Queens'' Play by Dorothy Dunnett
Lymond sprang to his feet.
He’s going to throw it away, thought Erskine. Step out of character, wreck the whole evening’s work. He’s going to turn round and treat them like bloody servants … Christ! For Lymond’s sharp blue gaze, swinging round, had caught the stiff face of the Queen Mother of Scotland. With every nerve end in his body, Tom Erskine willed the Dowager to school her face. The shadow of a threat, the shadow of an appeal, the slightest effort to prompt him, and she had ceded the evening; she had lost Thady Boy Ballagh; and she had lost Lymond for good.
The Queen Mother stared at Lymond, the sea-cold gaze without focus, and, scratching her nose, turned to ask her neighbour a question. But already the danger had passed. Lymond, standing, had looked beyond her and caught the flare of pure anger in Margaret Erskine’s brown eyes. His own narrowed. He hesitated for a second; then turning, allowed St. André without protest to claw open his doublet.
Under the egg-stained shirt, the burns were obvious where the acid had caught his shoulders and back. Madame de Valentinois rose. ‘Bring M. Ballagh to me.’
From the high chair the King spoke to Lord d’Aubigny and his lordship moved also towards the ollave. John Stewart’s manner had undergone a slight change. A wit, a poet, a singer of sorts who had caught the imagination of the Court, was a different proposition from the shabby bundle of sops he had chivvied from inn parlour to inn.
He halted by Master Ballagh. ‘The King wishes me to say that he had of course no idea of your hurt, or he would not have thrust this entertainment upon you. He bids me say that you are welcome to join his Court for its winter sojourn on the Loire; and that if he so wishes, the Prince of Barrow may remain also in France. I am to offer you a bed in this lodging for tonight, and to give you the King’s permission to retire.’ He had won.
He also had, by any standards a memorable couchée that night in the King’s Lodging of the Abbey of St. Ouen, painted with egg yolk and turpentine and bandaged under the supervision of the Duchess of Valentinois herself, until at length, unrecognizable in borrowed night robes, he had his bedroom to himself.
When, late that night, the knock came to his door, Lymond was by no means asleep. His occupation since the last servant left was shatteringly clear from his too-steady gaze and his less than steady hands. Wrapped in a furred bedgown, he had been drinking seriously for a long time. Behind him, the little room was cracklingly neat: a characteristic of his own which was quite foreign to Thady Boy. What he had expected as he opened the door no one could have guessed. What he saw made him stop short, vigilant and more than half sobered.
Outside was Margaret Erskine.
Shapeless, brown-eyed, rather pale, neat as a nun in her day dress, with a single good jewel pinned to her breast, Jenny Fleming’s daughter seemed quite composed; visiting wild younger sons in their sleeping quarters might have been a nightly occupation.
A smile, bracketing his still mouth, spread like bane over Lymond’s pale face. ‘Come in, sweeting. I have a friendly bed.’
She disregarded it, entering prosaically and shutting the door at her back. ‘Why drown your victories?’ she asked. ‘You have succeeded, have you not? You need not leave France.’
For answer, Lymond tossed the tangled hair back from his eyes and broke into an accurate parody of the Queen Mother’s fractured Franco-Scots. ‘I mean to take this man in his failure, Master Erskine—in his failure and not in his success.’ He shook his head, mourning. ‘I have succeeded; but unless I’m careful, by God, the Dowager will have me trussed and indented as her servingman yet.’
Margaret Erskine drew out a chair and, sitting, looked up at the sweat-beaded, sardonic face. ‘You heard that. I’m sorry.’
‘Like The O’LiamRoe,’ said Lymond with a large and positive gesture, ‘I feel I deserve a little amusement at someone else’s expense. That is all. I have worked for it. I have paid for it. And I propose to have it. Don’t you approve of me?’ His voice mocked her. ‘I had a suspicion back there tonight that you didn’t want me to quarrel with our playful friends.’
Her own voice was quite level. ‘Will you really find it enough to fill the next months? Sharpening your claws on them between foolhardy pranks?… The women were already drawing lots for you when you left.’
‘And you won?’ His eyes matched his words.
She bit her lip, the first sign of discomfiture she had shown. ‘I came because a visit from Tom would be dangerous. Whereas a visit from myself would be merely … compromising.’
‘God, how patriotic,’ said Lymond. ‘And considering the relatives you have, what fool would imagine you’d come to talk politics.—Damn it,’ he added with a sudden interest. ‘Only the ladies?’
Her voice remained level. ‘No.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘If you will not serve the Dowager, why are you troubling to stay with the Court?’
He had roved away from her, kicking the preposterous velvet skirts out of his way. He turned, unnecessarily expansive, interested in nothing as yet except being difficult. ‘Because in this sweet realm of France, my dear, lives a small, venal animal who will drown a shipload of men or trample a gathering of women and children to death on the strength of a whim; and I mean to peel his knees with his backbone before I leave.’
Pale, persistent, she outfaced his restlessness and his boredom. ‘I know nothing about La Sauvée except what I have heard from Tom. But today’s accident—Tom, my mother, the Dowager, are all sure of it—was an attempt to kill or injure the Queen. It has persuaded the Dowager to tell us plainly what you guessed, perhaps, when she talked to you last. There have been other accidents to Mary, and other coincidences. It was because of these that the Queen Mother asked you to come to France. Openly, she dared say or do nothing without seeming to question the good faith of France, or their capacity to look after the child.… Instead, she relied on you.’
Against the far wall, the window shutters were open. Lounging between them, Lymond took no time for reflection. ‘Why interfere?’ he said airily, over one velvet shoulder. ‘Why interfere? The Dauphin may have plans to marry again.’
A personal attack, this, against her own marriage, following so fast on the death of Tom’s first fiancée, Christian Stewart, killed tragically in Lymond’s service two years before. She knew, and Lymond knew, that only after Christian had gone did Tom Erskine notice the plain person of the widowed Margaret Fleming, who for years had been his silent admirer. She had not been prepared for such a challenge, but she was equal to it. She said quietly, ‘You hate me because I am Christian’s successor—even if inadequately; even if only in Tom’s eyes. But you didn’t love her. You know that perfectly. Love has never struck you yet, and you should thank God for it. Be honest, at least. You are not refusing to help because of me.’
She waited, while Lymond stood looking out over the quiet cobbled courtyard and the lantern-lit trees of St. Ouen. Then, stepping back, he closed and flicked the latch of the shutters, and turning, faced her again. ‘I’m tired,’ said Lymond,’ of funerals. Show me a project, and I’ll promise you that before it is ended half my so-called friends will have thrown their illusions, their safety and their virtue into the grave. There was Christian Stewart, about whom we need not speak. There was a man called Turkey Mat. And a number of others. I have refused to become a royal informer, my dear, to spare my associates the pains of paying for it.’ There was a difficult pause. Then his cold blue stare softened. ‘I am not really fit to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I think you should go.’
‘But I have something more to say,’ said Margaret Erskine placidly. ‘And I could say it more easily if you were sitting down.’
This worked. After a moment’s hesitation he walked forward, and finding a fireside seat opposite hers, dropped into it and propped his head on his fists. Margaret, watching, chose her moment. ‘You made the point I thought you might make,’ she said. ‘It’s none of my business if you choose to raise a poor kind of monument to your friends. They might well deny, were they alive to
He did not stir. ‘Of course not. The Queen Dowager’s purposes and mine are the same; but you must excuse me from promises. This time at least I am quite free. Anything I set out to do I can abandon—and if need be, I will.’
‘And if,’ said Margaret Erskine in a careful voice, ‘I stand surety for your promises? If I say, kindle your fires for us, let them burn freely and light up what they will, and I shall do my utmost to see that no innocent bystander is burnt? Would you accept from the Queen Mother, through me, the task of protecting the young Queen, and trust me to watch over your friends?… Or being Tom Erskine’s second choice,’ said Margaret, her round, unremarkable face pale, ‘am I forever beneath your notice, as well as your trust?’
At which Lymond swore without apology, dropped his hands and fixing her with a stare of numbing austerity remarked, ‘I can grasp the situation without being bludgeoned over the head with either rhetoric or hangman’s humility. However. I gather I have been lecturing you. I apologize. It was a matter of irresponsible timing on your part. As far as your offer goes—’
Margaret had recovered her placidity. ‘Tell me later. You may feel differently,’ she said. ‘But I really shouldn’t let the Queen Dowager drive you to drink. Did Madame de Valentinois make any advances?’
‘Considering,’ said Lymond with a little constraint, ‘that she is twenty years older than even the King.… No. But then she had a large escort with her. She was surprisingly effective, as it happens. And most thoughtful. Is it likely to continue?’
‘On an intellective level, I believe. She nurses all the royal children. And Lord d’Aubigny is also liable to take you up now. You will visit La Verrerie, admire Goujon and Limousin, take wine with the professors of the College, take lessons in drawing from Primaticcio, listen to readings by the Brigade and recitals by Arkadelt. You will be expected to like Chambord.’
‘I am prepared to like anything,’ said Lymond, ‘except his lordship of Aubigny. But he did me a service tonight with his glum, heifer’s face. There was a moment when I thought they were going to throw me out. And now—’
‘And now?’ She could not keep the hopefulness out of her face.
Jaded, nervy, sober at last, he watched her with a bleak amusement. ‘Yes. The game is yours. It seemed rather likely from the beginning that Her Highness would win. We shall merely hope that under your sheltering wings, no fingers will be burnt other than my own in protecting this one child from her fate.’
Over the turbulence within, ‘My natural place is by the hearthstone,’ said Margaret Erskine dryly. ‘No one will notice me there.’
‘They will be the losers,’ said Lymond; and as Margaret looked down, her skin red, altered his tone. ‘Very well, my lady. If we are to protect the young Queen, there are some pertinent questions to be asked. About this rumour linking Montmorency and your mother, for a start. Tell me: is Jenny the Constable’s mistress?’
It was a subject on which, in adult life, Margaret felt nothing but a resigned tolerance, or an amused exasperation, depending on her mother’s current fancy. Irregular relationships among a royal family and its adherents were a matter of course; often a matter of business; and only occasionally a matter of love. The arrangement, temporary or otherwise, was usually public and acknowledged when at the highest level; only when it was clandestine and conducted to the injury of legitimate relatives did it become untenable in the oblique moral eye of society.
But such considerations only applied on home ground. As guests of foreign royalty, the Scottish party’s behaviour was required to be impeccable. So exasperation informed Margaret Erskine’s quiet voice as she replied. ‘Montmorency? Heavens, no. The Constable isn’t Mother’s bedfellow,’ she said. ‘Mother’s lover is the King.’
For the first time in his restless evening, Lymond genuinely shouted with laughter. ‘Oh, God, oh, God. Why didn’t I guess? Oh, for Christ’s sake—the Chair of Happy Fortune.… Isn’t she a priceless, beautiful, giddy queen of a woman?’
He dissolved into silent mirth. ‘If Diane finds out she has a royal competitor—if the Queen finds out he has two mistresses—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Who else knows?’
She had flushed. ‘The Constable. One of the King’s Gentlemen. My mother’s maid. And me.’
‘She has dreams, of course, of establishing herself in the aging Diane’s place. Are you sure Queen Catherine doesn’t know?’ asked Lymond more soberly. ‘For unless you’re sure, I should strongly suspect her of throwing Jenny and her husband together. It would be a stroke of genius. In one move, ousting the permanent maîtresse en titre, discrediting Jenny and the Queen Mother, reducing Scotland’s worth as an ally, and weakening all the related de Guises in France—’
‘—And also,’ said Margaret, ‘throwing doubt on the little Queen’s moral standards and general fitness to marry the Dauphin.… This is habitual. Mother flutters her wings, and every institution within sight tumbles flat.’
‘She must put a stop to it, I’m afraid. Tell her. No, I’ll tell her myself. Then I’ll want some help. You’ll find you’re being watched by the King’s people quite apart from our conjectural friend with designs on the Queen, and nothing we do, naturally, must seem to question French goodwill or French security.’ He added suddenly, ‘Whom does the Queen Mother suspect?’
She had come hoping for help, and was beginning to realize, to her anguished relief, that she had called in a professional. For a moment she stammered. ‘I—don’t know.’
‘Someone at Court, obviously. Or she would have confided in the King, or at least in her own family. Who, I wonder. The possibilities are interesting. Queen Catherine? She hates the de Guises. The Constable, or his nephews? He’s said to favour a different marriage for the Dauphin; they wouldn’t mind a snub for the de Guises, and there’s a rumour they wouldn’t mind a change of religion either. Have any of the King’s other close friends a motive? Or what about some of the Scottish nobles … I shouldn’t trust the Douglases or their relations, for example; and some of the others lean towards England and Lutherans rather than a Scotland allied to Catholicism and France. The Dowager would hesitate to call in a Frenchman to deal with a situation like that.… Now what else? Which of the child’s maids of honour are Scottish? Whom can we trust absolutely? Can her food be privately supervised? Her play? Her lessons? Her travelling …?’
Exhaustingly, it went on. At length—’Has it struck you,’ said Lymond suddenly, ‘that everything that has happened so far, barring the elephants, has been directed at O’LiamRoe? The fire at the Porc-épic was in his room, not mine. The tennis-court frolic was devised to get O’LiamRoe into trouble. The Gouden Roos which tried to sink us off Dieppe was captained by a well-known adventurer who was paid to do it, and told on no account to bring back O’LiamRoe alive.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked. For reliable information, apply to a lawyer, a barber or prostitute. My informant hasn’t found out so far who paid the captain.’
‘But she will,’ said Margaret, her face grave.
‘I hope so,’ he said with equal gravity, and continued unshaken. ‘It is possible that these attacks are purely against O’LiamRoe. It is also possible that O’LiamRoe is being frightened or driven back to Ireland in order to remove me as well. But not likely. I might remain; I might assume another identity. No attempt has been made on my life, although God knows I’ve given them enough chances. And really, no one with any information about my concerns would attempt to do me damage at sea. Which leaves only one other possibility.’
‘What?’ Her deadened brain attempted to keep track with his.
There was a silence. His composure was quite unchanged. In face of it, Margaret struggled to remain matter-of-fact. ‘Of course. That must be it. But … the elephants stampeding was no accident? How can that be accounted for?’
‘It was organized,’ Lymond said. ‘The man who planned it was killed before he could speak. The man he paid to push out that hell-begotten whale knew nothing beyond his orders and will trouble us no more.… Which reminds me. O’LiamRoe and Dooly, as you know, are aware at least who I am. But if you, or Tom, or Jenny, or anyone connected with protecting the Queen should need help and you cannot find me, go and see Abernaci, the King’s Menagerie Keeper. He will do what he can. Meantime, we’ve two forms of incredibly careless plotting: one against O’LiamRoe, and one against the small Queen. In both, Destaiz, the dead man, was used. Everything has been done at second or third hand, and on a ridiculously distorted scale; as if by someone who had no means of scouring the alleyways for the usual paid assassin. A Destaiz presents himself, or some rogue of a captain; and the hint is dropped. If it is successful, so much the better. If it isn’t, there is no hurry, and plenty of money for next time.’
‘It may not be a person,’ said Margaret bluntly. ‘It may be a nation.’
Lymond smiled. ‘It leaps to the eye, doesn’t it? The obvious inspiration for both kinds of attack—anti-Irish, anti-Scottish—is England, and I’ve kept close to Mason to feel my way there. But he’s too patently anxious to have O’LiamRoe on his side; and anyone can see he’d be more valuable to England alive. Which leaves us in delicious confusion, with one good thing to look forward to, and one bad. It’s going to be hard to detect any attack on Queen Mary, because it won’t be blatant; every attempt so far has been made to look like an accident. On the other hand, O’LiamRoe is staying, which is helpful. Someone is bound to try to murder him again.’