know.”
The captain, unmoving, blocked his way. “Come along, man. Don’t let me down. If you’ve nothing to say you’ll be out in a trice.” There was a half-formed suspicion in his mind, and to object again was clearly unsafe. Without further demur, Lymond remounted and, with Scott, followed his guide through the main streets of Annan.
It was difficult riding. The young horses trembled in the passing glare from burnt thatch and timber. Acrid smoke rolled and hung about the narrow road and caught their throats; the streets, deserted of people, were littered with charred wood and rags and smashed pottery. Scott wondered, with an interest nearly academic, how Lymond was going to extract them from this.
Farther on, when the fires were more infrequent and stone-built houses loomed ahead, a man accosted them. The captain was wanted at the gate.
Captain Drummond was a careful man. He was about to ignore the summons when Lymond spoke, solving his problem. “I don’t suppose Lord Wharton’s son Harry is anywhere about? I once knew his sister, and I’d like to meet him. He could perhaps direct us to his lordship as well.”
It was a happy suggestion. The captain, clearly relieved, spoke to the man who had waylaid them, and in a few minutes they were joined by Henry, younger son of Lord Wharton, commander of the English army on the west. Drummond explained and left with his man, and young Wharton turned to Lymond and Scott. “Of course, I’ll take you both there. It’s the middle house in the square through there.” Restless, energetic, at twenty-five already a leader of horse, Henry Wharton led the way, beginning a long, newsy conversation about his family, which Lymond appeared to be sustaining surprisingly well. But Scott, some of the detachment worn off, thought: By God, hell never make it.…
The pend leading to the square was dim. On it lay the shifting blackshadows of the tall buildings fringing the fires; the darkness was full of movement and the three horses, scared, huddled close.
As the shadows closed about them, Lymond launched himself on Wharton. There was the beginning of a cry, and then nothing but the cracking of hoofs as the other horse shied at the struggling shapes. It was then that Captain Drummond, released from his errand, cantered cheerfully up at the rear and made to join them. Then he said sharply, “What’s happening there?” and peered into the alley.
Scott saw the whistle in his hand just in time. Instinctively, the boy’s hand went to his belt. He found his dagger, stood in his stirrups, and threw. The captain gave a brief cry, and fell to his horse’s mane, and from there to the street.
It was suddenly very quiet. Wharton’s horse stood nose to nose with Lymond’s bay, snuffling gently, and there was an extra dark shadow on the road. The Master’s voice said tartly, “Dropped off to sleep?”
“Oh!” Scott dismounted in a hurry. Young Wharton was, he found, lying face down in the road, a cloth stuffed in his mouth and bent arms savagely clinched by Lymond.
“Where’s Drummond?”
“I knifed him. He’s lying in the road.”
“Then get him out of it, for God’s sake. We don’t want a public wake for him. Take two of the horses and tie them up here. Drag the captain to the wall. Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott self-consciously.
Lymond wasted no time on comment. “Gag and bind him if he isn’t, and put him on your own horse with a saddlecloth over his head.”
He was unhitching rope from his own saddle as he spoke, and expertly binding Wharton, leaving only his knees and ankles free. He then pulled the man to his feet and, wrapping the folds of his cloak about him, took the cloth from his mouth.
Wharton said, in a kind of parched croak, “Set me free, or my men’ll burn you alive!”
“If wishes were buttercakes,” said Lymond, and tossed something shining into the air, “beggars might bite. I have a little knife which says you will take
The captain, unmoving, blocked his way. “Come along, man. Don’t let me down. If you’ve nothing to say you’ll be out in a trice.” There was a half-formed suspicion in his mind, and to object again was clearly unsafe. Without further demur, Lymond remounted and, with Scott, followed his guide through the main streets of Annan.
It was difficult riding. The young horses trembled in the passing glare from burnt thatch and timber. Acrid smoke rolled and hung about the narrow road and caught their throats; the streets, deserted of people, were littered with charred wood and rags and smashed pottery. Scott wondered, with an interest nearly academic, how Lymond was going to extract them from this.
Farther on, when the fires were more infrequent and stone-built houses loomed ahead, a man accosted them. The captain was wanted at the gate.
Captain Drummond was a careful man. He was about to ignore the summons when Lymond spoke, solving his problem. “I don’t suppose Lord Wharton’s son Harry is anywhere about? I once knew his sister, and I’d like to meet him. He could perhaps direct us to his lordship as well.”
It was a happy suggestion. The captain, clearly relieved, spoke to the man who had waylaid them, and in a few minutes they were joined by Henry, younger son of Lord Wharton, commander of the English army on the west. Drummond explained and left with his man, and young Wharton turned to Lymond and Scott. “Of course, I’ll take you both there. It’s the middle house in the square through there.” Restless, energetic, at twenty-five already a leader of horse, Henry Wharton led the way, beginning a long, newsy conversation about his family, which Lymond appeared to be sustaining surprisingly well. But Scott, some of the detachment worn off, thought: By God, hell never make it.…
The pend leading to the square was dim. On it lay the shifting blackshadows of the tall buildings fringing the fires; the darkness was full of movement and the three horses, scared, huddled close.
As the shadows closed about them, Lymond launched himself on Wharton. There was the beginning of a cry, and then nothing but the cracking of hoofs as the other horse shied at the struggling shapes. It was then that Captain Drummond, released from his errand, cantered cheerfully up at the rear and made to join them. Then he said sharply, “What’s happening there?” and peered into the alley.
Scott saw the whistle in his hand just in time. Instinctively, the boy’s hand went to his belt. He found his dagger, stood in his stirrups, and threw. The captain gave a brief cry, and fell to his horse’s mane, and from there to the street.
It was suddenly very quiet. Wharton’s horse stood nose to nose with Lymond’s bay, snuffling gently, and there was an extra dark shadow on the road. The Master’s voice said tartly, “Dropped off to sleep?”
“Oh!” Scott dismounted in a hurry. Young Wharton was, he found, lying face down in the road, a cloth stuffed in his mouth and bent arms savagely clinched by Lymond.
“Where’s Drummond?”
“I knifed him. He’s lying in the road.”
“Then get him out of it, for God’s sake. We don’t want a public wake for him. Take two of the horses and tie them up here. Drag the captain to the wall. Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” said Scott self-consciously.
Lymond wasted no time on comment. “Gag and bind him if he isn’t, and put him on your own horse with a saddlecloth over his head.”
He was unhitching rope from his own saddle as he spoke, and expertly binding Wharton, leaving only his knees and ankles free. He then pulled the man to his feet and, wrapping the folds of his cloak about him, took the cloth from his mouth.
Wharton said, in a kind of parched croak, “Set me free, or my men’ll burn you alive!”
“If wishes were buttercakes,” said Lymond, and tossed something shining into the air, “beggars might bite. I have a little knife which says you will take
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