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“My son… my son,” said Francis Crawford before the blurred, failing candles, their light searching over his disordered, bent head and closed eyes and the long, scarred lines of his hands, laid flat on the steel.
“So small a spirit, to lodge such sorrows as mankind has brought you. Live… live… Wait for me, new, frightened soul. And though the world should reel to a puny death, and the wolves are appointed our godfathers, I will not fail you, ever.” (The Disorderly Knights, p. 503, Vintage)
***
Edinburgh, October 4, 1552
Standing just outside, Richard Crawford heard the clink of steel against stone as Lymond placed his sword down on the altar in Lauder’s chapel. As the words rolled out, echoing softly despite the rich hangings, Richard’s jaw set into a hard line, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and worry. The others had gone ahead to gather at the Culters’ house in Bruce’s Close, but suddenly, desperately, he wished that Sybilla had stayed.
The slow walk across St. Giles to the small chapel had been torturous. It had taken Richard far too long to realize that the weight of his supporting arm around Lymond’s shoulders was causing his brother additional levels of excruciating pain. And yet Francis had said nothing, had simply persevered in silence, until a sudden sharp inhale and a half-stumble had made Richard finally, belatedly aware of his mistake. He had cursed under his breath, moving his arm to steady Francis around the waist. Of course, it was the same shoulder that had taken the brunt of the crash to the floor, and the same one that bore the full force of the gilt casket thrown by Gabriel. The same shoulder, Richard now thought, abruptly, that had once taken a knife from Will Scott.
Lymond had stopped speaking, the cadence of his voice replaced by the murmur of voices just beyond rolling upward like the sudden beating of a startled rock dove’s wings. Closing his eyes, Richard tilted through fragmented thoughts from another time: another fierce rapier and dagger battle; a furious pursuit; and the visceral images of his brother’s broken body, delivered by Tom Erskine out of another church, then brought helpless to a dovecote by the Tyne. He opened his eyes and took a step into the chapel.
Francis Crawford was sitting back on his heels in front of the altar, his entire body very, very still. The bright head was bent down in supplication, or more likely, exhaustion. Richard squinted, trying to see more clearly in the guttering light of the candles. The dagger wound in Francis’ right arm was oozing blood, despite an awkward tourniquet hastily fashioned out of the slashed remnants of his shirt. What was left of the fine white lawn clung, sickeningly, to Francis’ back, the healing ridges of the recent flogging reopening to seep out fresh trickles of sticky colour that made a grotesque dark pattern against the fabric.
Richard waited, and saw Lymond lift up his hands away from the steel of the blade, the long fingers bleeding, bruised, and battered. He said something in a harsh whisper, moving slightly, and then was still again, hands clasped in front of him.
It seemed akin to blasphemy, to break this solemn spell, but Richard was nothing if not prosaic. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s get you a fresh shirt.”
Into the hollow silence, there came the sound of an exhale. “Did she know?” Francis’s voice was barely audible, and devoid of any emotion, or for that matter, inflection. “Did you?”
The bleakness in his brother’s voice frightened Richard. He will kill me, and then turn the knife on himself, Gabriel had taunted. No doubt, just another stab in the dark, and yet Richard couldn’t help but think back, with stomach-churning dread, to that same secluded meadow near Hexham. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. How many times had Francis, and their mother, taunted and teased him about his dreadful dissembling skills? “De Nicolay had told her,” he said, voice thick. “But…”
“But she thought, I suppose, it was not yet time to be forsaken by Discretion1? S’adés me faixoit dolor, ne poroit en nonchaloir2…” Lymond coughed, and then gasped back whatever came next in the quotation. He was visibly trembling, weak like a newborn colt, struggling to get up. It was painful to watch. Richard walked forward, stopping just short of the altar to look down at the kneeling man. “Francis… You don’t have to fight so hard. Let me help you.”
There was no reply, at first, then Lymond said, with great effort, “Than up and spake the wylie nurse3… Is that a wise offer? Remember the story of the two brothers: This verray fule my brother had the wyte, That tuke the way of plesance and delyte4… Oh God.” He coughed again, shuffling awkwardly on his knees, and brought his hand to his bruised mouth. When he pulled it away again, there was fresh blood on the scarred fingers.
“We need to go,” Richard said, casting another grim look around the small chapel. He tried his best and possibly even succeeded in adopting a cheerfully brusque tone, though his heart was thundering in his throat. “If you are quite finished capering about in your pleasant way, do you think you can get yourself back upright and manage a few minutes walk5? Or will I have to carry you?” His hand was there, offered as leverage, but he did not expect Francis to take it.
“How charitable of you, my dear. He bare hym up, he bare hym down, he bare hym into an orchard brown6...” Lymond’s eyes were fever-bright against the parchment-pale cast of his skin, his finely-timbered features swollen and delineated by darkening contusions. “And with all the wounds, and all the sins, at that7.” He shuddered out another harsh breath. “In gratitude, I shall be as meek and mild as the proud man ought to be, crownèd as he was with sharp thorns, and the blood running down his cheeks...” Gritting his teeth with resolute persistence, Lymond slowly forced himself to his feet, then reached with his maimed arm for the sword glimmering on the altar.
Throughout this endless night and so many others like it, Francis Crawford had demonstrated his mastery of the physical form through sheer force of indomitable will. It was understandable, Richard thought, that pushed past all the limits of endurance, his brother had miscalculated. Perhaps he himself was unaware of just how much blood he had already lost, and continued to lose from the wound in his arm. Or perhaps, like a bowstring stretched and soaked by the ceaseless pounding of rain, he had finally faltered. Regardless, it happened quickly, and with no preamble. Between one laboured breath and the next, Lymond swayed on his feet and then buckled gracelessly downward, eyes rolling shut into unexpected oblivion.
His honed reflexes at the forefront, the elder Crawford broke the fall before Lymond could share another hard embrace with an unforgiving stone floor. It was just as well, Richard thought. He hadn’t especially wanted to have another long back-and-forth filled with obscure quotations. Now he could get Francis home to Sybilla, quickly and safely. He readjusted his grip and walked out of the chapel with his brother in his arms, calling for a servant to retrieve the rapier and dagger.
Outside, the nave had mostly emptied, save for a few small groups clustered together, the din of conversation ebbing and flowing. There was a sudden hush as Richard stepped out with his burden, and then the voices grew in volume. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lymond's man Guthrie had stayed behind. In the end, it was arranged quickly: men hired to bear Francis the short distance to the townhouse, with Guthrie setting on ahead to make arrangements for a doctor.
When the litter arrived, Richard carefully placed his brother down onto it, trying not to jostle the wounded arm too much. At least two of the hired men had been privy to the happenings inside the church, based on the breathless exchange Richard overheard before quelling it with a hard look. He turned his brother’s scarred palm over to check his pulse, and didn’t particularly like how shallow and fast it was. This verray fule… He did remember the story, of course, the parable of the two brothers, and the wise man following the fool into death. Frustration mixed in with his worry and fear. Even now, after everything they had been through, Francis insisted on pushing him away.
Stepping out of St. Giles into the damp morning, Richard looked around despite himself, but there was no visible threat, no agent of Graham Reid Mallett lurking behind a post. He kept one hand, lightly, on Francis’ less-injured shoulder, directing the men to travel swiftly north toward Lawnmarket. He was grateful for the servants who spilled out of the house to lift Francis from the litter and carry him into the larger of the two bedrooms. But there was no sign of Guthrie, nor a physician; just his own lady mother and Archie Abernethy.
The next few minutes were filled with purposeful activity. A lad was sent out to look for Guthrie. As Richard settled his brother onto the bed, he got the sparse update from Abernethy. Janet and Grizel Beaton had been escorted by the city guard and Jerott Blyth back to Buccleuch’s house. Adam Blacklock had just left to take Philippa Somerville to a secure house nearby, though the girl had protested, not wanting to leave Sybilla.
Sybilla, her features pale and drawn, had not, of course, retired to her sewing. She now stood at the door to the large bedroom, watching as Archie skillfully stripped off Lymond’s bloodied and stained clothes, exposing the torn flesh underneath. She had clearly been crying, Richard thought, alarmed by the dark circles stamped like bruises along the delicate skin underneath her blue eyes. This had been happening more and more, of late. He moved away from the bed and leaned down to wrap her in his strong arms, even more alarmed by how frail she suddenly seemed. “Look, there is nothing to fear, surely,” he said with more confidence than he actually felt, “We’ve sent for a surgeon, as a precaution, but I can see to his arm myself. He’ll be fine after a few days of rest.”
After a long pause, the Dowager pulled back, and went to the bed to pass the slender, fine-boned fingers across her son’s forehead, smoothing the cornsilk hair away in a familiar, intimate gesture. “When has Francis ever allowed himself any respite? No, my dear,” her voice strengthened, “This is one time, finally, when we must take matters out of his hands and into our own.” She looked toward Abernethy. “He’s got a fever. He must be made to drink the mixture you prepared.” Wordlessly, the small man left the room.
No one had to explain what sort of mixture Sybilla meant. “You know he’ll hate it,” Richard blurted out. “We can’t keep him drugged.” But as appalled as he felt in that moment, he knew his mother was right. It had to be done. Francis would never willingly relinquish control; what’s more, he would now undoubtedly push himself even harder, attempting to use every resource at his disposal to thwart Gabriel. He pursed his lips, wryly, and said, “He won’t likely forgive this.”
“Della Morte ripensate, non vi trovi folleggiare8,” Sybilla said sharply, “There’s nothing so unforgiving as death.”
She stayed in the room, even when Richard peeled away the last of the makeshift bandage from Francis’s arm to reveal the carnage wrought by Gabriel's dagger. Even in his insensate state, Lymond fought against him, a little, and Sybilla lowered her voice, to murmur an endless stream of words that Richard couldn’t quite follow, but the litany seemed to have a calming effect. And when Abernethy brought the narcotic tincture, it was she who held up her son’s head so that the potion could be administered. But when Richard began to dress the wounds, she faltered, and let out a small cry, looking out toward the window. Richard followed her gaze to the quotation inscribed above the window frame. He drew on his reserves of calm to offer, “Perhaps you might allow yourself some respite?”
He fully expected to be censured, whether with words, or an angry flash of blue eyes, but to his surprise, Sybilla acquiesced. Leaving Lymond briefly to Abernethy’s competent ministrations, Richard supported the Dowager as she settled on a chair in her parlour. He knelt in front of her, taking her small, blood-stained hands in his, and gently kissing them. Sybilla’s expression was stoic, but Richard saw that she was trembling. He said, rising up, “I promise he will be fine,” as one of the serving women came in with a restorative. “I promise you,” he repeated, and left the parlour, the weight of Sybilla’s unspoken plea squeezing the back of his neck.
In the bedroom, he was surprised by the square form of Alec Guthrie, but no doctor. “I searched for one near to Leith and back,” Guthrie said in his harsh voice. “It seems there was some kind of outbreak at a St. Francis’ Feast Day celebration yesterday, or an accident, I don’t know which. Regardless, there were no medics to be found. I’ve left word,” he added, “To send one here as soon as possible.” He looked toward Archie, then at Lord Culter. “Abernethy and I were the ones tending to him after the whipping. Is it worse?”
“Oh, aye, it’s worse,” said Archie, “He’s as bucksturdie as a mule, nae offense to your Lordship. We’ve got nane time to waste, if we’ve any hope to have him up and in the saddle by St. Bean’s Day9.”
The rest of the day seemed to Richard akin to a waking nightmare: moments of acute clarity and fierce purpose interspersed with exhausted stupor. All three men were war-hardened, more than knowledgeable in how to dress battle wounds. And it was, indeed, a battlefield. Even with the sedative, Lymond would not lie still, his body wracked with feverish spasms that ran along the grotesque wounds that had reopened along his back. The bandage around the stab wound on his arm grew drenched with blood, and had to be replaced, time and again. And when Abernethy tried to give him more of the tonic, Francis thrashed harder in delirium, voicelessly whispering snatches of a poem that Richard could not place either. Li fus sera alumés...10
In the early evening, it was, finally, Richard who managed to break the raging fever, with icy cold compresses dipped into the Loch beyond the garden. And then it was he who held Francis immobile, while Abernethy changed the bandages one final time. With the fair head pillowed on his shoulder, it occurred to Richard, not for the first time, that a state of unconsciousness was the only way Francis would ever allow himself any comfort, or to be this vulnerable. While the servants changed the bed linens, he briefly left the room to speak to Sybilla.
*
He stood in an enormous square marketplace, full of swirling lights and colours. The impossible heat beat down on him, trailing tendrils of liquid fire along his back and stabbing into his arm. Each intake of breath singed his lungs, the cloying sweet smells of musk and rotting fruit attacking his nostrils. The rows of stalls, hung with dazzling fabric, stretched out into an impossible distance, each stall generating into an identical copy that pulled away from its twin with a sudden lurch. The sharp clanging of bells mixed in with the thundering drumbeats of his heart. Then he felt himself being sliced into thousands of razor-thin sections, each one sliding away from its neighbour. And he was shouting, trying to be heard above the roar of trumpets. Que on me puist ci trover, Li fus sera alumés, Dont mes cors iert enbrasés. Shouting…
The swim back to full consciousness was a laborious effort against a vast and swirling undertow. He thought he heard familiar voices, and could faintly feel a jarring sensation, body jostled and rolled in a way that was also strangely familiar. But he was trapped, like a fish preserved in aspic, unable to come up to the surface.
When Francis Crawford dragged open his eyes into the dimly lit room, he did not know where he was. His body was leaden, pressed down with overwhelming force into an unfamiliar bed. And, in that state of treacle-slow, disoriented confusion, he did not know who he was. Reason crept back, along with a tingling pain in his hands: pins and needles prickling from the inside, up one arm and into his collarbone. The same phantom pain traveled insistently down one of his legs, gnawing at bone and muscle. He was in the Hôtel Moutier, then, with its bitter harvest. But no, when he moved, his other arm and his shoulder and his back reminded him of a far more recent and tangible abuse.
It all came flooding back, cramping his stomach with a hard twist. He squinted against the candles, toward the high window, and knew the house and the room he was in. There on the wall, he could suddenly make out the words: “For weal or woe I wyll not flee / To love that hart that loveth me11.” So Sybilla, surely, was nearby.
But it was his brother who came in, eminently capable as always, with another candle. “Oh,” said Richard, “Good, you’re awake.” His sturdy face, so honest and undistinguished, looked somewhat less composed than usual. “It’s about time, too. We’ve just about run out of poultices.”
Caught helpless against the high pillows, Lymond managed, somehow, to sit up just slightly. The cornflower eyes, still clouded over with pain, closed, and then reopened. He said, choosing his words carefully, “For verray effectioun of his carnale brother12… One of these days, there won’t be much left for you to devotedly gather back together.”
“A simple thank you will suffice,” Richard said calmly, “We can save the sermon for Sunday.” He set the candle into a sconce, then opened the window to let the cool breeze from Nor Loch flow in.
“That is the way of pennance and of grace,” Lymond said, a little too agreeably. Then, his voice pitched low, he added a simple “Thank you.”
He took a deep breath, and as Richard thought, might have said more. But then Sybilla swept into the room and to Lymond’s bedside, and the moment was lost. “Oh my dear,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, and Richard slipped out to give them their privacy, closing yet another door behind him.