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521 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1971
“He knew that to bring Lymond home, even if it were possible, would involve extirpating a difficult and clever and dangerous man from his own chosen and brilliant setting, and throwing him instead into all the small, insidious intrigues which throttled the court of Queen Mary.”
“They were bound, it seemed, for an unknown and barbarous country, ignorant of modern warfare and backward in weapons and tactics, there to offer their specialized services for what they were worth to the Emperor.”![]()
“There have been so many misunderstandings in the past. What you did, often, was done for good reason. I know I am simple. I know you are devious. But, oh God, if there is any good reason for what you are doing now; any excuse; any unknown factor or subtle circumstance you are afraid I can't grasp, for the mercy of God, this time, tell me.”
“You are offered love and won’t accept it except on your own terms. That isn’t tragic. It’s the word you’ve just mentioned—it’s childish.”
———
“Philippa said, ‘And if that isn’t being damned magisterial, I don’t know what is. It’s my business because I love your family and you love your own, stately, self-perpetuated miseries.”
“Before coming to London, she had viewed her life and that of her friends through the eyes of a child at Flaw Valleys, or a child pushed by circumstance on a stormy but magnificent journey through Europe. Now she was wiser. In this brief and dizzying apprenticeship, she had started to realize that, whatever his occupation, Lymond’s life was lived on this level: the level on which the future of whole communities could be steered or reshaped, improved or jeopardized by a handful of people.”
“Poverty. Poverty in the presence of starving cold and great, earth-cracking heat, and life lived in the shadow of the wolf and the bear, and tribes more cruel and avaricious. For it was the land which was implacable, far more than its masters. An obja, tilled by one horse, could be rented for two or three roubles or its equal in labour, and a fee of perhaps half of the rotated crop of rye or of oats. In law, the peasant might be hanged, where the boyar was only whipped or imprisoned, but discrimination was less than he had expected; serfdom was almost unknown.
Yet where was the succour when the grain was struck cold in the ground, and had to be gathered and ripened on Stovetops, and thawed in hot-houses, so that it might be ground? When the tinder-dry warehouses burned, and cities starved, and beggars, ragged and violent, roved the streets of Vologda, as he had seen them: Give me and cut me; give me and kill me.
How, if you were the Church, did you justify a single gold-collared ikon, with two thousand five hundred diamonds set upon its thick hammered surface? How, if you were the Tsar, did you vindicate your annual tribute, bartered for rich cloths and finer jewels for your treasurehouse? How, if you were a man from a softer land, where debate was instructed and free, and all the scholars and books from antiquity were there to correct and advise you, could you accept in your turn such a tribute, and use it to clothe the body and house of your mistress?”
“And the intellect,” said Alec Guthrie, “will bring you back to us?”
“Abandon your quest,” said Francis Crawford. “What you are looking for, dear Alec, is buried. And no leech in London is going to revive it.”

‘I lost three ships,’ Chancellor said. ‘And eighty- five souls.’ ‘I stopped counting,’ Lymond said, ‘after I had seen the first hundred or so of my soldiers dispatched to their earthly rest through me. You lead, therefore you kill.’
‘Your son will be John Dee’s next pupil. You cannot face marriage again?’ Richard Chancellor drew in a short breath, and let it carefully out, without stirring the candle. He said, ‘I have only met one girl to match Eleanor. And you are married to her.’
Lymond slid his hands off the table. On his shadowless face rested, openly, an astonishment so unexpected, so vivid that Chancellor himself was taken aback and said quickly, almost in anger, ‘I’m sorry. But she is a remarkable girl.’ ‘She is a remarkable girl,’ Lymond repeated. He looked startled still. ‘She must be Christopher’s age.’
Not to every young girl is it given to enter the harem of the Sultan of Turkey and return to her homeland a virgin….The most prosaic schoolgirl in England, Philippa Somerville arrived home from Stamboul in the summer….
“the undersized fifteen- year- old who had left her uncle’s home in London two winters ago, to plant herself willy nilly in the unsuitable company of Lady Culter’s younger son Francis… Francis Crawford of Lymond, the hard- living leader of mercenaries whose by- blow Kuzúm had been snatched and used in a game by his enemies.”
As a highly qualified Turkish-trained concubine from the harem of Suleiman the Magnificent, Philippa Somerville settled into English court life as a kite among chickens, and as a kite among kites into the Spanish court of the new King-consort Philip.She has lots of suitors, except she’s married and her divorce from the Voevoda of all Russia is being held up. As much as I hated sporadically leaving Philippa and the English Court (which includes Mary’s dearest confidant and Lymond’s worst enemy, now that Gabriel is dead, Margaret Lennox. Also an important historical figure), I was always quickly immersed in Lymond's exploits in Russia. Dorothy Dunnett knows how to keep things interesting no matter what. The husband and wife (in name only) are re-united around a year later when Lymond is forced, through political machinations of his enemies, to leave Russia to accompany the English Muscovy Company back to England to promote trade between the two countries.
Now I, your Tsar, beg it of you. Sail to London, the home of this strange, married Queen, and speak to her in her own tongue, but with the heart of a Russian. Bring me what I want.’ There was no escape. No loophole; no answer, no argument; no excuse. ‘Then of course, Lord, I shall go,’ Lymond said.