. I know about that.”
“Then either Will Scott or myself is a liar,” said Mariotta gently. “Because Lymond told me face to face that he meant all the time to bring me to Crawfordmuir; that he took me there to dishonour you and disrupt the inheritance. It was to save myself and you that I escaped.”
Richard’s hands dropped from his face, and his wife said, “So which story will you favour this time? His or mine?”
There was a long silence. Then slowly Richard got up from the chest. He looked very tired. “Are you sure … ?”
“He spoke very plainly indeed. Will Scott can tell you.”
Her husband walked to the window. Faintly, in the courtyard, the dying glow of Johnnie Bullo’s embers searched through the open door, were cut off, gleamed and disappeared as it swung in the wind. Mariotta said, “Well?” and he turned, making a gesture of despair. “I have lived with him for three weeks. He’s tormented, perverted, dangerous, ruthless, but—”
The candlelight lit her soot-black hair and the soft wool on her shoulders, as if a silver quill had embellished the air about her. Her face, resting on her knees, was shadowed and unreadable. “But you believe him. It’s another impasse then, isn’t it, Richard?”
“I’m damned if it is,” said Lord Culter suddenly, and swung around. “My dear: listen. We’ve been married less than a year. Because of circumstances and foolishnesses and my mistakes and shortcomings we’ve been parted for nearly half that time. We’ve each in our own way been through a number of minor hells; and we’ve had a great loss.…
“A mistake is something you build on: it’s the irritant that makes the pearl; the flaw that creates the geyser—but a mistake made twice is a folly. It’s cost something in terms of thought and sacrifice and even suffering to bring us tonight to speak with each other. We have a moral duty at least not to toss it away.”
“And Lymond?”
Richard said steadily, “You had no right to ask me that question, and no right to expect me to make that choice.”
“I knew you wouldn’t make it,” she said. “I knew if you had made it, even in your own mind, that Lymond would be dead. I was only—”
“—Frightening me for the good of my soul,” said Richard, and suddenly smiled. “As Francis rejoices in doing. I’ve spoken to Will Scott too, you know. But won’t you believe me? I’ve been frightened enough already.”
He was standing looking down at her. “Perhaps you’ve married the wrong brother. And that would be a pity. Because Francis lives in a passionless vacuum and keeps his love for abstract things. And in the second place, I should never let you go.”
She had longed so much to hear it that she was beyond speech; but there was a quality in her face that drove him suddenly toward violence.
“I love you,” said Richard to his wife. “You have dominion of life and death over me. I am asking nothing except to prove it without being turned away. Or”—his eyes on her lifted arms—“being taken out of pity.”
Her outstretched hands did not waver, and the candlelight on her face found an expression unsought even in his dreams. He came carefully to her side, and knelt under her light touch.
“Out of pity?” said Mariotta. “My dear fool, why am I fighting you and denying you and hurting you except that I am so afraid of you, and of myself; because I love you far too well for peace and gentle harmonies.…
“It’s all right. My dear, it’s all right. I am here: I love you: I will not leave you. None shall take it from us now.”
He had dropped head and shoulders to the bed, one hand gripping the silk and the other holding her outstretched hand as if it were his hope of eternity. Mariotta brought her other arm to encircle his shoulders and comforted him.
* * *
Roused very early next morning by Tibet, in tears, Sybilla received her son in her room.
She had risen and put on a vast brocade bedgown. With its stiff silk puckered about her, she sat in her high chair like Demeter about to breakfast on Pelops, her face in shadow from the paling windows. Richard bent over and kissed her.
She surveyed him, silently absorbing the pleasing, tranquil assurance of him and the woollen robe he wore. Her own mouth relaxed, and she touched his cheek as he dropped to a stool at her feet and hugged his knees. “You’ve made your peace. What odd children I have! I’m so glad,” she said.
“Could I have leav
e to stay, do you think?” asked Richard. “What you’ve done about the steadings I hate to think. Salted all the sheep and given away the pigs and allowed the salmon to be poached … I didn’t kill him.”
“I know. You wouldn’t have kissed me, would you?” said Sybilla coolly.
Richard flushed. “He’s—Francis is in Edinburgh. Tom would tell you, he was badly hurt in England. Then he was taken—gave himself up—as we were coming north. I’d planned to get a ship for him and help him to leave.”
Some of the natural colour had returned to Sybilla’s fine skin. She drew a finger down his cheek and said, “That was remarkably well done, no matter what came of it. You won’t regret it, either. What will they do?”
“The warrant is out for letters relaxing him from the horn. That lets them bring him to trial before Parliament. In two weeks’ time, probably.” His eyes searched her face. “There isn’t much hope, you know. But to be honest, I don’t think he greatly cares.”
For the the first time, he saw a spark of fear in her eyes. “Why? Because of Christian?”
“A number of things, I think …” He waited, and then said, “Will you go and see him? Soon?”
“No. I should only weaken him now,” said Sybilla curtly. “And in any case, I have a little travelling to do, and I must be back in good time.”
“Travelling?” Never in this world would he understand her.
“Yes, my darling,” said Sybilla. “And someone, as Buccleuch would say, is going to loathe my guts before I’ve finished with them.”
IV
Baring
Wherefore the nobles and the peples ben sette in their proper places.…
They that ben sette on the other syde kepe the Quene.
And thus kepe they alle the strength and fermete
of the royaume.
1. Remiss
THAT year, as in other years, death was not man’s ultimate terror and chief source of his disquiet. Death was cheap and quick, indiscriminating and often friendly. You could die in a day, from the pest. You could die in a second in the innocent hub of a brawl. Children in thousands never came to life, or lived only hours. You could die in battle, and you could die at the minor instance of the law, for cheating and stealing and concealing disease. Death was better, often, than pain, mutilation and deformity; than starvation in banishment; than the intangible evils of sorcery and enchantment. People died suddenly, from week to week and month to month, and their disappearance had to be accepted. Death was cheap and quick.
In time of siege and foreign occupation, the doom and death of a traitor might go unnoticed. But many in Edinburgh lost fathers or brothers at Solway Moss, and had heard Carrick Pursuivant at the Cross six years before charging and warning the traitor to appear.
Twice they had summoned the absent Lymond to the diet of his libel, and twice the record book had noted, The aforesaid being summoned did not appear. For this contemptuous failure in his duty to his Sovereign and this rebellion against the law of his country, sentence of fugitation was passed, making him rebel and outlaw.
Now, six years later, triumphant officialdom spoke. Francis Crawford of Lymond, Master of Culter, being in ward in Her Majesty’s Castle of Edinburgh, was summoned to appear on the eighth day of the month of August in the year of Our Lord 1548, to answer charges of treason, of revealing and showing to our ancient enemies of England the secrets of the Queen; of treasonable intercommuning and rendering of aid and comfort to our said enemies; of murder, assault, abduction and robbery, and crimes against the Estate and Church as set forth in the indictment.
The news reached Will Scott where he hung about in a frenzy of inactivity in Edinburgh. He tried and failed to get access to the Castle. Buccleuch, already aware of the event, left his son alone and got back to the siege of Haddington. Richard, with a lot to do at Midculter and a strong unwillingness to leave it, stayed with his wife and made quiet preparations to return before the eighth. Sybilla, having got rid of all her encumbrances, collected a small, well-armed retinue and left for parts unknown.
* * *
The Dowager reached Ballaggan on the first of August, carrying the date in her breast like an aposteme.
She was brought into the hall and made welcome, under the vacant survey of alabaster and murrhine. Crossing the little Turkey carpets which cost so much, Dandy Hunter took her to his study as she asked, and poured her wine and made her comfortable, without pressing her for news of either of her sons. She smiled at him very gently and took from her purse a little box, which she laid on the table between them. “I came to return this,” she said.
Smiling, a little puzzled, he took it. His sleeves were caught with embroidered bands and the stuff of his jerkin, as fine as her own, was lined with tissue. Smiling at her again, he unwrapped, fastidiously, what lay inside the box; and then, with the smile lingering forgotten on his lips, drew out and laid before him the contents.
It was a hexagonal brooch, set in ebony and diamonds and shaped like a heart set about with crystal plaques, each bearing an angel’s head in onyx.
The silence stretched out. Then Sir Andrew stirred and lifted his eyes. “But this isn’t mine.”
“No?” said Sybilla. “But Patey Liddell altered it for you: I saw it in his shop. Your mother might remember.”
Remembrance brightened his face. “Ah!” he said. “Now I have it. Yes, indeed—I bought it for Mother, and lost it again the same day.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, but your son was the culprit. The brooch lay by the bed when he broke into the house, and when he had gone, it had vanished too. I’m afraid I was so angry and concerned about Mother that I dismissed it … I’d forgotten it altogether. Wherever did you find it?”
“But,” said Sybilla, “you handed it to Patey after Francis’s visit.”
“Patey must be mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken,” retorted Sybilla serenely. “I overheard you.” She paused, and then went on. “I got it from Agnes Herries: did it puzzle you to find her wearing it? Before that, it belonged to Mariotta. They took the rest of the rubbish from her at Annan. It very nearly did what you meant it to do.”
He touched his head with his hand and sat back, smiling again. “Wait a moment—what I wanted it to do? I’m sorry, but hasn’t Mariotta explained? It was Lymond who sent her all the jewellery. Blame me if you like for not telling Richard, but your poor daughter-in-law put me in an appalling position. But I swear I did my best to persuade her to confide in Culter.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Sybilla placidly. “With results we all know. Of course Mariotta thought they were from Francis: she was infatuated with the idea of him. That must have been a little disconcerting for you. But when she didn’t automatically attribute them to you, you must have realized she wasn’t, after all, going to fall into your arms as you planned she should. So you adapted your scheme accordingly and it worked quite well. Mariotta thought they came from Lymond, and that was enough to break her marriage and nearly to kill her.”
The thin-boned, high-nosed face was flushed with emotion. Dandy said quickly in a troubled voice, “Lady Culter. You can’t know what you’re saying. Mariotta was young enough and troubled enough to turn to me. I couldn’t deny her help.” He stood up suddenly, anxiety in his face. “Is this how she is explaining it to Richard? To whitewash Lymond and put the blame on me?”
Sybilla, neatly swathed in gauze and laces, was the calm within the hurricane. She stretched out a slender hand and retrieving brooch and box, returned them to her purse. “Mariotta still thinks the jewels came from Lymond,” she observed, fixing the distrait man with candid, cornflower eyes. “But I think she ought to know that you have now tried to kill her husband four times.”
There was a little, breathless hush; and then Sir Andrew said, “Good God, Lady Culter,” and sat down unbecomingly. “But this is nonsense. Do you mean to accuse me of … ?”
Ke stared at her, breathing quickly, and then slapped one hand on his desk. “No! No.
I’m damned if I’m going to be scapegoat. I’ve a very soft spot for you all, Lady Culter, and for Mariotta especially, but I can’t let you twist and pervert facts to get your beloved son off the gallows. Give some thought to my mother, at least.… The only person who has tried to kill Richard is his own brother.”
“Facts?” said Sybilla. “At the Papingo Shoot Francis aimed twice: once to cut the cord and the second time to kill the bird. Then he dropped the bow and quiver and left the glove. You were the person first on the spot: you had already tried and failed to free yourself of Mariotta and Agnes.”
Sir Andrew’s flush had paled. “It’s still nonsense,” he said steadily. “You know I can’t shoot. Everyone knows that.”
“You can’t shoot at a Papingo target,” said Sybilla, “but you are an excellent marksman on the flat. Everyone knows that, too.”
“It’s Lymond’s word, in that case, against mine. Do you suppose for a moment—”
“Oh, of course. You’ve no evidence against you,” she said, “any more than you had when you led Richard and Agnes Herries over a part of the Nith notorious for its potholes. Happily, Richard is a very strong swimmer. And there were, I suppose, too many witnesses.”
“I pulled him out myself,” exclaimed Hunter. “Lady Culter—”
“But the third and fourth times,” said the Dowager, “there was evidence.”
She had effectively stopped his protest. He made a little gesture of resignation. “You’d better tell me.”
“Do you need to be told? I had some simple tests made with the herbal drink you brought from your mother for Richard’s use. They tell me Mariotta would have been a wealthy and marriageable widow very quickly if he had drunk it.”
He said quietly, “Go on. And the fourth occasion?”