Queens' Play (60 page)

In the dim light they faced each other. ‘God help us both,’ said Lymond, his mouth straight, his eyes level for once. ‘But if I live, and if you live, I will bring you a nation of souls that will give you the lie.’

But he recovered his good humour, it seemed, quickly; for as she left she could hear his voice, at ease with villancico, carolling
Ninguno cierre las puertas
behind the grille of his door.

Muffled under the tinsel of birdsong, the bells for Tierce ran their oiled course. Robin Stewart heard them at the door of his cottage, the green light flecking his groomed hair and the painstaking white of his shirt; in the deep grass his boots shone, nutbrown, vigorously tended in their turn.

Inside, it was the same. Hard work had turned a hovel into a soldier’s room, clean, orderly and shining; the one chair mended, the bed folded, the scrubbed table spread with the best food he could buy or steal: farm butter and milk in a crock, a cheese, a board of patties and a thick jug of wine. In the corner, his canvas bag lay, packed like a surgeon’s, with his spurs and sword like silver beside it. On the long, rawboned unshackled frame as he waited lay pride and confidence and calm expectation. The scrubbed hands hung at his side and the angry eyes, sunk in skin darkened by harsh work and harsh purpose, were serene.

The Queen was to die during the Investiture, which would open at ten. An hour earlier, he had asked, Lymond should bring the King’s troops to take him into the custody which would prove to the world that of this, at least, he was innocent. And through his information, Artus Cholet would be taken in the act; d’Aubigny would be inculpated and the shadow of Thady Boy’s guilt removed from Lymond himself.

He would bring perhaps a dozen Archers; or perhaps only a few of the Constable’s own men from the castle, with an officer. There must be an officer, so that the testimony would be quite clear. He would hear them coming: first the pealing alarm of the birds, then
the drum and rustle of hoofbeats; and the trees would lift above the helmeted heads, toss and curtsey and lift again until they were all past. Then Francis Crawford and the officer would dismount and come forward, and he would offer them food.

He would say nothing, but the new face of Thady Boy would note everything, the clean shirt and the hard work; and as they left, they would walk shoulder to shoulder, sure of each other, as they were on the tower at St. Lomer.

The bells for Tierce stopped ringing, but Robin Stewart stood and watched by the door.

Dethick had lost his temper. Hearing the thick Dutch-French ringing from the Privy Chamber the Constable banged with his blue-robed thickset shoulder through the tambours and fifes, the silver-tissued Gentlemen nursing axes, the Audiencier and the Commis du Controlleur de l’Audience in black velvet, the heralds at arms, lined up uneasily in silk and gold fleurs de lis, the mob of silver-hoquetoned Archers and the ground-matting of pages into the King’s room.

He was not there yet. Garter, his crown pushed back, his beard limp as a lapdog’s front paw, was demanding the upholsterer. The French heralds hung by uneasily and Chester, embarrassed, was on his way out to fetch help. There were, he saw, only two tables instead of three, and the carpet had not been spread. He silenced Garter, his courtesies a little belated, and got a third table in.

There was half an hour yet before the Investiture. He opened the door of the French robing room; the dresses were blinding, and so was the scent. Three Knights of the Order of St. Michael jangled together in their shells and white velvet; he missed the red velvet hat of the Chancellor and came away dissatisfied. His white ostrich feathers bobbed, and the thirty ounces of gold, troy weight, round his neck clinked garter to garter as he strode along.

The English Embassy Extraordinary, similarly dressed, waited about rather silently in a room nearby. Anne, Duke de Montmorency and Constable of France, sent a page to tell the drummers to begin, and all but trampled on the boy de Longueville, Mary of Guise’s French son, with extraordinary news.

Waving a thick hand at the plaintive business around him, Montmorency heaved about him his blue robes the colour of heaven, and hurried off.

‘Witness against Lord d’Aubigny is clear,’ he was saying ten minutes later, standing again, his clothes gathered ready to leave. ‘And this man Cholet, when we can trace him, will no doubt be made
to confess. But until that moment, remember, there is nothing to say that the Tour des Minimes was d’Aubigny’s doing. I cannot release Crawford without clearer proof. As it is, the affair of d’Aubigny, evidently, will require the most gentle attentions.… Madame, I must go.’

He had no special liking for the Queen Dowager of Scotland, but he could admire her gift for negotiation; he had never before caught her with her timing at fault. Hurried by the boy, he had found her with only one of her ladies, the mad Irishman O’LiamRoe who had insulted the King, and a big man he recognized vaguely as some sculptor.

Listening to the tale, he realized that the unfortunate was happening. The sculptor Hérisson had evidently in his keeping a man called Beck, a Flemish merchant who would swear to d’Aubigny’s guilt at Rouen. On top of that, the Irishman had just come in with a tale of a man loose in Châteaubriant who meant to do the little Queen harm.

If he were caught, it meant the convenient scapegoat in the Vieux Château must be freed, and the King must be coaxed to put aside the friendship of d’Aubigny. While his heart could wish for no more, the Constable knew this particular diplomatic labour was beyond him. He said, staring at Mary of Guise, ‘We can do nothing while the Embassy is here … corbleu; envisage the Commissioners sent to ask our princess’s hand watching the grounds being combed for a French assassin intent on killing the girl … especially if the assassin is inspired by some English minority.—You have no firm reason to believe the attempt will be made today?’

O’LiamRoe answered. ‘Only that the man has left his home for Châteaubriant. And it seems likely that it will be done while Robin Stewart is at large and while Lord d’Aubigny himself is plainly on duty. A house-to-house search, monseigneur—’

‘No. Unthinkable,’ said the Constable. ‘No. I must go. And you, M. le duc. Thank you, M. Hérisson, and you, my lord of the Salif Blum. My officers will call on you after the Investiture and M. Beck will be taken
au secret
. Meanwhile, the child must be doubly guarded. My lieutenant will present himself to you. Take as many men as you need, and surround her. She need not be frightened; they will hide their arms. You will give my lieutenant also your designation of Cholet. One may not search, but all men may observe. Between the banquet and the conference if I can, I shall return to the matter. Madame … messieurs.’

The grand rabroueur had gone. His leaf-gold tresses on end, his eyes in baskets from the long night without sleep, Phelim O’LiamRoe smacked his two fists together and cursed. The Queen Dowager, hardly aware of him, had turned her erect body to the window, followed by Margaret Erskine’s wide eyes. But Michel Hérisson, who
had arrived so unexpectedly on the Irishman’s heels, ran his hacked and gouty hands through the wild white hair and said through his teeth,
‘Liam aboo
, son,
Liam aboo!
My Gaelic’s all out in holes, the way my arse is ridden out through my breeches; but if you are saying what I hope you are saying,
Liam aboo
, my son,
Liam aboo!’

On the lake, the early mist had all gone and the little boats had been moved into the middle. A small gathering of musicians, moving tenderly about a flower-decked raft, were tuning rebec, lute and viol for a rehearsal, thin as oyster-catchers in the still air. Elsewhere, on the shore, in the tilting ground, about the pavilions and stands, men were busy.

It was magnificent, if not very new. The theme and costumes for today had been used before: they did the English Commissioners sufficient honour. Industriously classical, Sibec de Carpi’s stands lining the tilting ground were redecorated with vine garlands and busts, cartouches and winged genii bearing the three royal flags; for after the Investiture, after the banquet, after the conference, there would be jousting that night.

And later still, a water pageant. Round the lake, low gardens had been laid out, a fountain erected at each end and a pavilion put up overlooking the water, draped with eye-blinding cloth of gold and fitted with lamps and torch sockets. From here, where the painters worked stripped to the waist, the Court would sit after dinner and watch the spectacle of Ida,
la bergère phrygienne
, driving cautiously round the lake, her chariot harnessed to geese and nymphs and satyrs, Pans and centaurs gambolling round. Some of these, lured by the sun and an authorized negligence of dress, were already there, spread on the dry grass: a Victory with gold wings sat under a pear tree playing a whistle, and two priestesses crowned with snakes chaffed a Bacchus in purple sitting on the paving, knees akimbo, and feet spread green in the cool pond.

Behind the gardens, the accessories were stacked: the hero’s flask of leopardskin destined to spray the paths with cheap wine; the chariots to be drawn by elephants, ostriches, deer; the Fortune forwarded from Angers, wheel and apple in hand; the carts with statues of kings and gods stacked inside. Among a group of forest maids admiring them was Diana herself, Madame de Valentinois, in black cloth of gold sewn with silver stars and amazingly brief, though not as short as the nymphs’ dresses, turned up to mid-thigh. Their bows and darts, of carved and gilded hardwood, were piled among the crowns and the torches and the cages of doves. Her ladies, in violet lustring, looked hot and rather cheerful: the workmen were not shy of tongue.

‘The auld quean,’ said the Keeper of the Menageries, watching mask-faced from under his turban on the distant side of the lake. Hughie the elephant, half-dressed in expensive gold harness, eructated with sonorous calm, and Piedar Dooly, his bees’ legs in fustian black hating the ground they stood on, said coldly, ‘It’s the King’s woman. Would you need three eyes to see it? And if he isn’t here, where is he?’