Paris swung a boot. ‘I consider that there is no gentleman in this deplorable country so apt for that business,’ he said. ‘Do you ask me why? I will tell your lordship very willingly. It is because there is no other gentleman in this country at all.’
‘Apt or not,’ says Lord Bothwell, scratching in his beard, ‘it is myself who will do it.’ He stared at the floor, laughed, caught the word on his lips and kept it suspended while he considered. Then he added, ‘And I signed the contract, and sealed it, but an hour ago.’ He threw himself naked on his bed, and Paris covered him with his blankets.
‘Happy dreams to your lordship, of the contract!’
‘Go to the devil,’ says my lord: ‘I’m asleep.’ And by the next moment he was snoring.
Paris sat upon the floor, with a guttering candle beside him, and made notches on a tally-stick. He told them over on his fingers and got them pat before he lay down.
In the morning he sat upon the edge of his master’s bed—a familiarity which had long been allowed him—produced his tally, and enlarged upon it.
‘Master,’ he said, ‘for your purpose these persons are the best, as I shall shortly rehearse to you. I have chosen each and every for some quality which is pre-eminently useful, in which I believe him to be singular. The first is Monsieur Ker of Fawdonsyde, who, it is true, is at the moment in disgrace for his part in the Italian’s affair. That can be got over, I think; and if so, well so. He has the strongest wrist in this kingdom, next to your lordship’s, and will do for a spare string to our bow: for I take it yourself will be our first—not likely to fail, I grant; but one must always be prepared in these cases for a sudden jerk aside. Monsieur de Fawdonsyde may be trusted to stop that. They tell me also of him that he can see in the dark, and I can well believe it—a yellow-eyed man! Nothing could be more useful to us; for somebody is sure to blow the lights out, and in the ensuing scramble the wrong man might be hurt, and some happy household plunged into grief. Next, I certainly think that you should have home Monsieur Archibald. He—if he do no more—will be a comfortable stalking-horse. He is kinsman—he was greatly beloved by our man in the old days; and could make himself loved again, for he has a supple mind. (Not so, however, his cousin, Monsieur de Morton. He is too stiff a hater for our purpose, and could not conceal it even if he would.) Now, I will tell you one other reason in favour of Monsieur Archibald. I never knew a gentleman of birth who could feel for chain mail in a more natural and loving manner, except perhaps Milord Ruthven, unhappily deceased. His son does not take after him. But I saw Monsieur Archibald take the late David, when there was a thought of going to work upon him, round by the middle, and try his back in every part—just as though he loved the very feel of him. And yet the two were enemies! And yet David suspected nothing! It could not have been better done: so I sincerely advise you to have him. Monsieur d’Ormiston you will of course take with you. He has ears like a hare’s, and so nice a valuation of his own skin that you may be sure the roads will be open for you when the affair is happily ended. But my next choice will astonish you. Be prepared—listen, my lord. It is Monsieur de Lennox! What! you cry—the father to put away the son! With great respect, I hold to my opinion. I believe Monsieur de Lennox could be persuaded—and evidently you could have no more valuable colleague—for two little reasons of cogency. He is miserable in the ill-favour of our Queen, and he ardently desires to stand well again with the English Queen. This, then, would be his opportunity of gratifying both. And it is by no means outside experience that a father should assist at his son’s demise. There was a well-known case at Parma, when we were in Italy; and if the Queen-Mother did not contrive the exit of the late King Francis, then Maître Ambroise Paré is a fool, and not a fine surgeon. Why did she have the funeral oration prepared a week before that King’s death? Ah, the thing is evident! Both of these are Italians, you will say? I confess it. But if King Philip of Spain hath not an eye of the same cast upon Monseigneur Don Carlos I shall be surprised—and mark this: Monsieur de Lennox is a hungry man, out of favour and out of money. His lady, who has the purse, is in the Tower of London; he himself dare not leave Glasgow, where he starves. Moreover, he has another son. Now——’
But here the Earl of Bothwell sat up in his bed.
‘What are you talking about, you fool?’ he asked, gaping.