‘Could you not?’ Bailey said. ‘I can see what you’re at. Humiliate me; steal my books; throttle me, for all I know, and then claim exemption as the Tsar’s favourite. Ah, no. I’ll not ask these lads to leave me.’
‘What a pity,’ said Lymond. Moving circumspectly, he walked round the back of the desk and stood, looking through the closed panes at the garden. ‘I had hoped you would allow them to pass downstairs at least. The ale has arrived.’
And so it had, in a large keg rumbling erratically up the winding, flagged path, propelled by the boy, along with one or two helpers. ‘I am sure,’ said Lymond to the smith’s lad, ‘that your master would release you to continue your guard duties below. Consider me, if you will, as your prisoner. I shall not expect to walk out of that door until you have all assured yourselves that your master is alive and well. Assuming that he is alive and well, that is, to start with. Are you alive, sir?’ he said, turning with interest to Master Bailey. ‘We seem to have heard remarkably little of you in Scotland. But your manor, if I may say so, is very fine. I find that gratifying. They nearly gave it to me.’
Behind his back, an apologetic exodus was going on. With one eye on the detestable face of his great-nephew, ‘Stop!’ said Leonard Bailey. ‘I haven’t said——Youve been bribed!’
‘Just a barrel of ale, sir?’ said the smith’s man, who suddenly seemed to be the only one left ‘And as he says, sir. He can’t get away with it, sir: no matter what he may do.’
‘Who nearly gave what to you?’ Philippa said, against the noise of Master Bailey’s cane ill-temperedly thwacking his desk.
‘Gardington was made over to me once, by the Crown. It’s one of their standard good-conduct prizes for espionage.’
Philippa said, rather blankly, ‘I thought you were spying at that time for Scotland.’
‘Well, I wasn’t spying for England,’ Lymond said. ‘But there was a small campaign afoot to make everyone think I was. A long time ago. But it makes it all the more interesting to find that when I no longer qualified, my great-uncle was presented with Gardington. What loyal service brought this reward, Uncle?’
Leonard Bailey laughed. He glared round the empty room and flung his cane to the floor, and sitting back in his chair gave vent to a bark of fleering, furious laughter. ‘I nearly sent you to the headsman,’ he said.
‘I thought so,’ said Lymond. His manner, perfectly courteous, was such that Philippa, biting her lip, found she preferred not to watch him. With the same exquisite manners he lifted over a chair, and placed her in it. Then he closed the door, and seated himself, on the other side of the desk from his great-uncle.
‘Now,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘Before we talk, there is a small matter I wish to bring to your notice. In a moment, you are going to explain to me what you know of my birth. Since there seems little goodwill between us, I am sure that the explanation, whatever it is, will be one painful to me and my family. I merely wish to warn you that if in the course of it you speak slightingly or with the least disrespect of my mother, I shall indeed throttle you, and tell the men below that you died in a fit.
‘Further’—as Bailey, his face suffused, lifted himself to his feet—‘if you call back your men, you will see not a crown for your pains.’
Bailey stopped, his hand on the window.
‘Sit down,’ Lymond said. ‘And tell me how much my mother has been paying you. For how long? For thirty years?’
‘What?’ said Philippa; and Lymond, impatient, turned round and looked at her.
‘But of course. Or why else have both he and the Lennoxes foregone the chance to make all this public? He hates and despises the Crawfords. But he has been living off them—haven’t you, dearest great-uncle?—all his life.’
‘It was the woman who sinned——’
‘Uncle!’ Lymond said gently.
‘Who made the mistake, and the woman who paid the price. She could afford it.’
‘But since she is not so young now, and not so well, it seemed a good time to insure your income with the next generation.’ And as Philippa stifled an exclamation Lymond said, his blue eyes still on Bailey, ‘That is why he asked you to bring me. You thought it a matter of old grudges and hatred. It is, of course. But it is also a very English matter of trade. You promised me proof,’ Lymond said to the other man.
‘I have it,’ said Bailey. On his big-lobed nose and his cheeks, rather pale, the veins stood out like cracklure on china. ‘But not in this room. And I’ll not leave it either, with those light fingers near. No. Dorcas will fetch it.… I take it I can ring my hand bell for Dorcas?’
‘Provided only Dorcas comes,’ Lymond said.
The old man set his jaw. Then, seizing his desk bell, he rang it. And a moment later, the door opened to reveal the thin, aproned form of the housekeeper. She was flushed.
‘Master Leonard: did you send for that ale?’
‘I sent for it, ma’am,’ Lymond said. ‘And I hope you will share it, with my compliments. Your master has a message for you.’
‘Which he is capable of giving with his own tongue,’ Bailey said angrily. ‘Dorcas, you recall the papers I told you of? Get them.’
‘And while she has gone,’ said Lymond, as the door closed behind the housekeeper, ‘you will answer my question. How much of a pension do you accept from my mother?’ And as the big man drew breath, he added calmly, ‘I can, obviously, confirm what you tell me. It would save time therefore to give me the truth.’
Leonard Bailey had recovered his confidence. ‘A peppery young man!’ he observed. ‘A very assured young gentleman, accustomed to the obedience of louts and ruffians in the field, and ruffling it at foreign courts, in great favour and pomp. Dorcas will tell you of the recipe she has for such as you. Take a peacock, break his neck and cut his throat and flay him, skin and feathers together.
‘I am not sure, Master Nobody, if I care to do business with you, or answer your questions, or jump to your bidding. I have had an arrangement with pretty Mistress Sybilla—chaste Mistress Sybilla—spotless Mistress Sybilla—for thirty years now, as you say. It is a trifling matter of a few coins. Had Honoria lived, she would have cost your family as much in a week. But she died giving birth to poor Gavin who was not, of course, and never could be the equal of your glorious, impeccable mother Sybilla. It seems but right that the family should pay for the mourning rites.
‘It has been a long mourning, poor Honoria. And now the first Baron has gone, and his son Gavin has gone, and none is left to remember her but Sybilla and one of her sons. If we do business,’ said Leonard Bailey, the saliva winking at the corners of his strong lips, ‘I trust you will be generous. Or I shall have to try if the other son thinks Honoria deserves better remembrance.’
‘How much?’ Lymond said. He had made no effort to interrupt. But his eyes, all the time Bailey was talking had been wandering, Philippa noticed, along the bookshelves, marking the thick rolls, the leather and velvet bound volumes of his great-uncle’s remarkable library.
‘I receive a pension,’ said Leonard Bailey, ‘of three hundred pounds per annum.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Lymond.
‘Nevertheless, it is true. Does it seem so much for an old man to live on?’ said Bailey. ‘But if you wish, I can show you papers. Her last payment’—and he pulled open a drawer of his desk—‘is there. Signed by the noble and virtuous lady herself.’
From where she sat, Philippa could not see the paper, but she watched Lymond read it. Three hundred pounds a year—six times what the Queen’s Latin secretary earned to keep himself and his wife at court, including his prize money. And spent on nothing, so far as she could see, but this miserly gathering of books. She could not believe he ever opened them. They lay undisturbed, as they had lain when she came to Gardington last: an insurance: a treasure safe from most robbers, for what country labourer would know the value of these six perfect volumes of the works of St Augustine? She wondered, thinking rapidly of the libraries she knew—
Sidney’s, Ascham’s, Pole’s, that of John Dee—what this collection was worth, and put it, at its lowest, at three thousand marks. Then Lymond laid the paper down carefully on the desk and turned, as the door opened and the woman Dorcas came in, with a locked metal box in her hands.
‘Ah!’ said Leonard Bailey. ‘Put it there. What is it, Dorcas?’
The housekeeper’s lidless, angry eyes stared at the two unwanted visitors and then at the flushed face of her master. ‘Your friends below,’ she said, ‘are already crapulous. Am I meant to sit in the same kitchen with the scum?’
It reminded Bailey of his fears. ‘The devils!’ he said, starting up. ‘Will they take my fees and leave me here to be killed?’
‘If you guard your tongue,’ said Lymond pleasantly, ‘you have nothing to fear. The papers, please.’ And Leonard Bailey, after glancing round them all again, drew a key from his drawer and, unlocking the box, took from it the only two papers it contained, and held them fast in his powerful hands.
‘These are copies,’ he said. ‘These are signed by the Semple woman—by your dear lady mother—but they are copies. You will get nothing by stealing them. But they will prove to you that what I told the girl here is true. There, dear Master Nobody, is what you came for. There is your certificate of bastardy.’ And he threw them on the table before Francis Crawford.
He rose, and picking them up, took them across to the low window. The housekeeper, after hesitating for a moment, had gone. After a moment Lymond said, ‘Philippa?’ And rising with rigid composure, Philippa walked to the window and joined him.
There were two papers which he handed to her, one by one. On each was a single paragraph written in the same hand, with the same wording exactly, save for the child’s name which had been filled in on each. The first paper he gave her bore the name of Eloise Crawford, his younger, dead sister. The second carried his own.
I, Sybilla Semple or Crawford, Baroness Culter of Midculter Castle, Scotland, do swear before these witnesses below listed that the child born of my body this day and to be named FRANCIS CRAWFORD is not the son of Gavin Crawford, second Baron Culter of Midculter Castle but the true offspring of.…
And there followed a blank. Below, there were two signatures, one of a man and one of a woman, and Sybilla’s own name, signed in thin, faded ink. It was dated November 1st, 1526. She looked at Lymond, who was not, it seemed, the same age as her mother.
Lymond said, his voice perfectly steady, ‘But the father’s name is missing on each.’
‘Ah, yes. She would have that,’ said Bailey. ‘It is on the originals. Or so I believe. But she wouldn’t risk keeping a copy of that in the castle, would she?’ And he laughed.
‘You stole these from Midculter?’ Lymond asked.
‘I came across them,’ said Bailey. He looked pleased. ‘You recall. It was no part of my promise to tell you your parentage. Only to give you proof that you were got out of wedlock. There you have it.’
‘But,’ said Lymond delicately, ‘it seems to me that nothing as yet has been proved. These are copies, you say. Where are the originals? And how do I know this is my mother’s signature? Of all people, I have reason to believe that you may have talents as a forger. Am I right?’
‘I have a gift,’ Bailey said. ‘But that writing is genuine. Hold it beside the paper I showed you, with my pension. As to the originals, I have no idea where they are. You are welcome to look for them. Or you could ask your mother, if you think it is worth it. But ask yourself first if she would have paid me all these years to keep a lie private.’
‘Another question occurs to me,’ said Lymond. ‘Why were these certificates written? And when written, why copied?’
Bailey shrugged the massive, stained shoulders. ‘You know the lady—the gentle, excellent lady—better than I do. Perhaps she wished to hold your father—your nameless father—to his duty. There must have been accouchement expenses to pay. Perhaps—whoever he is—he has been helping her with your upbringing, my pension, her pins and ribbons and sweetmeats. He may be a grieve at your own——’
He broke off, and not before time. Lymond said, ‘No. My patience has quite well-defined limits. You talk of “he”. Does that mean that my sister and I shared the same father?’
The lord of Gardington was afraid, but he covered it still with bravado. ‘I am terrified to speak,’ said Leonard Bailey. ‘I can only say that I do not know. And that you know the lady—the dear lady—better than I do.’
‘Yes,’ Lymond said. His face, Philippa saw, marked the stress more by its altering planes than by any dramatic displacement of colour. She knew her own face was pale and her stomach tired and painful within her. She walked back and sat down, while Lymond laid the two papers again on the desk and remained, surveying his relative.
‘Now,’ said Lymond, ‘you will listen to me. From this moment, the payment from my mother will cease and I shall order a similar sum paid to you monthly, from my bankers in London. I shall leave with them such an amount that, whatever happens to me, there should be a pension secure for your lifetime. I shall also leave instructions that the day this information becomes public, from whatever source, the pension will cease. Is that understood?’
‘But——’ said Leonard Bailey.
‘Is that understood?’ said Lymond again, and this time, Bailey said, ‘Yes.’
‘I am glad. You will now take paper and pen and write a letter to my mother at Midculter telling her that your health is failing and that you intend to go overseas. You will thank her for all the financial support she has given you hitherto, and say that you now have enough to serve the remaining years of your life, and do not wish to have this matter more on your conscience. She may take it upon your honour … your honour, great-uncle Bailey … that her secret will remain quite safe with you. You will sign it, and I shall see that it reaches her.’
The letter seemed to take a long time. Outside, the rain beat, noisy as straw on the window panes and the vice candlestick, newly lit, threw its light on the littered desk and the worn, damp-smelling books as they waited. It was late: too late to make much of their journey back to London. They would have to stay, as Lymond thought, at the Chicken. No … not at the Chicken, Philippa suddenly recalled. For that inn harboured the underpaid ostler who had sent Bailey word of their coming. Mr Crawford would not want to return there. Well, there were other inns.
She looked at him, standing by the desk watching Bailey painfully writing his letter. He had not touched the old man, or even threatened him, except to protect Sybilla from his foul tongue. She wondered what part Bailey had played in his past, when outlawed and sought by both England and Scotland Lymond had come eventually to stand trial in Edinburgh, on the evidence which Bailey must have helped manufacture. It took a self-denial approaching to Calvinism not to take revenge for that kind of malevolence, because a man was old, and alone, and a kinsman.… No. Not even a kinsman. If all this were to be believed, Leonard Bailey was no kin at all.
The rest of it, of course, was all done for Sybilla. Sybilla who, having broken her marriage vows, had been too proud to tell this son whom she had drawn so close, but had left him to find out, like this. Who must know, or suspect, why he turned his back on her, but still had done nothing to put matters right. Because, one was bound to suppose, she dared not face the one question he was certain of right to ask her: the name which the paper left blank.
And then the letter was finished, and laboriously signed and dusted, and the direction written, and Lymond, putting it away, had removed also the glittering pile of gold coins, followed by Bailey’s covetous eyes, and had slung on his cloak. She rose as well, and Bailey, behind his desk, stood also, and backed a little into the corner, his veined eyes wary, the linen damp with sweat round his neck. Lymond stood perfectly still, and looked at him.
‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘in all my life what reason I have had before to take a man’s life. The house you were brought up in was a Crawford house. The money which fed and sheltered and
educated you was Crawford money. You reached man’s estate and still you stayed there, in this circle you found so despicable: stayed until the child born there to your sister was man enough to marry in turn; and only left when at last it was made clear your presence was unwanted. You told Mistress Philippa you were flung out. I do not think that, even if you were, you have cause for complaint.’
‘Do you not?’ said Leonard Bailey. ‘You do not remember my sister’s husband. Or did he dandle you on his knee? He never did as much for me, a child of eight, when my sister died.’
‘But that was not his offence,’ Lymond said. ‘His offence was his charity. It takes a great man to accept alms, and be grateful, and honour the giver with love and honest achievements. It has been done. But you did not even accept the gift of your manhood and then turn your back on the Crawfords. You devoted the rest of your life to injuring them.’
‘You move me to pity,’ his great-uncle said. ‘Show me again your purse, and the ring on your finger. I see how I have ruined you. I see how your mother sits, bereft in the poorhouse. Look, sir, about you! Is this Midculter?’
‘No,’ Lymond said. ‘It is the tomb of a scavenger. The last station in a journey which should have been stopped long before, had you fallen among any but upright people, and men of good faith. They are not my kin, but I shall not disgrace them. Live your life, if you think it worth living. Spend my money, since you do not despise it. I shall only make one stipulation and since, unlike you, I am a man of my word, it will do you no injury. I wish, before I go, to see these papers burnt.’
‘What?’ said Bailey. He strode forward, snatching them up from the table and held them, protectively, behind his shabby gown. Lymond, the desk tinder box in his hands, was already occupied in lighting a spill. Bailey reached for the handbell. ‘Ho! Billy——!’ and then halted abruptly.
The flame in Lymond’s hands, nursed, ran along the middle bookshelves, causing a little charring on the nearest calf bindings. A wisp of smoke, coiling, lifted. ‘Or I turn your books into ashes. Don’t call,’ Lymond said.
The Ringed Castle Page 65
