The Game of Kings Page 8

  “Or a monk?”—innocently.

  Laughter intensified in the voice. “When clerics sing like little birds?—No, surely not …” and he swept tempestuously into a song made immortal by its far from clerical sentiments; and from there to an estampie she did not recognize.

  His playing was restrained and skilled. Drifting from this to that composer, he discoursed gently about musical theory and philosophy; and she found herself stating her own views, asking questions, listening intently. With humble and rather touching delight, she entered into her own world; the world of sound, and was happy until Conscience put a hand on her shoulder. She said suddenly, “Who is Jonathan Crouch?”

  “Who?” he said lazily. “Oh, Jonathan Crouch. He’s an Englishman, at present pris—”

  The hiatus, the inhalation, the shaken voice, were plain for her to hear. “You use drastic methods, don’t you?” he said.

  Christian replied quickly. “Memory’s a strange thing, taken unawares. Sym told me you spoke the name in your sleep.”

  “Did I? Then it must have some personal importance, I suppose … but what? I’m sorry. It’s vanished. Try again.”

  “Then it probably isn’t your own name?”

  His laugh sounded genuine enough. “God forbid! Surely I’d know it if I heard it?”

  “It might strike you suddenly. Or maybe you’d rather select one? O Dermyne, O Donnall, O Dochardy droch …”

  “No,” he said. “Look, we could go on forever. I think I prefer being an old, nameless article to a new-minted one with a false label around my neck. Or, indeed, anything of a ropelike character. Leave me to spend my remaining wit on Jonathan Crouch, and in the meantime let there be dancing and singing and all manner of joy …”

  The lute sang, irresistibly, and so did he.

  “The Frogge would a wooing ride

  Humble-dum, humble-dum

  Sword and buckler by his side

  Tweedle, tweedle twino.

  “When he was upon his high horse set

  Humble-dum, humble-dum

  His boots they shone as black as jet—”

  The break was as violent as if death itself had struck. The four strings gasped, once, under clenched fingers, and there was silence.

  Alone with the hammering of her heart, with infinite patience, Christian waited.

  “Memory’s a strange thing.” What aspect of the bold, ill-fated frog had opened the gates? Frogs—and wells. What lay at the bottom of a well? Cats; and kelpies; and curses; and cures for warts … and Truth, of course.

  As if the thought had reached him, there was a movement beside her. The light insouciant voice showed no inclination to dive into wells.

  “—Tweedle, tweedle, twino. I have a confession to make. The first rule of prison life is to curry favour with your jailer. This I have done with some success: Sym tells me he has no desire either to hang or to impoverish me. On the contrary: this afternoon he showed me how to escape with the key of the postern and over a secret path in the bog. I promised not to use it without your permission.”

  Christian said, “I see. You seem to have been working very hard. And what is the rule when there are two jailers?”

  He was silent for a moment; then said, “Look: swear me God from top to toe in one breath if you will; but remember, I exposed myself voluntarily.”

  “All right,” she said. “Provided you have a clear idea of the situation. I take it you’ve recovered your senses, and your identity is not one that would be pleasing to Hugh. You are likewise unwilling to be a source of profit or revenge to Simon or myself. You are therefore asking us both, in view of past favours, to connive at your escape.”

  If she had expected him to betray any further emotion, she was disappointed. “Admirably just, and justly damning,” said the voice equably. “Well, the remedy is in your own hands.” And he quoted mockingly:

  “Se’l ser un si, scrivero’n rima

  Se’l ser un no, amici come prima.”

  There followed a pause, during which Christian came to the annoyed conclusion that she had once more been outmanoeuvred. Possessing the key, he had flung himself on her mercy. Why? It occurred to her that when referring to the enslavement of Sym, he had refrained with the utmost tact from drawing a parallel. He had left her to do that. To betray him now would suggest the vindictiveness of a disappointed woman, and she might well, in his opinion, shrink from that.

  “Amid come prima, indeed!” repeated Christian viciously to herself, and added aloud, “I assure you that if you’ve persuaded Sym out of his dream of wealth through sheer weight of personality, I’m unlikely to insist on furca and fossa out of spite or low curiosity. But what I must and will have clear is that once free, you’ll do us no harm.”

  “I could give you my word on that, except that, like the wonders of Mandeville, my probity is problematical.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” admitted Christian. “Therefore while accepting your promise—of course—I must make one other condition. Tell me your interest in Jonathan Crouch.”

  “God!” he said; and this time she heard genuine amusement. “Next time I’ll make straight for Hugh. Rather the thumbscrews than the confessional. But I warn you, it’s a poor bargain. You won’t trace me through Crouch.”

  “I’ll risk that,” she said, and then had further words struck from her by a sudden, vast commotion, echoing among the towers. At the same moment, a familiar voice rolled down the stair. “Good news, Christian! Are you there? Can I come down? Christian!”

  She said, “It’s Tom Erskine—Outside the postern, quick. Where’s Sym … oh, there you are. Yes, I know: he’s told me. Look: go with him, take him to the cave and come back … it’s a small cavern halfway along the path; well hidden. You can stay there till dark. I’ll get a cloak and some food over to you later.”

  “My sword—”

  “I’ll send it. Here’s the postern key. Quick!”

  She turned, as their running footsteps receded. “Tom, my dear! Wait and I’ll come up!”

  Christian Stewart lifted her skirts and began climbing the stairs thoughtfully. “Damm the man!” said she, as she went; and it was not at all clear which man she meant.

  * * *

  With Erskine were all his troops; tired, filthy and in the wildest of spirits. Biggar opened its doors to them: Bizzyberry echoed with laughter and music and at the castle, officers and garrison, suitably freshened up, shared a happy excess of food and drink in the banqueting hall.

  Sitting beside Tom, smelling the white soap he used and picturing him, clean, rosy and normal, Christian was moved to say, “Tom, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  He said apologetically, “I’d have been here long before if I could. You look tired to death. Idiotic of Jenny Fleming to leave you.”

  She smiled. “It’s only my capacity for intelligent sympathy that’s exhausted—I’m longing for simple, positive, cheerful conversation. Tell me more of your news.”

  For it was not only good, but miraculous. Lords Wharton and Lennox, dug deep into Annandale, had turned tail; and pursued by himself and Lord Culter had scampered back to England. There was a garrison still at Castlemilk—no very great danger—but the deadly thrust north had been stopped: the western arm of the nutcracker had broken.

  “Why?”

  “Overconfidence, we think. They spread a rumour they meant to march north, and got a shock when Culter assumed the opposite and charged in. Made a mess of poor old Annan, but nothing to what Clydesdale missed, thank God. Although I don’t mind saying,” he added frankly, “that Culter took a chance I wouldn’t have touched with a billhook.”

  “But it worked,” said Christian. “And now?”

  “Report to the Queen Mother. Dispatch rider ahead, of course, with details but I follow tomorrow. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “I think I shall, yes,” said Christian. “If there’s no threat to the castle they can dispense with me here. And I ought to take those children off Lady Flemin
g’s hands. Is there a moon tonight?”

  “No: It’s got overcast,” said Tom, surprised. “Why?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Sym wanted some night fishing. And I must finish packing as well,” said Christian, with the appearance of absolute truth.

  * * *

  The path through the bog was not easy to find. Even steered firmly by Sym, her booted feet kept gouging into wet sponges and clucking, half-dug hags. Her gown was soaked and her spirits still damper when she heard a murmur ahead.

  Sym, a joyful conspirator, whispered. “There’s someone else with him in the cave, my lady.”

  Christian said, “Be quiet!” but the low voices stopped, and there was a stealthy sound to their right. She pushed Sym a little, and he stepped forward, rising surprisingly to the occasion with a bold voice. “Stay where you are! We bring food from Boghall, but we’re armed, too.”

  “Doubly armed, I trust,” said the voice of their former prisoner. “My faith, yes. Food, my sword and dagger—Sym, you’re a hero.… Good God!” it said plaintively. “Good God! Lady Christian. The most determined creature since Bruce. I owe you some information, don’t I?”

  “You do. How do you feel after your walk?”

  “In good heart and excellent health. Happier than Augustus, better than Trajan. And one of my own senators, to boot, has already traced me and is about to restore me to my empire. It’s the new moon. Like the elephants of Mauretania, my friends are foregathering to perform mysterious rites … Jonathan Crouch is an Englishman I want to speak to, that’s all. I know nothing about him, except that he’s a prisoner in Scotland, but I mean to trace him, if it takes me to Hell and back.”

  “It needn’t do that,” said Christian. “Because I can do it for you, through Tom. He has access to all the lists at Stirling, and he’ll be discreet, if I ask him. Come to this cave on Tuesday, and I’ll leave word for you.”

  The voice this time was brief. “Thank you, Shahrazad, but I think not.”

  She spoke bluntly. “Crouch will be ransomed back to England long before you can find him yourself.”

  “Nevertheless, no.”

  Meeting the rock of his will, she had no mind to plead. “Well, whether you want it or not, the information will be there,” said Christian. “Ignore it if you want to. Good night.” And pulling Sym’s coat, she moved.

  She was stopped at three paces by long, wiry fingers and a gust of garlic. Then: “God damn you, Johnnie, let her go!” said the expressive, flexible voice, and the hands dropped. She moved on quickly, without waiting for more.

  Halfway back to Boghall, Simon spoke. “Who’s Shahrazad?”

  “A farsighted lady who kept the Shah on a leading rein by telling him stories.”

  Pause. “I don’t see the connection,” said Sym.

  “Oh, don’t be a fool!” said Christian irritably. “There isn’t any.”

  III

  More Blindfold Play: The Queen Moves Too Far

  In figour suld be maid in chess a quene

  A fair ladye yat galye cled suld bene

  And in a chyar scho suld be set on hight,

  A crowne of gold apone hir hed weile dicht.…

  Richt sad in moving suld yir womē be

  And of short space, and to no fer cūtre.

  “FIREARMS!” said Wat Scott of Buccleuch with a powerful disgust. “Firearms! I could do more harm with a good spit through a peashooter…”

  Tom Erskine located the voice without enthusiasm.

  He had had a frustrating week. Stirling was his home: his father was Keeper of the castle, and in the romantic and ingenuous soul which lurked behind his round exterior, the Master of Erskine loved above all things to see between his horse’s ears the Rock of Stirling, a homely Lorelei in the green meadow of the Forth.

  It had taken all Friday to bring Christian Stewart and her women to Stirling. He had left them at Bogle House, which the Culter family and the Flemings shared, and had found his town like one with the plague at the door. Court, government, the tougher shreds of army command, had all recoiled on the place, and the streets were a nightmare of horsemen and wagons. More than that: inside the packed lands lived an invisible disease of fright and nerves ten times worse than the newsless, suffering strain of the country because, like proud flesh, it increased on itself. Arran the Governor, awaiting the final, destined disaster of Somerset’s attack, saw Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin in lapidary capitals before him and was sick with nerves. The town followed his lead.

  At least, Tom found, they had taken thought for the Queen. For a week, the baby had been in hiding with her mother, and Mariotta and Lady Culter, now taking the place of the new-widowed Jenny Fleming, had gone to be at their side. Later, he heard that Christian had been commanded to join them.

  He could not even be her escort. He was held fast in Stirling by affairs, and by the necessities of war. On Monday night they heard that Leith was on fire and Holyrood Abbey overthrown; later, that the English Protector had struck camp and was on the move, while an English fleet was sailing farther north. No question now, of being sent to join the Queen, and Christian. Erskine stayed, and lightheaded with the despair of high crisis, the town awaited fresh news.

  In the evening, it came. The English army was marching—not west, toward them, but south.

  It was news that would be repeated, word for word, as long as they lived. On Monday, it was confirmed. The Protector, at Lauder, was still moving toward England. On Tuesday and Wednesday, fresh reports: the English fleet had simply fortified Broughty Castle on Tayside, and appeared to be waiting only for a wind to leave again. Thursday and today, Hume Castle had fallen to the enemy and had been garrisoned; the English army were now at Roxburgh, and apart from these outposts and the cut and dead wrack left by the storm, the pounding seas had withdrawn and the tide had flowed south.

  Impossible to understand why Somerset had failed to press his brilliant advantage. The tired captains in Stirling could only surmise. The cautious pointed to the four English garrisons: two seabound on the open east coast, two within reach of the Border; but jubilation, like a truant, crept up on the town and its army.

  Tom Erskine, at last free to escape, was impatient alike of wild opinions and delay, and irritated beyond reason to find Buccleuch in the company on his first visit to Stirling since Pinkie. Particularly when the company, sleek and splendid, was George Douglas, whose elder brother, the Earl of Angus, was head of the House of Douglas in Scotland and father to Lord Lennox’s wife.

  He walked forward nevertheless and was seized. “Here, Erskine: you’ve used ’em. Hackbuts, boy! Damned dangerous things!” Fighting had left Wat Scott of Buccleuch unaltered: bonnet crammed with Buccleuch bees, he looked as he had done when, standing with Lord Culter on the Boghall battlements, he had watched smoke rise from the castle where his wife Janet lay with a knife in her shoulder.

  And that was a theme painfully close to Erskine’s mind—and Sir George’s too, it appeared, for interrupting Buccleuch blandly he observed, “Hullo, Erskine. Come to tell us about poor Will?” And so Tom had to embark, perforce, on his errand.

  “I’ve seen your boy, Buccleuch. He’s in good health.” That, at least, was true.

  Circumscribed by lowered eyebrows and raised beard, Buccleuch’s face did not change. “Poor Will?”

  Sighing, Erskine discarded finesse. “He’s with Crawford of Lymond.”

  The thickets of grey 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 w
ith 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 young fool 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.