Free The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett

like the frog in the story, and while I can stare you down, it’s a little difficult for you to stare me up. You’ve put on weight, haven’t you? And cautious! Even Nero watched, Richard, while the family became encaramelled. I hardly thought you would resist the desire to be present as well.”
    Among Culter’s men there was a rustle of anger, but Richard himself said nothing at all. For an infinitesimal space, the blue eyes were forced down by the grey. Then the slack lids were drawn back farther than Scott had ever seen them, and the full malice of Lymond’s cornflower eyes bent on his brother.
    “Talk to me, Richard. It isn’t difficult. Move the teeth and agitate the tongue. Tell me news of the family. Am I superseded yet? Oh, Richard, a blush!”
    “No.” Culter’s voice was perfectly level. “No. You are not superseded. You are quite safe to kill me.” And added stiffly, forcing the time to pass: “Your services are at present with Wharton, I take it?”
    Lymond’s voice was absent. “Well, he’s certainly paying me. Once our friend Bannister reaches Annan, the road north is going to be a little crowded, what’s more.”
    Culter moved involuntarily. “Is the Protector then in Stirling?”
    “Yes, of course,” said Lymond readily. “Take care: you asked mea question; it’s the thin edge of the wedge. What’s so interesting about the Protector being in Stirling? … Oh, Richard!” he said with an air of sudden discovery. “You haven’t packed the ladies off to Stirling for safety, have you?”
    Lord Culter, guarding his eyes, was speaking mechanically. “You should be delighted.”
    “Well, it opens up a number of interesting possibilities, doesn’t it?” said Lymond. “I wonder if the Protector insists on merchetis, and his princely free access to the bedchamber, or anything novel like that. I used to know a number of women who would be all the better for a fate plus mal que morte. Which brings me rather to the point: Changeons propos, c’est trop chanté d’amours.…” And he laid a gentle hand on his sword.
    With an uneasy twist of relief, Scott recognized the climax, and drew a fortifying breath. At the same instant, Lymond said suddenly, “Richard, my child, have you by any chance more brains than I gave you credit for?”
    The words were hardly out when the rumour of noise, the furtive boot on the heather and the laboured breath resolved themselves into a torrent of crumbling sound as Erskine’s incoming Scottish force flooded the wood.
    In the last flare of the torches, Scott saw Lord Culter, his face alight, snatch a bow and raise it. Passion lent to the silent tongue the drama once derided by his brother. “Your turn now, Lymond! And by God, before I let you take over my shield and my bed, I’ll give you one night to remember the head of your family by!”
    And as he swung his horse frantically and went crashing and bumping outward through the confusion, Scott also heard Lymond’s reply.
    “All right: a challenge, Richard! I’ll meet you at the Popinjay in the next Stirling Wapenshaw, and we’ll try then who’s Master!”
    He laughed, and the excitement in the laugh was the last thing Scott remembered.

II

Blindfold Play
    And hit is not fittynge ne convenable thynge
for a woman to goo to bataylle for the
fragilitie and feblenes of her. And therefore
holdeth she not the waye in her draught as the
               Knyghtes doon.
    I N THE long grass by the water’s edge a man lay half buried, with small life moving past his head and a tarnishing damp spread into his clothing. Behind him, four miles of bog rolled and steamed in the morning sun. Ahead, the turgid waters of the moat sucked and plopped in a leisurely way against the grazing meadows and scrub which lay behind Boghall Castle. The sun moved.
    At the castle, from which Richard, Lord Culter, had once watched the smoke of his mother’s burning house, the watch changed with weary abuse on both sides.