Queens' Play by Dorothy Dunnett
The sandy mud of the banks boiled with dripping men and small boats; the islands were messy with scaffolding; and somewhere a rather poor choir was practising hard. The air was filled, like birds flying, with shouts and hammer blows and arguing voices, and at the entrance to the bridge a woman halfway up a ladder with a boy under her arm was screeching at a painter curled on a pediment high above, decorating a niche. The four men, no doubt regretting their exuberance, had disappeared with the whale to the water. Leaving his horse blithely loose, and with never a glance at his surroundings, O’LiamRoe followed.
Robin Stewart, of the King’s Bodyguard of Scots Archers, gave a hard-pressed sigh and turned to share his despair with his bowmen. Instead, the acid, droopbrowed face of the ollave caught his eye.
‘France, mère des arts, des armes et des lois,’ observed Thady Boy, without altering a muscle. ‘I take it you wish to enter Rouen. Unless you divert O’LiamRoe’s mind instantly, he will feed on his whale like a prawn on the seethings of drowned men.’ Robin Stewart opened his mouth.
But the diversion came from another direction. Over the bridge before them, two women came riding, satins fluttering and furs blowing; and the servants mounted behind were all in a livery Stewart knew as well as he knew the redheaded owner in front. It was Jenny Fleming.
Janet, Lady Fleming, was pretty, and Scottish, and a widow. She was a natural daughter of King James IV of Scotland. She was also royal aunt and governess of Mary Queen of Scots, whom she had brought to France two years before as a little girl of five, and whose mentor she had been ever since.
‘Governess’ as applied to Jenny Fleming was the most irrational of terms. Mary had her teachers for every art and science, and her faithful Janet Sinclair for nurse. Jenny, who could govern nothing, and least of all herself, was her companion in mischief. A king her father, an earl her grandfather, her dead husband a great and wealthy Scots baron, she had been born like a honeycomb moth into silk and soft living; and despite seven children, had preserved in her thirties the vivid, autocratic and expensive sparkle of her youth.
Now, leaving her escort by the bridge, she plunged down with her horse to the shore, her companion following. She waved to Robin Stewart as she passed and Stewart flushed and waved back, and wondered who the quiet, plump young girl behind her might be. He did not know Margaret Erskine.
‘A whale! Does it swim? Does it spout? May I look at it?’
The enormous creature lay in the shallow water. As its attendants grinned and chattered, an impossible jaw dropped and the whiskers of O’LiamRoe rose, tadpole-like, from the Leviathan depths. He bowed, and smiled like a sickle. ‘’Tis better still inside: the Eighth Wonder surely, but a small bit damp for the very Rose of Jericho like yourself.’
She laughed at him, her firm, dimpled face sparkling. ‘You’re the Irishman!’
‘One of them. The other’s behind you.’
She turned. The unkempt figure of Thady Boy Ballagh stood gloomily waiting. ‘He’s angry. What’s he angry about?’ she said.
‘He wants to get to Rouen and start his drinking. But there was a serious situation here, will you note, to be dealt with first.… You’re a Scotswoman, surely. Do you stay here?’
Jenny was alight with mischief; had been joyous with excitement from her flaming hair to her cork-soled shoes since she arrived. She opened her mouth, but Margaret Erskine’s quiet voice forestalled her. ‘We stay at Court. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of seeing you there. Mother, we must go.’
‘Yes, but we must introduce ourselves first. You are O’LiamRoe—I can tell. And this? Aren’t there three of you?’
‘The richest soil,’ said Mr. Ballagh’s cutting voice from behind, ‘is known for its three weeds. An old Irish saying. You will excuse us. We are expecting an audience with the King.’
A square body; a quiet voice; brown eyes in a plain, country-woman’s face—Margaret Erskine, twice-married at twenty and with a son of her own, controlled her mother as no one had done since her father died. She drew her now from this dangerous amusement as she had done many another; and gave no hint, as she and Jenny remounted, and called greetings, and moved off, that she knew whom she was facing.
The O’LiamRoe barely watched them go. He turned, rubbing his hands, to Thady Boy. ‘Is it not like the Great Fair of Carman, which the forty-seven kings came to?’
‘Would it strike you that the kings now and then ate?’ said the ollave. ‘Here’s Master Stewart waiting for you like Job, and Piedar Dooly with the eyes in his face set with glassing bands. And where will you be if the King sends and you are not yet in your other frieze cloak?’
‘This is—’ began O’LiamRoe, and broke off, mildly annoyed. ‘There’s a powerful lot of fussing about the clothes on me.’
‘Faith, well,’ said Thady Boy patiently. ‘But it’s a prince he’s expecting, man; not a Water Sheerie.’ And they set off side by side to the horses, leaving the riverbank, the whale and the four men, one of whom, as any inquisitive passer-by might see, had no heel to one foot.
The party from Ireland, it was understood, was to be struck by the magnificence of the King of France, and by the wealth and loyalty of his subjects, as a prelude to any personal talks which might follow. So a bedroom and a parlour had been put at their disposal in the Croix d’Or, a large new inn off the Place du Marché; and that, as Robin Stewart remarked, was just about worth the monthly returns of Notre Dame, accommodation being what it was at an Entry.
He saw them settled in before leaving for Bonne-Nouvelle over the bridge. They had three days to wait in Rouen before the festivities. He had given up thinking too much about their habits and their clothes. He had been told to come each day and look after them, show them the sights, and fulfil their reasonable wishes. When the Entry was over, they would move with the Court to its winter quarters and the serious business of the visit would no doubt begin.
Robin Stewart, who above all things was fascinated by success, found no particular enjoyment in handling his Irishmen. He introduced them to the innkeeper, made Piedar Dooly acquainted with the kitchens, and left. As he rode out of the street a Gentleman of the Bedchamber rode into it, bearing a message for Phelim O’LiamRoe, Prince of Barrow, from His Most Christian Majesty Henri II of France. He welcomed the party, in the heartiest terms, to the hospitable shores of France, and invited The O’LiamRoe to visit His Majesty at noon that day in the Priory of Bonne-Nouvelle, dressed for tennis.
‘Dear God,’ said Thady Boy Ballagh, when the courtly messenger had bowed himself out; and lowered his round form on the bed.
There had already been a remarkably sharp argument about what to do with the half-footed man: O’LiamRoe allowed that without proof they could make no accusations, but had decided in the end that Piedar Dooly might well be asked to keep an eye from time to time on the maimed Jonah and his whale. And now—‘Dear God,’ said Thady Ballagh, ‘you can barely walk as it is in that lather of saffron and pig’s hair you’ve got on. How the tatteration will you lep about with a racquet, and those leggings, and the little wee ball that’s in it?’
The sun, bright for autumn still, fell on O’LiamRoe’s head as he stood at their parlour window looking down. Heads hooded and bare passed and repassed below; a scarlet plume in a man’s cap tossed, and satin gleamed; then white gauze and blue velvet from a woman’s head and cloak as she passed with her servant. A cart went by, full of beer kegs, and a maid with her trailing skirt black-wet came along from the fountain with a pail in one hand. A man strolled past and leaned on the doorpost opposite, stroking his black beard.
‘Ah, you’re a faint-heart, Thady Boy. If a man can give a breeze-fly a clap in a byre, he can smite a great baby’s plaything like that. But it’s a strange, heathen way to welcome a guest.’
‘He’s offering you the privilege of a friendly meeting before the formal courtesies,’ said his secretary patiently. ‘Dress as neat as you can, for the sake of us all, and stay outside the nets streaming flattery like a honey c
‘Look at this,’ said O’LiamRoe, instead of answering. Outside, the bearded man had moved. Taking off his plain black brimmed hat, he scratched a head of thick dark hair, while his gaze roved the rooftops with idle vagueness; the sun, patched with stack-shadows, fell on his opaque white skin and straight nose, and the black plangent eyebrows. He had a short, white coat, plainly cut and showing dark full sleeves and a coarse doublet under; but they lay on a big, heavy-shouldered form vaguely familiar. Bad drawings of the man were everywhere, and the coins in their two purses had his likeness.
‘It’s the King,’ said Thady Boy. ‘No, it can’t be.’
‘Then it’s his double,’ said O’LiamRoe.
There was silence, then a crooning sound broke from Thady Boy. ‘It is so,’ he said. ‘Of course. The terrible show on Wednesday they’re so full of. Was there not to be a chariot all done up with the double of the King and his family for the procession?’
He was right. Looking closely, you could see that a rough likeness had been emphasized by the exact trim of hair and beard; the man was a natural for the part. Unaccountably, O’LiamRoe was ruffled. ‘I’d have said it was damned dangerous to have two kings in a harebrained country like this one.’
The man darkly preening in the doorway, if he had had notions of practising a kingly fantasy, had quickly abandoned it. A child had hopped round the corner, a girl of seven perhaps, and flung herself with audible grief on her father. They could not hear what she said, but the black-haired man, rehatted, bent hastily and shook her, and as the ear-piercing whine continued, seized her arm and hauled her off with the look of all fathers with publicly importunate young. Of the regal bearing of a moment since, there was no trace.
‘Thady Boy, you are right,’ said O’LiamRoe. ‘And you are maybe worth your hire to me after all, for all the expense you are. Let you go downstairs and have a sup with Piedar, and I shall see what cloth I can put on my back for a game with those bloodsucking clegs in their gold lace, bad cess to them. Is he good?’
‘Who?’
‘King Henri. Is he a fair man with a ball?’
‘Middling good. He’s the best athlete in the kingdom, or thereby,’ said Thady Boy cruelly, and went out.
He did his adequate best. Since he left the Slieve Bloom, O’LiamRoe had never looked so memorably neat. The saffron tunic abandoned, he had sent out for breech hose, brought in at Thady’s back, and a holland shirt, and a doublet of near fit and bold colour. Not to waste money on slippers, he had pulled his half boots on top, but cleaned, and had got a small cap with a feather which sat flatly on his combed yellow head. Only the beard, unregenerately floating, hinted at the rebel inside the silk cords.
When the latch rattled, he thought it was Ballagh. Cursing under his breath, his hat under his arm and cloak over it, he strode to open the door. He was very late, and the King’s Gentleman, back on the hour, had been waiting some time for him below.
On his threshold stood Oonagh O’Dwyer.
O’LiamRoe stood still without speaking, the latch in his hand. It was his visitor who showed her surprise, unexpected colour flooding her brown skin and revealing the light, limpid eyes. Then she said shortly, ‘It’s wonderfully grand you are this day. I feel enough of a prostitute as it is, without standing side by side with you on your doorstep. Will you let me pass?’
She was alone; something unheard of in a young woman of standing. He shut the door, stood still as she marched past, and made no comment until she turned to face him. ‘I am not in the habit of doing this,’ she said.
‘It is not a bad habit, now it’s started,’ he said. ‘If you confine it to one person.’
It was the worst line he could have taken; he recognized it instantly. Her lips went hard, her body tautened; and for a moment he expected a blow. It did not come, but when she spoke he realized that in her mind she had closed a human relationship and opened a business meeting.
‘I have just come from Bonne-Nouvelle. My aunt is there with a friend who is in the Queen’s train. I have a word from her.’
‘Have you so?’ He did not offer her a seat.
They were of a height and otherwise utterly in contrast: the handfuls of hair under her hood were wood-black where his were tortoise-shell to the pellicle. She looked him straight in the eye, and her small, round mouth curled. ‘They are an idle cageful of mockingbirds; always fresh for a new victim.’
He knew then. His bearing relaxed a little, and he leaned back against the painted panelling, his blue eyes attentive on hers. ‘Let them laugh till it sends the Adam’s apples on them up and down like cerbottana balls, my dear. It won’t hurt me.’
Her strong, soft brows stayed level. ‘However, you have spent some money on yourself, I see, this day?’
‘Yes,’ said O’LiamRoe calmly. ‘That was a mistake. I am thinking that I shall just change back to the saffron. Is there an ostrich of your acquaintance would like a tail feather?’
She ignored the flourish of his hat. ‘It does not affect me, O’LiamRoe, one way or the other. I came to tell you that the Household are having sport with you. You will get a summons that is not from the King.’
He smiled a little, among the flosslike whiskers. ‘The like of an appointment to meet his double?’
‘How did you know?’
He turned from her wide eyes, and gestured outside. ‘He stood there for a while to get our view. A dark man with a beard.’
Oonagh O’Dwyer said dryly, ‘Yes, that’s likely. Some of the younger Court mignons have hired the man who’ll play King in Wednesday’s procession. Your fame preceded you from Dieppe. They are hoping to confront you with the false King and make the world’s fool of you.’
Not in the least upset, he said merely, ‘A dangerous game, surely, to put a discourtesy on the King’s guest the like of that?’
‘Would you have the courage to complain to the King?’ she said impatiently. ‘You maybe would, but they think you would not. They think that since peace has been made with England, and a new coolness with the Emperor, France is not so hot to appropriate Ireland, and would hardly be troubled if a lordling, offended, took the first galley back home.’
‘I am tempted,’ said O’LiamRoe.
For a moment longer she studied him; then with her square-tipped boy’s hands pulled her green cloth hood forward. ‘That is all. I promised to tell you. I hope,’ she said pointedly, ‘that your philosophy does not leak on you under stress.’
‘Do not disturb yourself,’ said the Prince of Barrow, and the sunlight carried his raw shadow and laid it like a plinth at her feet. ‘If they come close to tickle, they can’t complain of the fleas. Is Thady Boy expected to join in my folly?’
‘No. He speaks French. It is you alone they are baiting. I am sorry,’ said Oonagh O’Dwyer unexpectedly, raising her light grey eyes straight to his. ‘It is not the sweetest news from a woman.’
‘No,’ said O’LiamRoe slowly. ‘No, it is not. There must be vanity in me somewhere yet. But it was not an easy errand you gave yourself either, and my thanks to you and Mistress Boyle.’ He opened the door as she moved forward, his oval, whiskered face quite benevolent. ‘But God help me, I was raised on all the wrong sports in the Slieve Bloom,’ said Phelim O’LiamRoe.
An hour later, in his saffron, his leggings and his frieze cloak, Phelim O’LiamRoe, Prince of Barrow, walked into the royal residence at the Priory of Bonne-Nouvelle, hairy as a houseleek; and the thick cream of French espièglerie closed over his head.
It was a young, supple Court, with the sap still in its veins. Henri, absolute lord of nineteen million Frenchmen, was thirty-one; and of the ten de Guises in whose hands half the power of ruling France lay, the eldest, the Queen Mother of Scotland, was only thirty-five. It followed that the courtiers, too, were mostly young. Those of an older generation had been born into the world of Henri’s predecessor Francis I, the enchanting rake, the Caesar, the Sunflower, who did not care for dreamy, sullen, sle
Henri came back from Spain an uncouth eleven-year-old, unable to speak his native language; and the gay Court noted him in passing—‘M. d’Orléans, a large, round face, who does nothing but give blows, and whom no man can master.’ When he was King, he kept a court still of marzipan and kisses, but a tough, esoteric, gamey core also persisted: the patronage of scholars and master craftsmen; the habit of good talk and private accomplishments, with the poet and the professor familiarly at the elbow.
But although the personal triumphs of the sullen, sleepy prisoner were now established, not without pains; although the swiftest runner, the best horseman, the finest lute player in France, was her King; although he had ended the English wars successfully, regained possession of Boulogne, would have Scotland when his son married the little Queen, and was in a fair way to frightening the Emperor with his league of German princes—in spite of all these, Henri of France kept two things from the world of his father as a child keeps its cradle rag: his beloved Montmorency, shrewd old warrior whom Francis had exiled from Court; and Diane de Poitiers, for fourteen years Henry’s mistress.
Too wealthy, too powerful, too blunt for King Francis’s liking, Anne Duke de Montmorency had been none the less one of the bulwarks of the kingdom; and it was not until the old King’s latter years, when Montmorency was already nursing the young heir, that the final clash came, and Francis threw him into the exile from which King Henri rescued him.
Diane, widow of the Grand Seneschal of Normandy and familiar with courts, had come, at thirty-six—some said straight from the old King’s pillow; and with wit, address and a natural kindness perfectly disarming, had begun teaching the future Henri II, then seventeen, his roles of lover and prince. It was unlucky that before his father died, Henri had become too attached to Diane his mistress, that Montmorency had become too helpful to Henri his prospective master, and that Henri had talked a little too freely of the appointment he would make and banishments he would cancel when his father was dead … selling the skin, said the Court, before the bear was killed. Francis did not like it; and it was as well, on the whole, that Francis had died when he did.