"Dunnett, Dorothy - The Game of Kings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dunnett Dorothy)

his shield on the hook and his family blunders all tied up at the back of the
armory?"



"Damn it," said Tom Erskine, annoyed, "I don't blame him for anything. It isn't
my fault. And if it's that black Irish beauty he married, I don't expect he'd
notice if the Protector knocked on the front gate at Midculter and asked for a
drink of water. But-"
The large red face had calmed down. "You're dead right, of course," said
Buccleuch cordially. "In fact you've given me a wee notion or two I can use to
the fellow himself. If Culter's going to be in credit at court at all, he'll
need to bring himself to capture that honey-faced de'il."
Mungo Tennant, the silent and flattered host, was able to make respectful
comment at last. "Crawford of Lymond, Sir Wat?" he said. "Now, he's not in this
country, as I heard. He's in the Low Countries, I believe. And when he'll be
back, if ever, God knows.
Bless us, what's that?"
It was only a sneeze; but a sneeze outside the door of their chamber, which
dislimned every shade of their privacy. Tom Erskine got there first, the other
two at his heels. The room beyond was empty, but the door of Mungo's bedroom was
ajar. Taking a candle like a banner in his fist, Erskine rushed in.
His hair soft as a nestling's, his eyes graceless with malice, Lymond was
watching him in a silver mirror. Before Erskine could call, Buccleuch and Mungo
Tennant had piled in beside him and Lymond had taken two steps to the far door,
there to linger, hand on latch and the blade of his sword held twinkling at
breast level as they jumped, weaponless, to face him, and then fell back.
"As my lady of Suffolk saith," said Lymond gently, "God is a marvellous man."
Eyes of cornflower blue rested thoughtfully on Sir Wat. "I had fallen behind
with the gossip. . . . Nouvelle amour, nouvelle affection; nouvelles fleurs
parmi l'herbe nouvelle. Tell Richard his bride has yet to meet her brother-in-
law, her Sea-Catte, her Sea-Scorpion, beautiful in the breeding season. What a
pity you didn't wear your swords."
Rage mottled Buccleuch's face. "Ye murdering cur. . . . You'll end this night-"
"I know. Flensed, basted and flayed, and off to hang on a sixshilling gibbet-
keep your distance-but not tonight. The city is not full great, but it hath good
baths within him. And tonight the frogs and mice fight, eh, Mungo?"
"Man's mad," said Buccleuch positively. He had managed to pick up a firedog.



"Mungo doesn't think so," said Lymond. "His mind is on fleshly lusts and his
treasure." And certainly, the jennet fur at his neck warped with sweat, Mungo
Tennant was gaping at the intruder.
Lymond smiled back. "Be careful," he said. "Pits are yawning publicly at your
feet. O mea celia, vale, you know . . ." And suddenly, it came to Mungo what he
was threatening.
"Don't linger, I pray you, cuckoo, while you run away," said the sage. Mungo
Tennant said nothing. He rushed toward Lymond, collided with Tom Erskine on the
way, and falling, sat on the candle. There was a moment's indescribable hubbub