It was Philippa who found him alone in his room, without the cold bags, and learned, rushing out to flare at the women, that they had been forbidden under threat of the evil eye to replace them after Trotty had gone. Jailbird or not, the old woman was wise, and Philippa knew that Tom had always dealt with her gently. So she did not interfere, but went back slowly into the sickroom and sat by the dying man’s side.
To Tom, stupefied with fever, she looked much like her mother, sitting straight in the uncomfortable chair, her combed brown hair clinging over the uncompromising front of her dress. There was no need for her to have come. Her mother had sat just like this at the deathbed of the girl he was once to have married, long before Margaret.
Since then, he had been often to Flaw Valleys, and Lymond sometimes too, until Philippa’s hostility had driven him away. That, or the death of Philippa’s father. And Philippa or Kate, or both, had often enough defied the rules of war and slipped over the Border to stay with him at Stirling or Boghall.…
Lymond, they said, had been fighting in Barbary and was due home soon.… Would Philippa stay so implacable? For a bemused second Erskine wondered if, sanctified by near-dissolution, he could play the peacemaker … but no. Hatred shackled by promises to the dead was the vilest of all.
Time passed. The room was dark and his feet were famished with cold. His feet were cold, and it was too late for a death-bed peroration. Not that he had much of value to say. Or had he?
With great difficulty, on a breath that scarcely lifted his chest, Tom Erskine said ‘Philippa?’ and her voice answered him, steadily, from where she sat framed by the dull glow of the fire. He took a long, shallow breath and two others, and began and finished with them his message to Margaret. And then, while he could, he added the other message, for Lymond.
The gist of what Trotty Luckup had said was not hard to convey. He only wished, with the hovering desolation which all this day he had fought to ignore, that it had been Margaret whose quiet, sober mind should accept this unsavoury truth, and not young Pippa. He had the presence of mind, and just enough voice, to send her away after that.
As Jenny and the clacking herd of nurses and servants came to Philippa’s call, the child herself fled. Downstairs, loyal to the family but huddled in whispering knots under the shadow of sickness and death, the kitchen folk answered her questions. Yes, Trotty Luckup had been here, and had a good sup by the fire, and gone out at dusk … on the Culter road, she had said.
In Philippa Somerville’s mousy head that night was one thought: to catch up with that erratic old gossip, and hear more of what Tom Erskine had told her.
Trotty wouldn’t move fast. With all the ale she would have drunk, she could probably hardly walk straight. Philippa didn’t wait for her pony to be saddled; she found it rope-bridled in the big stables and cantered it out at the gates, a dogged stable boy, who knew what his job was worth, following on a hack, with a stick under one arm and a stable cresset in his free hand. Then they both set off headlong down the causeway through the dark bog.
They found Trotty where the soggy road lifted out of the marsh to cross the small rise before Midculter. She lay at the side of the ditch, and there was more fustian than flesh to her, as if a pedlar had spilled his pack in the gutter. She was dead.
It was not the first dead face Philippa had seen—this loose-jawed engraving in stark black and white, the old hooded eyes wavering in the torch-flare. ‘Nae doot,’ the boy said scathingly, ‘she’s skited inty the stank and bashed her auld pan on a rock.’
‘No doubt,’ said Philippa, her hands cold. The old woman reeked of beer. Her hands, that had gentled the birth-caul from unnumbered children, were crossed at her chest in a semblance of protection. The girl bent suddenly over the harsh autumn grass, latticed with shadow, and came up holding something: an iron bar. ‘And this was the rock.’
The boy himself was only fifteen. He stared at the weapon, saying nothing; and from the brightening of his neck-muscles in the flame, Philippa knew that he had heard, too, the sound that had caught at her heart: the far-off drumming of horse-hooves coming west. Not, she knew, an anxious pursuit from Boghall, else they would be calling. But not, surely, the murderers of Trotty Luckup, who should be far away by now? Unless they had remembered leaving that blood-sticky iron bar.…
There were a great many horses. ‘Put out the torch,’ ordered Philippa sharply, making up her mind; and they stood in the windy darkness beside the corpse in the ditch and waited for the horsemen to come.
There were about twenty men, you could guess from the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves on the stony road, riding in a thick band, torchless, by the glimmer of the afterlight on the path. If there were any commands, the trotting feet drowned them. They came at an even pace round the far bend and rode towards where she stood with the boy in the thick dark of ditch and hedgerow; drew abreast and passed by.
Half passed. Ten paces beyond her, the vanguard of the little troop, in uncanny unison, halted dead. The rear half, which had yet to pass her, halted as suddenly. And out of the darkness in front, a voice nauseating with underplayed authority said, ‘There. Strike a light and bring them both forward.’
To struggle was useless. As she went forward with the boy, prompted by a broad hand on her spine, Philippa saw in the new torchlight that all these men wore good half-armour and helms, and she took renewed courage. Not, then, outlaws or robbers.
Outwith the torchlight their commander sat waiting, still mounted. He had not spoken again. Philippa turned to address him, the yellow flame bright on her thirteen-year-old face, and his horse stirred a bit, and was quiet. Then, before she could even speak, he said mildly, ‘Why, the heir of the Somervilles, with attendant. You have a problem, I see. May we help you? Is that your old lady, or someone else’s?’
She knew who it was before he rode forward; before the light fell on his hated face. His skin was dark brown, she saw, so that all its lines were imprinted in white, and his eyes and teeth shone as he smiled.
Philippa’s eyes filled with angry tears. He was Francis Crawford of Lymond, the only man who could airily jest about an old woman battered to death in a ditch.
The boy started forward, blustering and explaining, but Philippa stayed where she was, her mouth shut, until suddenly he spoke to her direct. ‘Remember me? Your favourite Scotsman,’ he said. ‘And don’t pretend to be frightened. You Somervilles are as tough as old Romans.… Tell me one thing, Philippa. Did you follow Trotty here from Boghall?’
He had picked up the gist, then, of the boy’s story. It was exceedingly awkward. It was the worst kind of coincidence. It was damnable, thought Philippa, miserably daring. She replied, after a pause, ‘Yes. I’m staying with Lady Jenny. You might have called out to let me know who you were. I followed Trotty,’ said Philippa austerely, through chattering teeth, ‘because I was anxious to talk to her.’
She waited. Something light and warm flicked down over her shoulders—his cloak, she discovered. She had not quite the courage to throw it off. ‘Jerott here will carry you safely back to Boghall and the Mistress of France. Did you see who killed Trotty, Philippa?’
‘No.… They had gone some time before. I don’t know anything about it and I can go home by myself, thank you.’
Lymond stared at her. ‘I expect you can, but Jerott’s dead scared of the dark.’ And added the question that mattered, before she was ready. ‘Why did you want to speak to her, Philippa?’
Philippa Somerville’s large brown eyes became perfectly vacant. In Philippa Somerville’s obstinate head was a message for Lymond, given her by Tom Erskine who had learned it from this busy old woman. To withold it would hardly harm Francis Crawford. It would, however, given luck, lower his conceit not a little, and she had followed Trotty Luckup with the intention of learning much more.
It was too late now for that. Philippa cut her losses, and without shifting the wide, disingenuous gaze told her lie. ‘Trotty came to give comfort to Sir Thomas Erskine, and le
ft before she could be paid or thanked, even. You know Lady Fleming wouldn’t think of it. I had money for her, that’s all.’
She had, luckily, in her purse. Lymond did not look at it. Instead he said sharply, ‘Comfort?’ as she had hoped.
‘Poor Sir Thomas is at Boghall with the sweating sickness,’ said Philippa sadly, and would have earned short shrift from Kate for the shoddy ring of her tone.
She earned even shorter from Lymond. ‘Since when?’ he shot at her, and then, ‘Jerott!’
The dark, cleanshaven young man behind stooped. Against the brief crack of Lymond’s voice she felt herself swung into the stranger’s saddle, while the boy hopped behind Francis Crawford; then the two horses swung round and set off at uncomfortable speed for Boghall, leaving the rest by the road.
Looking back at a bend, Philippa saw that, dismounted, they were already lifting the bundle of rags that was Trotty Luckup out of her gutter. In Philippa’s soft heart was true compassion for Trotty and a real grief for the Master of Erskine. But when, arrived at Boghall, she found priest and cousins, tardily come, in pale conference outside the sickroom and saw Jenny Fleming, tears silvering her tinted cheeks, fling her arms round Lymond’s neck, she realized first, that Tom Erskine was dead; and second, that Trotty Luckup’s small piece of gossip was her possession alone.
Trotty had intended it to warn Jamie Fleming. Tom Erskine had seen beyond it to trouble for Lymond. Philippa, sitting on her own private powder-keg, merely hoped he was right.
*
For Jerott Blyth, who had acted throughout in a state of resentful boredom, it was no pleasure to be on the road to Midculter with Lymond again, with Boghall and its mourning mother-in-law in the darkness behind.
It was because of Gabriel that he was here. Graham Reid Malett, true to his word, had not spared himself since leaving Malta more than two months before. To virtually every Court in Europe he had presented, with force and justice, the story of Mdina, Gozo and Tripoli; blaming no one, but abundantly clearing of blame the French knights of Malta, the Chevalier de Vallier, and the French Ambassador to Turkey, M. d’Aramon.
Everywhere, except in the Vatican and the Empire, he had been given a hearing. His work and his reputation, preceding him to France, had ensured him an immediate welcome at Court, decently muted out of respect for that Turkish alliance. Henri II might not see eye to eye with the Baron d’Aramon, but he was willing to support him against the Emperor Charles any day; particularly as it was not difficult to guess, however biased Graham Malett might be, that the Grand Master was personally the scrapings of a particularly rancid barrel.
Gabriel had insisted on performing this pilgrimage alone. Banished from the Grand Cross’s side, Jerott heard the sounds of his devoted success from his mother’s home at Nantes and, in the end, could not forego a single heart-warming reunion with Sir Graham at Paris.
Thinner, his hair grown longer, his face tired, Gabriel had not otherwise changed. The sweet-tempered, steadfast crusader of Malta was still in him, smiling at Jerott’s importunities, and saying at length, ‘What next? How may any of us know what comes next? I shall go to London next month, and then to Scotland. I must see Joleta; and I think I must rest. My doctor seems to think it wiser, at least.’ And brushing aside Jerott’s concern, he had said, ‘Why not join me there? Why not go first and wait for me? You have still relatives there. You can meet Joleta and tell me if she and Lymond are friends.’
The horror in Jerott’s expressive face had made him laugh again. ‘That dismays you? I can think of nothing to please me better. Where I have failed, perhaps Joleta can win. Perhaps you too can help to persuade that young man that gifts like these are not be be wasted. Bury your distrust of him, Jerott. He will do honour to the Religion yet. The finest service you could render your Order would be to join him and befriend him now.’
‘What Order?’ had said Jerott Blyth bitterly; and Gabriel had smiled. ‘Don’t pretend that four hundred years of chivalry have ended with one misguided old man. You have been paid a compliment: Juan de Homedès does not like you. Let us show him how his work for Christ should be done.’
It was a winning thought, reflected Jerott morosely as he cantered through the cool Scottish night to Midculter. But it did not console him for the quality of Francis Crawford’s smile when he had attached himself to his train on embarking for Scotland, or for the arguments they had subsequently had over Lymond’s immediate plans. Lymond was on his way home to St Mary’s, his property near the loch of that name. There he proposed to train men, as the Order trained, in the sweet arts of war; and Jerott had agreed to assist.
Whether this accorded with Gabriel’s hopes of him he had no idea, but if he were to stay with Lymond he could do nothing else. He was out for a quick conversion, was Jerott; for the alternative—proselytizing by Gabriel’s innocent sister Joleta—was unthinkable. Hence his distaste for the present journey to the Crawford castle at Midculter. They had been in Scotland for less than a day and in his view should make straight for St Mary’s, where all Lymond’s chosen men were assembling.
Instead, they were to call at Midculter, and he would be forced, in Lymond’s presence, to meet for the first time Gabriel’s sister, Joleta. And worse, to see Joleta exercise for the first time her tender sanction to win Francis Crawford to her beliefs.
Since leaving Boghall Lymond had not spoken. The death of Erskine was a pity, Jerott supposed. The Queen had lost a loyal supporter. Jerott said, ‘The Somerville youngster has a stout heart for her size.’ Even at the end, Philippa had not given way; and it must have been no joke, finding herself alone at night with a dead woman and a band of armed soldiers. She knew Lymond, it seemed. Why then, for God’s sake, thought Jerott to himself with renewed irritation, hadn’t the man shown some warmth or some decent concern for the girl? He added to his previous remark. ‘But she’s no beauty.’
At his side the dimly seen face did not alter. At length, ‘God, I suppose, sends a shrewd cow a short horn,’ said Lymond, and put his horse into a canter.
They were nearly at Midculter, although the rising ground hid the castle from view and only the sprinkle of cottage lights through the thinning October leaves told where the village lay. Archie Abernethy and the rest of Lymond’s men would be there by now, having left Trotty Luckup, as Lymond had commanded, in the care of the Crawfords’ own priest. Jerott became occupied with his own thoughts and jumped when out of the darkness Lymond’s hand, strong and hard, fastened on his. A moment later he was on his feet beside the other man on the road, the two horses hitched to the bushes behind them, and was walking silently towards the trampling and shouting now clearly audible from round the next bend, above which the voice of Lymond’s sergeant, Archie Abernethy, could be heard raised loud in complaint. There was a burst of laughter; and a moment later, Lymond and Jerott Blyth had caught up with their errant light horse.
It was a remarkable sight. They had mostly dismounted. The road, shiftily lit by the smoky cressets, was crammed with helmeted heads, all loud in debate but none advancing to the tree-enclosed causeway ahead, where the abused body of Trotty Luckup lay, a young man bent at her side.
The noise came largely from Archie Abernethy, veteran warrior and once chief Mahout to the King of France’s elephants, who stood alone in the centre of the road facing his men and arguing plaintively with an Italian pistol two feet long which was pointed unwaveringly at his stomach. The holder of the pistol was a girl no more than sixteen years old. The torchlight fell on rose-gilt hair falling sheer from her intent golden brow to the dropped velvet hood of her cloak, and her face, in its jewel-like purity, shocked the senses like music with cymbals. She looked furious.
The likeness, even from the hedges where Lymond and Jerott Blyth, unseen, stood, could not be missed. It was—it must be—Gabriel’s sister, Joleta.
A small, choked sound came unawares from Jerott Blyth’s throat. Lymond’s arm brought him up short. ‘Control yourself, Brother. A peach, I agree, but a dangerous peach.
Let me deal with it first.’ And removing his hand, he melted into the night. Jerott took a step forward, and then a step backwards; and then stayed where he was, a handful of thorn in one fist. He was shaking a little, as one did when the cathedral doors opened and kneeling, one felt the bearers brush by in incense, and saw the still, loving smile of the saint.
His eyes were wet. And, God in heaven, his right hand was covered in blood. Pulling himself together, Jerott Blyth released the thornbush, jerked down his leather jacket, drew his sword, and took a professional step forward again.
The noise by this time was prodigious. As he listened to the ribaldry, Jerott soon understood. Riding from Midculter with her grooms, Gabriel’s amazing sister had found Trotty Luckup’s corpse in the hands of a group of armed strangers. That Joleta should blame them for Trotty’s murder was no doubt natural enough. While one servant rode back for help, she had neatly isolated poor Archie and the next moment had hauled a pistol out of her saddlebag.
Any one of the twenty men present could have overpowered her. Archie himself, come to that, could use one of a dozen old tricks. But added to the minuscule risk (the girl, after all, might shoot the thing) there was a reluctance to end some good sport.
Their fun was not wholly unkind. Their trembling appeals for compassion, their good advice to Archie, hotly explaining, were all merely compensation for the facts that she was ravishing, well-born, and not for them. Further, that in their leader’s most opportune absence, this was the nearest they might ever hope to approach.
Cuddie Hob was shrieking, ‘He’s an auld man! He’s an auld man! He’s got a weak hert and six mitherless bairns! Hae mercy, mistress!’ and Archie Abernethy, bald head glinting in the flares, was saying angrily, ‘We found the old woman; we didna kill her; we’re on our way to Midculter now. For God’s sake stop this nonsense. I beg your ladyship’s pardon; that thing might go off. We’re young Crawford’s men, my lady: Crawford of Lymond—will you bloody bastards shut your mouths?’