The Game of Kings (Lymond Chronicles, 1)
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For the first time Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles are available in the United States in quality paperback editions.
The first book in the legendary Lymond Chronicles, Game of Kings takes place in 1547. Scotland has been humiliated by an English invasion and is threatened by machinations elsewhere beyond its borders, but it is still free. Paradoxically, her freedom may depend on a man who stands accused of treason: Francis Crawford of Lymond.
very distinctly, “I do not hear aright. I trust one does not ask me to wear clothes of the common soldier with, no doubt, the louse?” They saw with apprehension that his brow had blackened again. Grey said, “Dudley …” “Too small, sir,” said Dudley. “Same applies to Woodward and Myles.” It was true enough. They were all big men, far taller than Don Luis. Another short, pregnant silence. Dudley and the lieutenant stared into middle space. Mr. Myles thought of something. “He’s just about your
wasn’t Crouch that did the damage,” said Hunter. “It was some murderous brute with a black mask who smashed the house open, tied up Mother like a boiling fowl and thumped me—I must confess—to a pulp. It wasn’t too funny at the time.” “No, of course not.… What about Crouch?” “Departed, protesting, with the rescuer. God knows what the man wanted; my impression is he hardly knew himself. All I got out of it were a couple of English names they bandied about; if I had any contacts over the Border
wasn’t very reassuring, I admit, coming back fo find Richard laid out all bloody in one bed and Mariotta fainting in the next, but then Wapenshaws are notorious, aren’t they? Did anyone remember to ask who got the prize?” Tom said, “Well I suppose, strictly speaking, they ought to give it to Lymond, but I should put it past even his impudence to claim it.” “I don’t know.” Mariotta’s voice was detached. “He seems able to do almost anything he wants.” Agnes, her eyes fixed on Culter, heaved a
you’d better put us out of our misery, Agnes. Who is it from?” And the Baroness, in a voice in which surprise, pride and a kind of simple gratitude could be heard, answered, “The Master of Maxwell.” She read the letter aloud, in the end, with no persuasion at all. I fear to write. The great Pan is dead: there is no magic to bring you the likeness of my heart. My physical likeness you can have; but that will show you only a camelopard—no hero of romance; no prince of myths and sagas. My face
useful to me in between. “Sit down,” said Lymond, and waited while Scott dropped again to his blankets. He took the letter from the boy’s hand and straightened. “I showed you this, my would-be catharist, because I don’t need you as a barter. I’ve got something George Douglas wants much more—information. And if that fails, I have a feeling I can acquire a hostage of my own worth two—forgive me—of Buccleuch’s expanding nursery. In that, indeed as in all else,” he added with exaggerated courtesy,