This is a chapter that has everything – action, intrigue, humour in many guises, undercurrents in many conversations, and considerable interest in exactly who knows what, how and when did they learn it, and what they can do with the knowledge. Compared to this the affair at Hume seems perfectly straightforward!
We open in Stirling in the premises of Patey Liddle, goldsmith, where Sybilla is having a miniature portrait painted by him. We get the remarkable information that he has no ears, and his stories of how he lost them are many and varied. We are told:
He was also a brilliant goldsmith; and the source to Lady Culter of much simple entertainment.
We may also wonder whether, given that he is likely to have many rich and/or noble customers through his shop, he may also be a source of information for her.
He runs downstairs to greet a customer – in fact two: Andrew Hunter and George Douglas. We discover at this point, as she assesses the portrait, Sybilla’s age – 60.
She overhears the conversation downstairs about how Hunter came by the bruises to his face. He tells Sir George the truth – which we find he had not told to the Culters who were led to believe he had fallen from his horse. He also mentions the names he overheard – Gideon Somerville and Samuel Harvey.
Regaling Richard and Christian with this information later, she casts doubt on what Richard had heard of Hunter having a cousin in England that he needed to ransom, and she comes up with:
‘What that man wants is to marry an heiress, although heaven knows I shouldn’t ask Medusa to share her castle with Catherine.’
She has clearly been trying to keep Richard occupied so he won’t attend the papingo shoot, though it’s not clear why that is, since it seems unlikely she believes him to be in any danger from Lymond. We learn that apart from one day visit at Inchtalla he had hardly spent a complete day in his wife’s company since the battle.
Buccleuch arrives aiming to get Richard, but Sybilla forestalls him and insists he stay for wine since he has come to her house and etiquette demands that she act as hostess and he must accept it. But after 3 glasses Hunter appears and says they are wanted at the shoot.
In the audience Agnes is saying slightly unwise things in a loud voice:
‘Well, I must say,’ said Lady Herries definitely, and loudly enough to turn several interested heads, ‘if I were married to Lady Culter, I shouldn’t let her spend the whole afternoon at the games alone.’
Tom diplomatically tries to make a joke of it
‘Thank you very much,’ said Tom Erskine, grinning at Mariotta, who sat on his other side.
But gets little support, while Dorothy gives us a striking visual image:
She smiled politely back, and Mr Erskine’s soul moaned within him. Reduced, singlehanded, to coping with so much potential gunpowder, he felt himself, like the bird which cleans crocodiles’ teeth, assailed by hideous doubts.
Mariotta is frustrated; perhaps not surprisingly since she’s barely seen her new husband in the last few weeks:
The girl was pretty, rich and wearing new clothes. Today, sitting under streaming banners, with peers and pageantry around her, the green grass in front and the castle soaring above, was her first public appearance in Stirling since her wedding. And it was Tom Erskine, not Richard, who sat beside her and supplied the endless introductions. It was all exactly as she had insisted and devastatingly flat.
She clearly wishes to make an impression, as the beautiful wife of one of the prominent nobles in the land, and he’s not there beside her.
Dorothy sets the scene by describing the separate sections that the various members of the social strata occupy. The peers, then the clergy, then the merchants, etc. Then the lowest – this being one of the first times she produces a list:
The fleshers and brewers and smiths and weavers and skinners and saddlers and salters and cappers and masons and cutlers and fletchers and plasterers and armourers and porters and water carriers, and the one-eyed man who had called at Bogle House selling fumigating pans. And country people on holiday, and beggars, and pickpockets (no doubt) and sorners and the wandering unemployed.
Now when I was taught English at school, we were told that lists should be avoided because they were long and boring and slowed down the story! In Dorothy’s hands they are transformed – they illustrate the scene, they inform the reader. And just sometimes, they serve as a distraction, to lull you into complacency so she can hit you with a big event or reveal.
We seem to be in Mariotta’s POV as the competitors file in. The suggestion that the noblemen were only doing this to “entertain the tenants”. The hint that something would usually happen to enliven the proceedings about half-way through.
Nevertheless, and not to be carping, the long file of athletic and purposeful bowmen looked very splendid, though not as splendid as if one’s own husband were there.
Blue and silver. She liked her own standard. The St Andrew’s Cross; the crest (argent, a phoenix azure), and the highly ambiguous motto, chosen (of course) by the First Baron, which always eluded her, Contra Vita – whatever it was.
As the thought crossed her mind, the motto itself appeared, almost within touching distance: CONTRA VITAM RECTI MORIEMUR. The Culter slughorn, carried by Richard’s servant. And walking behind it, looking neither to left nor to right, but perfectly self-possessed, unaffected and blasé, Lord Culter himself. Mariotta was aware of a dismayed flutter in the stomach.
I’ve heard various discussions about the correct meaning or accuracy of the Latin, but (no expert myself) I’m happy to go with Dorothy’s intentions, which were:
“Despite the (misleading) evidence of our lives, we die honest”
or
“We die honest, despite Life’s efforts to thwart us.”
Tom is glad to see Hunter arrive and asks him to look after the girls. We learn that Hunter is good enough at butt shooting but useless at perch.
‘The Kilwinning baillies used to hand down their suits of armour like chains of office for when Dandy was perch shooting at the steeple.’
Tom goes to see Christian at Bogle House, as he wants to see her before she has to return to Boghall to take over Jenny Fleming’s duties. She’s nervous – both for herself and Sybilla, and on hearing that Richard is to shoot, Tom almost turns around and goes back, but Christian detains him and asks him to take her and Sybilla to the fair until the shoot is over.
He sees that she’s on edge and says so. And unusually she snaps:
‘If you would tear your mind sometimes from backgammon and horses, you’d see something in the Crawfords that’d make your rattlepated friends look pretty thin. If I remembered my own mother, I don’t suppose I’d value her half as much as I do the Dowager. And Mariotta may not be what you fancy, but there’s breeding and spirit there too, if you’re minded to look for it –’ She broke off, her brow cleared; and with one of those competent mood changes that was one of her chief characteristics, gave him a friendly push. ‘Go on. Tell Sybilla we’re all off for a jolly day a-fairing. And don’t let her sidetrack you either.’
Which tells us quite a lot about Christian’s own character, some of the things she dislikes about men, and how much she adores Sybilla, as well as her ability to regain control of herself when necessary.
If we were desperate to find out what happens at the papingo shoot then we’re going to be delayed a while yet, as we are treated to a delightful trip through the fair.
The progress of Sybilla though a market was the progress of worker bee through a bower of intently propagating blossoms. Everything stuck.
She buys just about everything you can think of until Tom and Christian’s ability to carry it all is quite overwhelmed! A box of ox feet proves an unwise purchase. After refreshments in a tavern, during which we get a kaleidoscopic description of the sights and sounds of the fair – a perfect example of how Dorothy leads you into scenes in a way that is all-encompassing – they head for home. Then Christian is stopped by a gypsy fortune teller – Johnny Bullo of course. Sybilla engages him in conversation and asks him to come to Bogle House in the evening to entertain everyone there.
The next line:
The Dowager was enchanted. ‘So good of them. Have you any money, Tom dear? I seem to have spent all I had with me.’
is sure to raise a smile. Then they meet Dandy Hunter with bad news.
The scene switches back to the shoot as it occurred, where the betting on what might happen is brisk and fevered.
Agnes is once again airing unsuitable thoughts, first about the shoot and then about her own marriage arrangements:
‘It strikes me,’ said Lady Herries, reminded suddenly of a sore subject, ‘that a Ward of the Crown might as well be a by-blow for all the difference it makes. A girl Ward, that is. Who wants to marry John Hamilton? Not me. I’ve never seen the man, even.’
Warming to her theme despite Hunter’s attempts to distract her, she continues:
‘What I mean is,’ said the Ward of the Crown, frowning, ‘that people have no business to settle other people’s future for them when they’re five years old. It’s a typical man’s scheme,’ said Agnes ruthlessly. ‘It’s not for our own good; it’s no use saying it is. It’s to add to their rotten lands, or because they need to carry on the family name, or because it’ll bring them enough money or tenants or rights of lineage to stop a war, or start a war, or carry out their own uninteresting masculine affairs.’
For a 13 year old she has strong and informed views!
Perhaps fortunately the shooting starts.
A lesser author might give us a dry description of the event. Here we get snippets such as
The papingo squawked bad-temperedly and swore with an Aberdeen accent; the arrows arched and fell harmlessly, six yards to the left.
and
The next two were wide; the fifth caused a mild sensation by breaking his bow and nearly amputating himself with the shards; the sixth lost his thread and bungled both draws; and the seventh squirted off like a firecracker.
While we get more of Agnes’ romantic visions:
‘Oh!’ said Agnes, sparkling. ‘It’s very exciting, isn’t it?’ And she added, a little wistfully, ‘A woman would enjoy being married to a wonderful archer.’
We learn she’s to be married soon:
Lady Herries looked surprised. ‘Not specially. But I’ll have to get married this year, I expect; and if I’ve got to be sold like a packet of wool –’
Amongst some further discussion there are little gems like:
‘But I’ve got all the diamonds I want,’ said Agnes succinctly. ‘Like Mariotta. And the little Queen. So I don’t see there’s any point in marrying, unless it’s to get something you haven’t got already. And nine times out of ten, you needn’t marry for that, either,’ she added as an afterthought.
Hunter asks her, a little rudely you would think, about her lands and tenants – which are considerable, and we learn they are next to the Maxwell lands.
‘I should like,’ pronounced Lady Herries with a stately air, ‘a husband who put me before business or politics.’ ‘They don’t exist.’ ‘Oh, yes, they do,’ said Hunter unexpectedly.
He then launches into a polemic about chivalry, and men’s duty, and arranged marriages.
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ retorted her ladyship, ‘it can bury itself. They won’t get me to marry anyone I don’t want to, contract or no contract. Oh, look: there’s Menteith shooting.’
Menteith, shooting 19th almost hits the bird twice. Now it’s Richard’s turn, and the crowd goes deathly silent. Mariotta, panicking, finds that Hunter has gone.
Remarkably, after the long descriptions and sidelines, the actual climax is described in very few words.
Richard aims and fires, but another arrow comes from a distance and releases the bird by cutting the ties. As it flies upwards a further arrow hits home and it drops. Then a third arches into view and hits Richard at the foot of the pole, where he collapses.
Whatever we were expecting, this was a shock, neatly delivered
The scene moves to Bogle House that evening. Richard is alive, if heavily bandaged. We learn that the third arrow had been less accurate and powerful and had hit his collarbone, via ear and cheek. Richard is well enough to survey the bow, three arrows, and a glove, all recovered by Hunter.
Sybilla expresses her dismay at finding Richard bloody and Mariotta fainting when she returned. Then rather oddly asks if anyone remembered to ask who got the prize. When Tom suggest it should really by Lymond’s but that he could hardly claim it, Mariotta says ‘He seems able to do almost anything he wants.’
Then the gypsies appear. While the others watch, Sybilla is in conversation with Bullo. Near the end she takes Wat Scott out and they talk – about bloodhounds!
She knows he has a pack and has surmised that Richard has asked him to use them to track down Lymond. She declares that she’ll stop it, and chides Wat for being out in public when he’s supposed to be too ill to speak to Lord Grey, who is in easy striking distance of his lands, and wants to find out about Will’s part in the Hume fiasco. Wat is in trouble and knows it – he’ll have to disown Will or risk being burned out. But if he does and Will is captured he’ll face treason charges like Lymond. He promises Sybilla that he won’t do what Richard wants, when they are disturbed by Christian opening the doors so the gypsies can leave.
Sybilla smoothly changes the topic of the conversation to her having spoken to Bullo about making the Philosopher’s Stone!
‘Well, I don’t know what you want the Philosopher’s Stone for,’ said Christian. ‘It seems to me that as a family you’re quite indecently rich already.’ ‘Oh, you never know,’ said the Dowager mysteriously. ‘Healing charms – elixirs of life – love potions –’
‘What I came to ask,’ said Christian, her face rather red, ‘was whether we might all go to the Fair– Agnes, Mariotta and myself, I mean.”
It’s unclear what causes her red face – was it mention of love potions or is she anxious to contact Johnny at the fair and thus see Lymond. Is she perhaps conflicted about not telling Sybilla she’s been in touch with him?
They go, with Tom, and after the others have left, Sybilla sits by the sleeping Richard.
Then she put it down and sat quite still for a long time, staring owlishly into space.
And it was into space that at last she spoke. ‘Oh, my darling!’ said Sybilla. ‘I do hope I’ve done the best thing.’
The question of course is who is she referring to? And what action of hers is she referring to.
How much has she been able to learn from Bullo about what Lymond is doing, and does she know from him that Christian has been in contact with him?
At the fair, Christian is feeling the strain of the day’s events and also the overstimulation of a rowdy crowd and an environment full of noise, bustle, and overpowering smells – all of which are wonderfully evoked.
They arrive at Johnny’s kiosk, and Agnes and Mariotta go in first – emerging unwilling to say anything about what they’ve told. Then he leads Christian in before leaving her alone.
The conversations that ensue are extremely complex – multi-layered and often seeming to be at cross-purposes. Even after many readings I’m by no means sure that I’ve fully understood them or their implications yet.
She’s tense – then comes Lymond’s voice – Mothlike in its lightness and rapid insistency, an unusual phrase but an effective one.
His quick description of their surroundings calms her and he recognises that she was frightened and asks what caused it. She tells him:
‘It’s been a bad sort of day – I’m sorry – and the Fair on top was a little too much.’
He responds:
‘Don’t, for your own sake, begin weaving fantasies of evil around me as well. I haven’t tried to kill anybody today, I give you my word.’
And she clearly believes him.
‘Well, if you had, I think you probably would have succeeded,’ said Christian. ‘Do you shoot?’
He confirms that he does – very well. Then says that poets use the quills to write odes.
‘Others don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘Others kill.’
There was a little silence. Then he said, ‘And that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Violence?’
It was true, and she acknowledged it. ‘Except that it isn’t trained and purposeful violence that terrifies me: it’s the negligent, casual kind.
And she lists various types.
‘Violence in nature is one thing,’ said Christian, ‘but among civilized mankind, what excuse is there?’
He is scathing about the English troops having anything to do with civilisation, and that religion is powerless to stop them. So she asks about private assassins:
He remarks that the day’s events were neither private nor successful. He alludes to the Old Man of the Mountains – a Crusader mistranslation of Sheikh al-Jabal, which means Mountain Chief and was the name of the leader of the Order of Assassins, who were alleged to use Hashish before carrying out their killings – thus his reference to “twanging his hemp instead of eating it.”
He also says:
… except that Culter, Jerome bless his childlike head, is such a remarkably dull and blameless creature himself.’
which suggests he has no ill-feeling towards his brother.
‘For a humanist,’ she said, ‘you’re very scathing on the subject of virtue. For one thing, you shouldn’t confuse stolidity and self-control.’
‘You admire self-control?’ he asked, and she took her chance. ‘I admire candour.’
He retorted instantly. ‘Oh, nothing better – in the right place. “It’s only right you should know” – I wonder how many that classic bêtise has driven to the river and the dagger and the pillow in a quiet corner. Truth’s nothing but falsehood with the edges sharpened up, and ill-tempered at that: no repair, no retraction, no possible going back once it’s out.
He appears to be warning her about either of them telling the full truth here – that a fudging of facts can be maintained, but that the truth is final and can’t be denied. Which, given his situation and with her reputation to protect, could mean serious problems for her. Perhaps he senses that she’s getting too close to him, and neither of them can afford that.
He then brings up an unexpected subject by saying:
If I told you I’d murdered my own sister you’d register appropriate feelings of hate and revulsion; and if you found later I hadn’t, I’d be sure of your interest and sympathy in twice the depth of your hate. Whereas, if you simply found proof positive that I had killed her …’
To which she interjects
‘… I might loathe you, but I’d respect your courage,’ she said candidly. ‘Besides, that sort of truth wouldn’t hurt me, would it? It might affect you, but then you’d deserve it.’
Which surprises him.
‘…Leave me some pride. Pretend at least that you wouldn’t collapse in a delirium of joy as I dance a vuelta on the widdy. In any case, I stick to my point. Not ninety-nine women out of a hundred really prefer that kind of honesty; and even if you are the hundredth, I’m the last to help you prove it to yourself.
A statement that will find an echo in book 6.
She tells him about Crouch having been released from Hunter, who had bought him from Douglas.
‘I see – wait,’ he said. ‘How do you know all this?’ ‘Because,’ said Christian, rising, ‘he was overheard giving George Douglas two English names mentioned by Crouch, and he more or less asked Douglas to help track them down in the hope they’d lead to the man who freed his prisoner. I thought you’d be interested … and now I must go. Oh!’ She sat down again, smiling. ‘Hadn’t you better tell my fortune first?’
To her glee, he sounded taken aback. ‘Oh, Johnnie looks after all that, although under certain circumstances I tell him what to say. Do you really want it done?’ She laughed. ‘Not really. It’d be more to the point, I think, if I could read yours.’ ‘Yes. Well, you’d qualify for M. Rabelais’s next Almanac if you could do that,’
Rabelais’s almanac, known as the Pantagrueline Prognostication, is a satirical parody of popular astrological almanacs and weather predictions published by French Renaissance writer François Rabelais.
It’s interesting that she doesn’t mention the two English names, and he doesn’t ask; which should tell her that he is the man who took Crouch from Hunter.
He proceeds, by the light of a single candle, to tell her fortune from her palm:
‘But I will say this … You’ll get the most out of life, never fear; and meet the sort of man you want, that too; and get your heart’s desire, I think, in the end – if you believe the results of Johnnie’s teaching. But what are we, after all? Charlatans, faiseurs d’horoscope …’
Perhaps another subtle suggestion that she should pursue her own happiness rather than becoming fixated on him.
She tells him of her plans to go to Midculter and then on to Boghall, then asks if there’s anything else she can do:
We seem to waste all our meetings talking nonsense, and all the time I feel …’
‘… The sands are running out?
Which suggests she’s concerned that time is short for him to find a way of proving his innocence.
‘There’s Johnnie coming now: he’ll see you out.’ He clasped her hand briefly. ‘I may not see you for a while, but perhaps I shall write.’
Which, given her blindness, surprises her as well as us, and raises intriguing possibilities. He reassures her that she’ll understand later, and she departs.
‘Have they gone?’ said Lymond. ‘Thank you, Johnnie. Your performance with the first two filled me with respect. For chastely phrased double-entendres you have no master.’
He praises the three girls, but Johnnie observes:
‘The wee one had a face like a pound of candles on a hot day.’
But Lymond corrects him:
‘The wee one, as you call her, has a face informed with beauty, wisdom and wit. In other words, my Johnnie, she’s thirteen, free and stinking rich.’
‘Oh. Then you’ve had a good day of it, I suppose.’
‘Then you suppose wrong,’ said Lymond shortly. ‘I’ve had a damned carking afternoon.
Which suggests the day did not go exactly as planned.
We then get a final section which suggests that Johnnie, although very intelligent, doesn’t always interpret Lymond correctly.
Bullo saw him to the doorway. ‘You’re off south tonight?’ ‘I am. There’s a gentleman I have to meet on the Carlisle road on Friday.’
‘And not to the gentleman’s profit, either,’ said Johnnie to himself with a grin,
This brings us to the end of part 1, and we now proceed on to the second man Lymond wants to find and question – Gideon Somerville.
We’ve moved on a long way in our understanding of Lymond, and may well have reassessed our opinions of him more than once. But there’s a lot more to come!
]]>Dorothy uses the spreading news and humour about the events of Hume to follow it to Dalkeith and the home of Sir George Douglas where he receives it thoughtfully – a word which is repeated twice more as he climbs to his study to meet a messenger, supposedly bringing a message from the English Protector.
The man is wearing a close cap which completely covers his hair – immediately raising suspicions among readers. His manner and speech soon amplify that suspicion and we realise this is Lymond in disguise.
‘Today the palace, tomorrow the oubliette and the elegiac distich.’
An oubliette is a secret room in a dungeon. An elegiac distich is a funeral lament. This attracts Douglas’ full attention.
‘Je suis oiseau: voyez mes ailes…Je suis souris; vivent les rats.’
‘I am a bird, see my wings. I am a mouse: long live the rats.’
This is part of a fable – The Bat and the Two Weasels:
The bat is twice captured by different weasels, but convinces one weasel that he’s a bird rather than a rat, and the other one that he’s a mouse rather than a bird. Both let him go for opposite reasons.
The moral of the story: Look and see which way the wind blows before you commit yourself.
Lymond reads out part of a dispatch from Lord Grey to the Protector, which mentions Douglas and that he has pledged to help put Queen Mary in English hands, and he then implies there is more in a postscript which he has left with friends to ensure his safety, and Douglas immediately and calmly supposes this to be an attempt at blackmail. After some verbal sparring Lymond says that the postscript and a copy of it does indeed exist:
‘I’m King of the Fidlers and swear ‘tis a truth.’
This is from a ballad about Robin Hood, who is an interesting character to invoke in the circumstances regarding Lymond.
Lymond offers the full dispatch for a nominal sum, which turns out to be Jonathan Crouch.
Douglas wants to make sure that Mary of Guise doesn’t hear about the dispatch, and attempts to bribe him, first with a ruby ring, and then by suggesting he could make money from the flow of information if they were to cooperate.
‘Fools make news, and wise men carry it. You could become a rich man.’
‘I am a rich man,’ said his visitor.
Which is an interesting thing to say given his Scottish lands are confiscated. He may have funds overseas or he may just be saying it to dismiss the bribe or suggested plan.
Sir George then has to admit that he no longer has Crouch but offers to tell who does and to engineer a way to enter the house where he is being kept.
‘Oh Douglas, oh Douglas, Tender and true…’
A very appropriate line from The Buke of Howlat, though it refers to an earlier Douglas when they were supporters of Robert the Bruce.
Sir George gives him Andrew Hunter’s name and says he will send a secretary to tell him of the enquiry about Crouch, as he had agreed, but that it would be easy to slip an extra person to the party.
Feeling a degree of kinship with his sharp-witted opponent he suggests they drink claret, to which Lymond agrees, but adds that he’s left a barrel of beer for him “a little stirred up” – a clear hint of where it has come from and also a hint as to his identity.
Catherine, Andrew’s mother is described as ”the spirit of Ballaggan Keep – imperious, impervious, implacable, brooding over its fastness like a tribal mascot”.
We find that Andrew had a “brilliant” older brother who died not long after their father, and it’s clear that Catherine favoured him.
We get a description of the contents of the house:
Spanish tiles on the floor (even Midculter uses rushes), Aldine folios, rugs from Turkey and the Levant. The beds were wrought and gilded, and hung with heavy taffetas; chests and tables in marble and scented woods. It is lavishly decorated.
Aldine folios are from the Aldine Press of Venice – a famous Renaissance printer whose publications were highly desirable. Amongst other things they introduced the use of italics.
Clearly these are more than the estate can support:
Lamentably aware that – even if gold mines sprang beneath his feet, like Olwen’s trefoils – his mother’s fancy would still outpace him, Sir Andrew was sometimes reduced to a state of nervous irritation very close to rebellion. That he invariably spared her either complaint or reproach labelled him a soft mark among his fellow knights and earned him a solid revenue of womanly sympathy.
Dorothy spends quite a bit of time on Catherine Hunter, which makes one wonder why. What role could a bed-ridden old woman play in this swashbuckling story?
Crouch is immediately described in a memorable section, beloved of many readers:
With Mr Crouch came his tongue, his teeth, his lips, his hard and soft palate, his maxillary muscles, larynx, epiglottis and lungs: all the apparatus which enabled him, ne plus ultra, to talk. Like the enchanted garden of Jannes, tenanted by daemons, the keep of Ballaggan encased the ceaseless drone of Mr Crouch’s voice. He droned through September until it and his captors were exhausted; then pounced on October with undimmed vigour and worried the blameless days for a fortnight.
This is quickly followed by a delightful second description that gives a perfect visual impression.
Mr Crouch, wittily obese like a middle-aged titmouse, sat enthroned on his stomach, giving tongue. Incidents of his boyhood surged to cataclysmic peaks of pointlessness. Episodes from his career in the Princess Mary’s household explored tedium to its petrified core.
Crouch is thus made a figure of fun but it’s done gently, and he’s also described as a kind man with a wife and 5 children (all girls) – who of course he promises to talk about!
So it seems unlikely that he is the one of the three that Lymond thinks may have betrayed him.
In the subsequent talk Andrew Hunter is also seen quite sympathetically – we start to feel sorry for him with Crouch’s wittering, and his mother constant carping criticism. Why do we think Dorothy does this?
Yet she also slips in subtle hints about his character via Catherine – that he’s never been injured in battle for instance.
What are we to make of him?
We discover that Crouch does successfully return to his wife via a mention of him telling her of the encounter – another hint that he is not the guilty party.
Hunter then produces a gift for his mother, though she takes her time opening it:
A vast, hexagonal brooch set in ebony and diamonds shouted into the sunshine in a cacophony of light.
Crouch is impressed – it’s the most expensive jewel he’s ever seen – and remarks that the letters written on it in diamonds must stand for Henri and Diane de Poitiers. (Though why it’s not still in her possession is not explained.)
Catherine is not impressed:
‘A remarkable piece of vulgarity,’ she said. ‘I fear, Andrew, that a stronger woman might have been able to do more than I to educate your taste a little. It is a great grief to me that I cannot help you more. However, there is no need for you to waste your purchase. I am sure there is some good burgess’s daughter whom you have a kindness for, who would be perfectly satisfied with it.
which, amongst other things, infers that Andrew has no fiancé and no likely consort from the nobility. This is unusual for an estate owner with a title.
As Andrew goes downstairs to welcome arriving visitors, Crouch suggests the brooch will have been expensive and not easy to resell. Catherine responds with a classic line:
‘The price of aesthetic education, Mr Crouch,’ she said, ‘is never small.’
Mr Crouch (for once) did not feel competent to answer.
The (for once) is a lovely touch that’s bound to raise a smile.
Andrew returns to find Crouch and Catherine tied up, and before he can take it in he’s hit from behind by a black-masked man, who then applies a wrestler’s lock to his knee, and says:
‘The Common Thick-knee,’ he said breathlessly, ‘is a bird … capable of running at great speed.’ He increased his leverage, grinning. ‘Now here, Dandy mine, we have a specimen of the Uncommon –’
alerting us, if we hadn’t already guessed, that this is Lymond. Hunter, out of sheer anger at the joke, fights back. We get some unusual descriptions slipped in during the struggle:
“…a fine stool splintered, its prowling leopards bifurcated, and a row of medicine bottles fell from the bedside table with a tympanitic crash.
Bifurcated and tympanitic are not exactly typical words to find in the middle of a fight scene!
Hunter seems to get on top and his opponent momentarily seems to go limp, but it’s a ruse and he kicks Hunter in a tender area before hitting him with a fire iron and then throwing him across the room and hitting his head off the floor. The rich Spanish tiles are referred to in a sarcastic aside:
‘Who … falls upon rushes, falls soft; beware of … vain pride in terrestrial treasure, Sir Andrew. And … doused lights … and fireirons … and wrestling in slippers.’
before Hunter loses consciousness, leaving Lymond to escape with Crouch.
While some may query the level of violence used against Andrew Hunter, the fact that Lymond is alone and needs to get out, with Crouch doubtless slowing things down, means that he has to incapacitate Hunter otherwise he will alert his men and will be able to track Lymond down. So I think it can be forgiven in the circumstances.
]]>When talking to new readers (or indeed failed readers) on social media, we often reference this chapter – telling them that once they get to around 100 pages and meet a Spanish Captain then they’ll change their mind on everything that has confused them up till now. If you get this far then you’ll probably fall in love with both Lymond and the writing.
In some ways this chapter is much more straightforward than the earlier ones – lots of action – but in other ways it’s a delightful melange of intrigue and misdirection. Only this time it’s not so much us that’s being misdirected, it’s the other characters.
We start in Will Scott’s POV. He’s happy in his new outlaw life and has a new ambition –“ …to cast a shadow bigger, grander and more devastating than Lymond’s.” This rather sets the tone for what is to come and we may already suspect that he’s getting too big for his boots.
We get a review in his head of the characters of Lymond’s men, finishing with Mat and recalling a conversation they’d had about why Lymond had returned and how Mat put up with him. Then we hear more about Johnnie Bullo as well, before a description of how Lymond has formed the group and how he keeps them in line. This calm introduction belies the chaos to come.
Lymond returns, and we discover he’s been to the Ostrich – an inn just over the border towards Carlisle. It appears he’s been dealing with messengers, no doubt gathering intelligence, but that there was also another encounter where he “rescued” a nobleman called John Maxwell. In fact it was a setup where some of his own men pretended to attack Maxwell and were then fought off by the other half of his men – thus putting Maxwell in his debt and establishing a relationship which will develop further in the future.
‘The Master of Maxwell,’ said Lymond, ‘is an important personage entirely surrounded by English. D’you play chess?’
‘Then you should recognise an opening for smothered mate.’
Will and Mat tell him that the men are restless. After initially appearing not to care, he laughs and asks for suggestions on whose house they could raid. Mat suggests a few reasonable targets but Will has greater ambitions and mentions Hume Castle. Lymond dissuades him by describing the new fortifications and that they would be outnumbered 4 to 1.
They call a meeting of the whole band at which Lymond first criticises the men and warns them about future conduct, before then asking for volunteers for a raid, which he’s clearly already planned, on a supply train from Roxburgh to Hume carrying a month’s supply of beer amongst other things.
Turkey shook his head. ‘Listen. He’s had it planned for days.’ He sighed.
‘Man, man: he can play them like a chanter.’
They intercept the wagons by using hill ponies, all stallions, to turn the train’s mares skittish before riding in themselves and subduing the escort. The prisoners include a Spanish captain. The train is split as agreed, but instead of taking the unwanted ones near to Melrose as instructed, Will Scott takes them to Hume.
At Hume, Lord Grey is in charge, but is not happy – he was injured in the mouth by a billhook at the Battle of Pinkie and as a result is lisping heavily; all his ess’s coming out as th’s. (This injury is historical, and Dorothy makes wonderful use of it.)
It is clear they are very short of supplies and are suffering from soldiers deserting because of it. In the middle of a tirade about this problem, where the lisp trips him up constantly, he utters the immortal line:
Hell and perdithion!’
‘Ith there no word in the Englith language wanting an Eth?’
Then Will Scott arrives, in the guise of Mr Taylor, having brought some of the supply wagons. He deals effectively with Grey’s questions and then tells him he has a verbal message for him from London – for his ears only. This is a trick to get Grey alone and capture him, although Grey insists that Dudley, a cousin of the Earl of Warwick, remains.
At that moment one of the wagons explodes as planned, and as Grey and Dudley are distracted Will attacks them. Dudley is stunned but Grey is an experienced fighter and uses a wrestling trick that Will doesn’t know to break free and call for help – though ‘Help! Guard! Athathinth!’ wasn’t perhaps an entirely suitable choice of words!
Nevertheless, having lost the element of surprise, Will is overwhelmed and somewhat beaten up, and his men arrested. Grey and Dudley then attempt to get Will to talk, during which he takes more punishment, though adrenaline softens the pain initially. He even impudently mimics Grey’s lisp and gets a belt buckle across the mouth for it.
Grey discusses the situation of the lost stores – food, ammunition, money, and beer – and sends for replacements and to discover what he can about the theft. He tells Will that he and his men will be executed tomorrow as spies as there isn’t enough food to go around. Will tells him his men are mercenaries and will fight for him, but Grey reminds him that there is now no money to pay them.
Will is locked up and realises that he’s blundered badly and will be responsible for the death of his men, and that if Grey knew who he was he’d be used as leverage against his father, and is resigned to dying.
He’s relied on a single trick and been unable to convert it, and has no plan B or any idea of how to escape. His earlier confidence and ambition is revealed to be rather misplaced and he appears rather immature and inexperienced in some important ways.
Two carts are retrieved by a search party, with the English troops who were ambushed, stripped and tied. Dudley finds there is some beer and some ammunition and reports to Grey, in the middle of which a visitor bursts into the room, shouting vehemently in Spanish.
The door burst open, the tapestries flapped, and a human tornado, enveloped in a whorl of depot-stamped canvas and trailed by protesting soldiers, erupted into the room.
His expensive clothes are ruined or stolen and he’s been tarred and feathered on his lower legs. “and even Lord Grey had to admit the magnificence of his rage.”
They get him sat down with a bowl of hot water to melt the tar, and some mulled wine, and suggest he speaks to Myles, who speaks Spanish. At which point we get the unforgettable line:
The caballero was displeased. ‘But,’ he said with some hauteur, ‘I speak the Scottish perfecto.’
His announces himself as:
‘Don Luis Fernando de Cordoba y Avila, leader of the captured supply train’
refers to his illustrious relatives, mentions the Emperor with little sign of reverence, and then his career in fighting. He utters the proverb:
‘Un hidalgo no debe a otro que a Dios, y al Rei nada.’
‘A nobleman owes nothing to anyone but God, and nothing to the King’
Which is a pretty strong statement. No doubt it is intended to amplify his own importance but it would be rather controversial, if not downright dangerous, if heard by a monarch.
Myles goes to translate but Grey says ‘I can gueth.’
Whereupon we get another immortal line:
‘De veras,’ said Don Luis politely. ‘My Lordship has the true Spanish lisp of Castile. His Spanish sin dude is as much good as the mine.’
By now most of us are probably either doubled up with laughter or have our jaws dropping at the sheer effrontery of what is happening.
Every line around this point is perfectly written to expand on the flamboyance of this amazing character. If we’ve had time to think at all in the whirlwind of action and dialogue then there can be only one explanation of his identity, though you could easily be forgiven for not grasping it immediately on first read. It is all too easy to be swept along and just enjoy the ride.
But surely, in the midst of laughing, we now greatly extend our admiration for both character and author if we had any doubts previously.
Surprisingly we now find him revealing who Will Scott is, which seems a risky strategy:
‘This terrible Señor Huile! Lead me to him!’
‘Señor … Wait a moment,’ said Grey sharply.
Don Luis paused in the midst of a characteristic rush to the door.
Grey said, ‘You don’t by any chanth know how the leader wath called?’
‘But of course!’ said Don Luis simply. ‘Do you not? It is Don Huile del Escocia.’
‘Don …’ Dudley suddenly experienced a terrible nostalgia for the King’s English, unadorned. ‘He can’t be called that. He’s a Scotsman.’
…
‘And the patronimico,’ continued Don Luis with undiminished helpfulness.
‘It is del Escocia, of Scot.’
‘Thcot!’ said Grey. His face suddenly lightened. ‘Wait a moment. Thcott! That’th Buccleuch’th name. Huile – It’th the Thpanith pronunthiathion, idiot, not the Englith. What thoundth like Huile … Will! Will Thcott! Buccleuch’th oldetht son!’
‘Idiota?’ said Don Luis stiffly, picking out the insult unerringly from the maze of multisyllables. His feet, a tarry mound, were ringed with pools of water from the cloak, and his eyes were narrowed at Grey. ‘Idiota?’
Was ever a scene so perfectly created with such a mixture of melodrama and humour? It is further amplified as Mr Myles tries to use his Spanish knowledge to calm Don Luis, but mistakenly uses the word ‘embarazar’ – which means to get pregnant.
Don Luis, now regarding Lord Grey with unconcealed curiosity.
We can only imagine how much Dorothy must have enjoyed dropping that one in.
Shortly after as they try to arrange new clothing for him:
There was a pause. Then the Spanish gentleman said, very distinctly, ‘I do not hear aright. I trust one does not ask me to wear clothes of the common soldier with, no doubt, the louse?’
Will is brought up later, once clothes have been supplied by Lord Grey himself, and Don Luis, staying true to character, walks over to him and looks him in the eye with his cornflower blue eyes, so that Will (and we) realises for sure who he really is, and slaps or punches him in the mouth, while producing a Spanish saying:
‘Aunque manso tu sabuesso, no le muerdas en el beco.’
‘Even if your hound is tame, don’t bite it on the muzzle.’
Or alternatively
Though your bloodhound be gentle, don’t bite him on the lip.
To which Will replies
‘Hay un otro, Señor Luis. Ruin señor cria ruin servidor.’
“There’s another one, Mr. Luis. A vile master breeds a vile servant.”
Will realises that they now know his name. But before he can consider the implications of that Don Luis ‘observes’ that Will is about to faint and Will takes the hint and falls.
Instead of taking him back to his cell, Don Luis then strongly suggests that he and his men immediately take Will and his men to Berwick, thus relieving the issue of feeding both his men and the prisoners, and after some discussion this is agreed, Everyone is finding Don Luis’ presence rather tiring, which is no doubt why Lymond is doing it!
Don Luis bowed. Woodward bowed. Myles bowed. Grey bowed.
‘I depart,’ said Don Luis magnificently. ‘For the hospitality, for the food, for the beer, for the horses, for the clothing, a million embracings. My dear lord; my dear sir; my dear gentlemen.’ Everybody bowed again. ‘Adiós!’ said Don Luis, and left the room.
A magnificent exit! Zorro himself could hardly have done better.
After they’ve gone and Grey and Dudley are discussing the affair over a glass of wine, another of the wagons blows up, and on investigation the other one with the beer is found to contain only brackish water. A note is found that translates as ‘All is not gold that glisters’ – a final flamboyant flourish.
On the way back Will discovers to his initial disbelief that Lymond had given the men a choice of staying with him or going with Will – predicting that he would go to Hume against orders.
Meeting up with Mat they pause, and we get:
‘S’wounds,’ said Mat. He eyed Scott’s face. ‘It looks to me as if someone has sat on our William.’
While Lymond says:
‘Barbarossa! We are covered with admiration. An actor manqué, my dear, to convince them so thoroughly that you expected to perish directly. You have had,’ he said inquiringly, ‘a little accident to the mouth?’
which the men hear and take at face value. Will realises that Lymond has predicted his foolishness, told his men of the plan, then has rescued him at considerable risk, while taking the opportunity to punish him, and then humiliated him by allowing his men to think him a hero while he knows he’s been thoroughly outmanoeuvred and can’t tell anyone the truth.
We’ve been given excitement, humour, a further insight into the depth and complexity of Lymond’s thinking, and crucially an additional insight into his love of flamboyant theatrics. We are seeing a complex multi layered character develop and it’s being done in a way that makes you realise that nothing is ever quite what it seems!
And, if we hadn’t already realised, that our author has a wicked sense of humour!
– – –
I read in the comments of a blog post some years ago that a reader had been researching events of the period, and it turned out that there had indeed been a Spanish captain fighting for the English in that area at the time. It seems certain that Dorothy had found that fact in her own research and had turned it adroitly for her own purposes!
At one point Alastair had to go to America for an extended business trip, so Dorothy decided to take the opportunity to go to Spain for six weeks and learn the language, which she seems to have done quite successfully. I dearly wish I had her aptitude for learning languages!
Last year I had been discussing this scene on social media on my tablet or phone. A couple of weeks later I was writing something quite unrelated on it and started typing the word “Scottish”, at which point to my delight the autocomplete function offered me “Scottish perfecto”!
That would have amused Dorothy no end!
]]>Now there’s an opening line to make you stop and think!
On Sunday, the day after the affair at Lake of Menteith, Lord Culter was also taking aquatic exercise of a kind which all but turned his epithalamics into elegies.
An epithalamium is a nuptial song or poem in honour of a newly married couple. Richard is of course not long married to Mariotta. An elegy is a funeral song. I wonder what percentage of readers had to look up the former to make sure they understood it?!
Before explaining this sentence we get a deft description of what Richard has been doing – first harrying the English under Wharton, and then employing his political skill to persuading many of the Border families, who had been threatened or bribed by Wharton, back onto the Scottish side. It’s done smoothly, without breaking the rhythm of the story, but gives us further insight into Richard’s character and abilities.
Returning to Midculter he remembers he has an escort to undertake and journeys across the Lowther Hills to the meeting place at Morton. Here we meet the next new character in the story – Agnes Herries.
Agnes’ family is extremely wealthy and arrived in Scotland in the time of David I. She is the heiress at only 13 years old after her father’s death and her mother’s remarriage, and is therefore of considerable political significance. Sadly she is not the prettiest girl, and even the supportive and tactful Sybilla, with whom she has been staying in order to be groomed, says she has “regrettable taste”. Agnes has been promised in marriage since childhood to the son of the Governor of Scotland, which she is not particularly happy about, since she has dreams of romantic love which seem to occupy most of her thoughts!
You might think that this would make her an unattractive character, but in Dorothy’s hands she is in fact quite delightful. Her switching of heroes in her little romantic fantasies with which she escapes the bad weather – it is pouring with rain – has a pluckiness about it which is rather endearing.
They are met by Andew Hunter with some of his men from Ballaggan, who gives Richard some news of his family and suggests they go to Ballaggan to dry off, though that means crossing the river, which is rather high.
Richard is doubtful but Hunter rides into it midstream and then says he’ll return and lead them over.
From Agnes’ perspective we get a humorous but alarming description of her being held on Richard’s horse and being annoyed that he was talking to the animal, and then, as the horse loses its footing, them toppling into the surging water of the Nith.
Then horse, rider and heiress fell, stirrups free, and in a bruising splash of colliding bodies, Agnes Herries hit the water. Wrenched from periastral dreams she became Lady Herries, just thirteen years old, and screamed and screamed with choking, soundless hysteria as the current spun her in rough fingers and shot her, buoyed up by petticoats, straight down the Nith.
I love the way Dorothy slips in “periastral” in the midst of near tragedy.
Richard, with great effort, saves them both from drowning and drags her to the riverbank, when we get a glimpse of his sense of humour:
‘My God, we need practice at that. Shall we do it again?’
Perhaps he and Lymond are not so dissimilar after all.
Anyone who hasn’t seen it may be interested in my article on tracing Richard and Agnes’ journey and the location of Ballaggan.
https://www.dorothydunnett.co.uk/blog/book-discussion/in-search-of-ballaggan.php
They are taken to safety, not at Ballaggan, but at the nearer Drumlanrig, where a number of the Douglas family are introduced – Sir James Douglas, Sir George Douglas, and Archibald Douglas the Earl of Angus. We’ve met Sir George Douglas briefly at Stirling, and we’ll be seeing him again in the future.
We get a brief summary of what had happened after the fall in the river:
For they were in a Douglas household, instead of Hunter’s elegant, exhausted estate of Ballaggan. Alone and without help, Richard had brought Agnes Herries ashore: his own men were upstream and Andrew Hunter, far ahead, had been deaf to his shouts. But afterwards, warned by the commotion, he had raced to their aid, wrapped the girl in his own cloak and carried both swimmers to Drumlanrig,
The descriptions are in separate sub-chapters, but did you notice that Hunter had said he would lead them over, but is then “far ahead”? Curious.
Dorothy’s descriptions of the greeting and hospitality give the feeling that the Douglas’s concern and congratulations for Richard’s saving of Agnes is not entirely genuine – Archie is “free if trite with his compliments” while we get this about George:
“Sly and splendid as a half-tamed leopard, Sir George had smiled…”
In front of the fire, with Richard apparently asleep, Sir George is aware that Andrew Hunter wishes to ask him something, and they discuss Crouch. Hunter tells him that a cousin is a prisoner in Carlisle, but he can’t afford to ransom him. If perhaps he had a prisoner he could swap for him it might be possible, and he has heard that Sir George has one, could he perhaps buy him? Sir George generously agrees and Hunter goes off to find pen and paper.
The silence lengthened. Then Sir George Douglas said, ‘Why so silent, Lord Culter? Don’t you approve of such transactions?’ Culter opened his eyes, and the faintest smile crossed his lips. ‘Sir, when two friends discuss money, the third friend should invariably be asleep.’
The next morning, over a substantial breakfast, (I love the phrase “Lady Herries, arranged in antique pose at the breakfast table”) the recovered Agnes talks with Richard and Hunter about the trip to Stirling, and the papingo shoot, and the fair. Hunter tells Richard his family are worried about him taking part in the shooting and what might happen if Lymond is there.
When Richard asks Agnes if she’ll come and see him shoot, we get a curious thought from Andrew Hunter; or is the first part actually from the narrator?
This was self-sacrifice with a vengeance. Sir Andrew threw his lordship a commiserating grin, and felt it stiffen on his lips at the look in the other man’s eyes. Hot water under cold ice, then, he thought. He wasn’t surprised.
Does self-sacrifice relate to the potential of being assassinated? (Although Lymond had issued a challenge, not made a threat.) Or does it refer to tolerating Agnes. And why did Hunter’s grin stiffen, yet he then says he’s not surprised? Does hot water and cold ice refer to Richard being prompted to respond and exert his authority on the decision to compete, or does it mean he has stronger emotions under a coldly determined exterior? Always so many layers to what Dorothy is telling us.
Also, Hunter seems to be playing up the threat a little more than necessary – both with Mariotta at Menteith, and now with Richard – which seems slightly odd.
After they’ve left we see the Douglases talking, and it’s clear that they have some sympathies with the English side and they are in fact playing both sides against each other. It’s risky – they could gain or lose everything, but they seem to have ambitions for themselves rather than for either country.
Lymond comes up in the conversation and it’s clear that they can’t tell which side he’s really on, though George seems to be envious of his intelligence network.
Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, who was mentioned at Annan, also comes up, along with her claims to the thrones and a further hint that something went on between her and Lymond. We hear about her row with her uncle, Henry VIII, shortly before he died, and get the delightful:
‘Yes. Well. She’s highly strung.’
‘Highly strung! God, Archie, that wasn’t what you called her mother.’
We also hear a little more about why the invasion wasn’t pushed further:
‘Oh, yes.’ Sir George smiled. ‘He’d only food for a month, and he didn’t get the local support he’d expected – notably from the Douglases, Archie: now d’you wonder that I’ve been so forthcoming with him? Then a really nasty political mess flared up in London: be thankful, dear, that you have a prudent brother.
And a little later:
He looked consideringly at the Earl. ‘If I were you, Archie, I should wait until the really bad weather, and then suggest that your precious Lennox comes north with a raiding party. They’ll never do it, but it’ll assure the English of your good will. And then come the spring, why not ask them to send Margaret too? A joint command … that would stiffen Lennox’s back for him!’
It’s clear that of the three it is George who has the brains, and also that he enjoys watching others collide and compete. They mention Lord Grey:
‘He’s been in France for years: a clammy, stiff-backed old pike. The billhook, I’ll bargain, came out lichened over.’ He laughed again. ‘The first encounter between the old lad and Lord Wharton I shall see or die. They’ll be heaving each other’s guts out of the window.’
‘Well,’ said the Earl of Angus crossly, ‘what’s so funny about that? … You’re a weird sort of devil, George,’ said his brother with the flatness of long usage.
All of which neatly sets us up for a number of forthcoming encounters.
]]>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.
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin
“numbered, numbered, weighed, and divided”
This refers to the spirit writing on the wall of Belshazzar’s palace. It’s from the book of Daniel and is the origin of the phrase – The writing on the wall – meaning impending doom.
“Fighting had left Wat Scott of Buccleuch unaltered: bonnet crammed with Buccleuch bees…”
He takes Tom’s news of Will being with Lymond surprisingly calmly. In fact there’s a suggestion that he’s quite pleased to see him doing something with conviction.
We also learn that neither Tom or Wat have much time for George Douglas.
The news comes that the Protector’s army is on the march, but not as everyone in Stirling feared, towards them, but south, back to England. It’s a miraculous let-off for Scotland.
Relieved of the need to defend the town Tom travels to the Lake of Menteith, where the royal family has been moved for safety.
It is commonly said to be the only lake in Scotland, where we mostly call them lochs, but in fact in this case Lake comes from Laich, meaning an area of low flat ground, often a wetland, and indeed the Lake is shallow. So shallow in fact that in very cold weather it freezes over and is used for outdoor curling.
We get a lovely description of lights and music floating across the water from the Priory, echoing the opening description of the Nor Loch.
There the young Queen, her mother, Sybilla, Mariotta, and Christian are hiding on the islands of Inch Talla and Inchmahome.
Christian pumps Tom for information about Crouch, then to his surprise declares the matter closed – perhaps assisted by Sybilla, who steps on his toe, apparently by accident. Sybilla never does anything by accident – a bit like her author!
‘My dear man,’ said Sybilla next day, placidly stitching before Earl John’s big fire. ‘Admit you’ve never had to live with eight children on an island, and every one with the instincts of a full-grown lemming.’
We hear that Mariotta has been a bundle of nerves since her encounter with Lymond at Midculter.
Andrew Hunter is there too, and Mariotta asks him what men – like Richard – talk about.
He was taken aback, but he answered her. ‘What does Richard discuss with other men? Horses, of course. And pigs. And the state of the barley, and the new cocks, and the hawking, and what the Estates are up to, and the wrestlers, and any new shiploads he’s expecting, and the rates of exchange, and taxes, and poaching, and pistols, and the price of roofing, and his deerhound litter, and Milanese armour, and the lambing … Richard’s interests,’ said Sir Andrew, with a hint of defensiveness in the soft voice, ‘are pretty wide.’
‘But never dull. I wonder,’ said Mariotta, her eyes expressionless, ‘what Lymond makes of light conversation?’
Hunter sat up. ‘Lymond’s conversation doesn’t give me a moment’s alarm. It’s his actions that hurt. Richard’s bent on this challenge at the Wapenshaw and, my God! if he goes, it’ll be suicide.’
Do I detect a touch of sarcasm in that “But never dull.”? From all this we can surmise that despite the marriage between Richard and Mariotta being a superficially successful match, there are tensions, and one of them seems to be that they don’t seem to talk about anything substantial. We get the impression that Richard doesn’t talk of estate matters or politics to her, perhaps regarding that as men’s concerns. Which makes you wonder what else he doesn’t talk about, and what else is left to talk about! Maybe she got more conversation from Lymond in the stairwell at Midculter than she’s had from Richard since they were married!
The next day Marie de Guise is in a rage, but it takes us a while to discover why.
The Dowager Lady Culter, who was also seated, wisely said nothing, partly out of diplomacy and partly from sheer respect for her vocal chords: a very small child with tousled red hair standing before her continued to hammer on her knee in a detached sort of way, screaming gibberish at the top of her voice. ‘Hurble-purple, hurble-purple, hurble-purple!’ chanted the child.
Thus are we introduced to Mary Queen of Scots, in a way unique to Dorothy.
It takes the unflappable Sybilla to unravel the cause of the upset and her assessment also explains what has taken place to the reader – an interesting writing technique.
Mary has been taken to the gardens at the edge of the lake, by boat, by her maid Elspet, who leaves her playing for a while to meet her boyfriend. What happened next is as yet unclear and we’re told that Mary was accosted and then the maid returns and bundles her into the boat in a panic. There are accusations that Mary might have been kidnapped but that appears unlikely – a maid returning is hardly likely to be able to prevent a man from taking a 4-year-old if that was the intent.
Sybilla downplays it and suggests they ask Mary:
‘Marie! Come and tell Maman what the ill-doing man did?’
‘What ill-doing man?’ asked the red-haired child,..’
‘He wasn’t a malfaisant. I liked him. Can I –’
‘Mary, was he a monk?’ said Sybilla gently, mindful of one of the unlikelier aspects of Elspet’s story (‘But all the monks are at Sext’).
‘He was a nice monk,’ said the child, with a single inflection neatly robbing the statement of all value.
All of which alerts us to the fact that all is not what it seems. And there’s a further clue:
‘He said the rhyme, and he knew my name.’
Sybilla expertly diverts attention from further speculation and sums up. So Mary finally gets to say her rhyme:
‘Hurble purple hath a red girdle
A stone in his belly,
A stake through his arse
And yet hurble purple is never the worse.
And demands to know what it is.
But it appears that Sybilla is familiar with the verse and rather deflates Mary by giving the answer. Which leaves the reader to speculate on the meaning behind it all.
There is a switch of scene and we are with Christian, saying in French “How do you know him, when he doesn’t know him?” Of course I recognised who it was. Credit me with ears, at least.’
It becomes clear that she’s with Lymond and that she recognised his voice when she heard the fuss when Elspet returned and grabbed Mary and fled back to the island. The mysterious monk was him.
They are in the middle of the maze, surrounded by hedges. Christian asks how Mary had found him and we get a delightful story of how he fell asleep and awoke to find Mary sitting on his chest.
‘She said, “M. l’abbé” (you’ll have gathered I’m dressed like a magpie) – “M. l’abbé, you ’ave greatly insufficient of tonsure.” And I said, “Madame la reine d’Ecosse, you are greatly in excess of tonnage.”
After which exchange of pleasantries …’
‘She got off?’
‘Not at all. She bounced like a cannon ball and said that Dédé –’ ‘Her pony.’ ‘–That Dédé had long yellow teeth; and did I know –’
‘That,’ said Christian in chorus, ‘you can tell a person’s age from their teeth. That’s a favourite one.’
This interchange and the rest of the tale demonstrates that the innocent charming Lymond we saw when he had lost his memory, persists now that it has returned – with Christian and Mary at least. The contrast with how he dealt with Will Scott or his behaviour at Annan could hardly be greater. They clearly enjoy each other’s company and are completely relaxed.
He chides her for trusting him without knowing who he is and giving him access to the young queen’s hiding place, before stopping and berating himself for being rude and ungrateful to her. She changes the subject to his recovery – he explains that he’s much better apart from falling asleep a lot, as when Mary found him.
They discuss who else is with the queen and that Tom had told Buccleuch about Will being with Lymond. He then asks about Crouch and she tells him he’s with George Douglas. Thanking her he then tries to tell her who he is.
‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t want to know!
There was, for the first time, a weary distaste in his voice. ‘But you require to know – you must see that. This secret – the Queen’s hiding place –’
‘Have you betrayed it? Will you betray it?’
‘No.’
‘Then leave me ignorant,’ said Christian. ‘What would make matters easier for your conscience might make them insupportable for mine. I prefer to be selfish. God knows I’ve been wrong – politically, legally, conventionally and every other way – in judgements before. But these always seemed to me the more irrelevant aspects of human decency … You are at least Scottish, I think?’
‘Yes.’
‘– And in trouble. Well, I’m human,’ said Christian. ‘I don’t want conscience money in the form of secrets: not just now, thank you. But the day you genuinely want help, I’ll be proud to have your confidence. Till then, show your thanks, if you wish to, by letting me have news of you sometimes.’
His silence shows how much this impresses him and they discuss whether she would know Johnnie Bullo’s voice:
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Yes, I shall keep in touch. Not as often as I should like, but certainly more than I ought by all the tenets you quoted.’ They were almost out of the shelter of the box hedges, and he stopped and took her hand, as if examining it. ‘What in God’s name are you going by?’ he said. ‘Instinct? Intuition?’
‘Common sense. Which describes your case as fortunae telum, non culpae.’
(trans. A weapon of fortune, not of guilt.)
We can see a man who is astonished and grateful to find such a degree of trust – perhaps suggesting that he has had so little of it for many years – and full of admiration for her. Christian’s Latin quote also suggests a deeper knowledge of him, his situation, and her belief in his innocence.
He answered, bleakly, in the same language. ‘Heu! The darts which make me suffer are my own. Common sense can be a poor guide and an uncertain surgeon. Better – much better – be foolish, like me. God clip you close,’ he said, and was gone.
That final ‘God clip you close’ strikes me as being said with real sincerity and concern.
We have been told something of his character, quite at contrast with the first views we had of him, and had hints of his backstory without it ever being explicitly mentioned.
And if we pause to consider it we can already tell that this author possesses storytelling skills above the level of most.
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In a chess context, blindfold play is literally playing without sight of the board. One or both players can be blindfold. If both players are playing blindfold then they sit facing away from each other and a third person plays their announced moves on a board and watches for any illegal moves.
You have to visualise the position in your head and keep track of what has been moved. Players who are very good at this can even play multiple games at once – known as blindfold simultaneous. The world record is playing 48 opponents simultaneously. In my youth I once managed 4 at once. It’s challenging and fun but very taxing.
We’ve been introduced to Christian on the battlements of Boghall with Richard and Wat Scott, but the second time we meet her is after Lymond and Richard have met and Lymond has placed the doubt in Richard’s mind that sends him correctly to face Wharton and Lennox and deter them from completing the pincer movement that could have led to the defeat of the whole country.
We now get a complete change of pace – something that we’ll see many times in Dorothy’s writing.
Simon Bogle discovers a body unconscious in the bog and takes him back to Christian, who is in charge at Boghall Castle now that Lord Fleming is dead and Jenny is with the royal party at Stirling. But of course we don’t know that it’s Lymond at this point – it could easily be Will Scott, who also appears to have been knocked out in the same skirmish when Erskine rescues Richard.
An interesting little ploy of Dorothy’s – we are in Christian’s viewpoint and she is blind, so we are effectively blind as well, until the subtle clues are gradually presented. In fact the following scenes are presented through sounds, spoken words or Christian’s thoughts and very little is described. Once you realise how she’s doing it, it’s a cunning and delightful technique.
Christian’s first action is to use her sense of touch to learn as much as she can about the unconscious figure, and it tells her a great deal – that he’s young, and very well dressed (apart from the English cloak). Dorothy uses the phrase – “the shape of an unconscious boy”, which is a fleeting and easily missed hint about Lymond’s age – something we probably haven’t considered yet.
Then there’s an interesting little slice of dialogue:
“If I were married or promised to that young gentleman I’d sell the lead off the roof to ransom him back. Unless he’s a Spaniard, do you think?”
“Not with that hair, m’lady.”
Now Sym doesn’t actually say he’s blond, or indeed red-headed, and the reader may jump to either conclusion depending on how they’ve interpreted matters so far – cunning indeed by our author. If we’ve thought about it – either now or later – we’re also left to guess whether he says it off-scene.
If Christian does know he’s blond then would that be enough to raise the idea in her mind of his real identity? It’s only later that we are introduced to the idea that with her heightened sense of hearing and auditory memory she might know Lymond’s voice from years before. But at this point she hasn’t yet heard it, and we are probably much too busy to think about her life in the world of sound and what that implies.
An intriguing speculation is whether she and Lymond knew each other as children – which seems quite likely – and if they did whether Lymond ever allowed her to feel his face with her fingers and would she have enough of a sense of him to recognise him from that years later?
The discussion with Sym also gives us some little hints at Christian’s sharp intelligence, sense of humour, and ability with words:
“Hugh’s bad temper takes practical forms,” said Christian thoughtfully. “Ransom or no ransom, your gentleman will find himself in multiple array on the wall spikes if Hugh sets eyes on him.”
Sym devoted some thought to this. “Of course, we can’t write for ransom anyway until he wakes up and says who he is.”
“And by that time, Hugh might be feeling more like himself.”
“I find the resemblance to himself at the present moment quite startling,” said Christian. “But never mind. Go on.”
I rather think I fell in love with Christian with that line! It has a rhythm that seems very Scottish and a sense of wry humour that is the same.
We’ll soon get much more of this as she verbally crosses swords with the amnesiac Lymond, albeit gently.
Once Sym has him put to bed, with fire and food prepared for when he wakes up, we get a lovely little description from Christian’s blind perspective.
Flurried movements of the big fire, to her left. Silk, pricking her right hand as the bed curtains stirred in an eddy. A rustle from Sym’s feet in the rushes. A voice far below in the courtyard, crying something she could not quite catch. A creak from the bed. Another. A languid stir of the bedclothes.
It’s such an evocative little section, putting us in touch with her senses of touch and hearing. And intriguingly she’s then described as “gripped with laughter”, which raises interesting questions.
Later, he awakens:
“God: my skull’s split.”
It was a cultured voice, with no inflection which would have seemed out of place at any point north of the Tyne. Like the jewelled aiglettes it announced consequence, character and money.
So still no clue – Lymond or Will?
As regards his accent and what clues it could give, it may be that Dorothy is fudging things a little here. The accent in Newcastle, which sits near the mouth of the Tyne, is very different than say an Edinburgh accent. Of course the richer and more cultured you are the more similar the accent may be, and Lymond speaks French, German, and Latin, and that may also tend to flatten any differences.
He ate, and much intrigued, Christian waited.
On first read we can’t tell if this is a very subtle hint that she already knows who he is, but on later reads…. maybe.
And she uses her incisive mind to good effect immediately:
At the end, he spoke again. “I was not, I hope, wearing a nightshirt when discovered?”
An artless gentleman.
Christian followed the lead. “Your clothes are drying, sir. Your weapons were impounded when we found you were English.”
and finds an interesting response:
“English! Lucifer, Lord of Hell!” (Here was passion.) “Do I look like an Englishman?”
So she then follows up with her little-used trump card:
“I,” said Christian with wicked simplicity, “am blind. How should I know?”
But his response is simple and perfectly phrased to avoid pity or embarrassment:
“Oh, are you? I’m sorry. You hide it extremely well. Then what,” he asked anxiously, “made your friends think I was English?”
At this point on my first read I was already pretty sure that this was Lymond – I felt that Will would have had more of a sustained emotional reaction after the brief outburst. Even when not quite fully in his senses this suggests Lymond’s control, which we’ve already had hints of.
The next section has him venturing into poetic areas, which Christian falls in with effortlessly. Then Sym asks his name and we, and Christian, realise that he’s feeling confused and somewhat woozy, and then that he has no memory of who he is. Sensitively, she allows him to rest, but Dorothy keeps us on our toes by putting Will’s words into his mouth:
“This officer, but doubt, is callit Deid. . .”
Before falling asleep he produces the following:
“O lady: nor later. Deceit deceiveth and shall be deceived. It’s no good and I can’t prove it’s no good: I shall be as much use to you as the Nibelunglied. For I can recall nothing . . . nothing . . . not the remotest damned shred of my identity.”
The Nibelunglied is a German epic poem from the 13th century that basically ends with everyone killing everyone else. It inspired, amongst other things, Wagner’s famous Ring Cycle. Dorothy was a fan of Wagner so this is a fascinating little item of her experience dropped in.
On the question of whether he could be faking his amnesia, I never felt it likely – largely because of the way he reacts when his memory returns and the circumstances surrounding it. Also he acts in a more innocent way during the episode – as if the many cares and concerns he carries have been removed.
I was asked during the discussion about why I trusted Lymond not to be faking it. You can see part of my answer to that in a blog post called Love at First Sight, or not, https://www.dorothydunnett.co.uk/blog/book-discussion/love-at-first-sight-or-not.php
which fortunately has no real spoilers so is safe for first-time readers.
The following day Christian visits her mysterious guest again, discovering that he is up and feeling better, but still suffering from amnesia. Noticeably he immediately suggests she may want to return later as Sym isn’t there, so as to protect her from any suggestion of impropriety, but she dismisses it.
He has been talking to Simon and has learned a great deal.
They discuss the risks of her staying at Boghall before turning to his identity and what will happen if his memory doesn’t return before she goes to Stirling.
They lapse into poetry and she matches one of his quotes to his delight. Their conversation is relaxed but still shrewd, showing their respective intelligence and awareness of undercurrents.
He remarks that “Most of the heroes and all the poets appear to have been there before me.” as regards his loss of memory, and drops into French, which translates as:
“The nightingale is my father, who sings on the branch, in the highest grove. The siren, she is my mother, who sings in the dirty sea, on the highest shore.”
“Your French is excellent, of course,” said Christian. “And you disliked being called English.”
“Thank you.”
“Implying Scottish rather than English affinities-“
“I hoped you’d notice that.”
“-In which case,” said Christian reasonably, “do you not owe it to yourself to appear in public? Someone here might even recognize you.”
“A shrewd move, decidedly,” said the prisoner with interest. “If I disagree, I am undoubtedly lying about my loss of memory. On the other hand, it might be genuine, and my belief that I am Scots might be unfounded; in which case your friend Hugh, according to Sym, will be apt to give free play to his prejudices, and your hopes of a ransom will vanish.”
and later
She smiled, and threw his own quotation back at him. “Deceit deceiveth and shall be deceived. You have an incorruptible voice and a lawyer’s tongue. One thing I commend in you: you refused to add to the sins of the poets. A false pedigree is always worse than none at all.”
“Avoiding your traps, O virtuous lady, O mixt and subtle Christian. But, as you see, I am honest and good, and not ane word could lie.”
“a lawyer’s tongue” is an interesting choice of phrase – is that a compliment or the opposite?
Shortly after this Dorothy uses an interesting word:
Betrayed into archness, Christian caught her temper and said evenly, “I can’t, of course, answer for what will happen to you if I leave before your memory comes back. But meanwhile, until it does, you may have grace to stay anonymous, if you wish.”
Archness – the quality of being deliberately or affectedly playful and teasing. Some definitions suggest it verges on rudeness. Is Christian annoyed at herself for being rude, or perhaps for being a little flirtatious? On first read we probably don’t suspect that she knows who he is, but on second and later reads we may suspect that she does – is she toying with him, or is she perhaps attracted to him?
We get a short description of the strain on all of the inhabitants of Biggar due to the news filtering in from Pinkie and its aftermath, which neatly gives us the strategic situation in the Lothians, and the dangers if Wharton’s army on the West should match the advances of Grey in the East.
In the afternoon Christian returns to the room to find Lymond giving Sym a fencing lesson! Dispatching the lad with admonitions, which she also applies to Lymond, they exit into her secluded private garden and we get a lovely description of the scents of the flowers in language taken from a musical setting – neatly combining Christian’s two chief senses and paving the way for Lymond to introduce his own main passion, which matches hers.
Nothing moved but great rumours of perfume swelling and fading, sforzando and diminuendo; an orchestration of woodwind in the warm air. Silence, broken by three golden notes of a lute: her own, she remembered, left on the bottom step. She said, “If you play, please go on. Music’s my joy and my obsession.”
(We’ll get used to the wonderful quality of Dorothy’s descriptions but this one is a lovely early example – quite simple but deliciously apt.)
He starts to play, and then to sing, and moves through a variety of styles and composers, delighting Christian. Their shared love of music relaxes them and brings laughter as they discourse in song and melody and musical ideas. It is perhaps our first glimpse of Lymond being innocently happy.
However she remembers she has a trick to try to prompt his memory and asks about Jonathan Crouch – who Lymond has mentioned in his sleep. He starts to answer then realises he’s remembered more than he knew. He’s shaken but not annoyed, but it doesn’t immediately trigger any further memories.
He starts to play The Frogge would a wooing ride… and in the second section stops suddenly as the lyrics blast apart his amnesia by reminding him of his teasing of Richard. (This was the point at which I decided on that first read that I needed to intensify my concentration on this fascinating and devious author, lest I miss other connections that she might be laying.)
Immediately he confesses to Christian that he has persuaded Sym to show him how to escape, but throws himself on her mercy by saying that he’ll only use it with her permission. Finishing with an Italian couplet
‘Se’l ser un si, scrivero’n rima;
Se’l ser un no, amici come prima.’
which translates as:
If it’s a yes, I’ll write a rhyme;
If it’s a no, we’ll be friends as before.
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.
‘Amici come prima, indeed!’ repeated Christian viciously to herself, …
“a disappointed woman”. Again it seems to hint at a slightly romantic edge to her feelings. It seems, that even without his memory, and without her being able to see his handsome beauty, that he retains that magnetism that follows him through his life. I’m not suggesting that she’s in love with him but she does seem to be entranced by his honesty and his manner.
There is another possibility – if she already knows who he is then ‘Amici come prima, indeed!’ could take on a deeper meaning if they were friends when younger.
Dorothy drops another little hint at potential feelings at the end as Tom Erskine arrives, and having sent Lymond off with Sym we get:
Christian Stewart lifted her skirts and began climbing the stairs thoughtfully.
“Damn the man!” said she, as she went; and it was not at all clear which man she meant.
Talking to Tom, she, and us, get an update on what’s happening. He and Richard have confronted and attacked Wharton who has retreated back into England.
“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.”
Seen in the light of Lymond’s taunting of Richard and telling him the Protector’s forces are in Stirling we get a clue to his real character. Lymond’s misdirection and false information has worked and Richard, disbelieving him and assuming that he was trying to trick him, has changed his mind and done the right thing for the wrong reason, and saved Scotland from disaster. A strong hint that Lymond is on Scotland’s side.
Later, Christian goes with Sym to the cave where Lymond has already been found by Johnnie Bullo, and she offers to find out about Jonathan Crouch. He gallantly declines but she plans to try anyway. His use of Shahrazad’s name in respect of her is another little hint that she picks up on irritably. Does it perhaps suggest that he feels she may be maintaining their relationship by trying to be useful to him, and he, knowing the dangers in his situation, is trying to deter her in order to protect her?
This chapter’s notes are partly based on part of my blog post at
https://www.dorothydunnett.co.uk/blog/book-discussion/close-encounters.php
which also includes some material from the following chapter.
Information on Boghall, including some engravings and sketches of what it looked like can be found at https://www.dorothydunnett.co.uk/visits-south.php
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