Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [153]
When the Lieutenant-General had resumed speaking: ‘Chacun son tour,’ said Piero Strozzi under his breath. ‘You know why M. de Guise kept none of the booty from Calais? A million pounds in gold, he gave to his captains, and fifty thousand livres’ worth of English fleeces to d’Andelot alone—the painting of Jason there, mon fils, should bear a Coligny face. Monseigneur required a military success and a popular success both, and you and I gave it to him. O, God in heaven: we are to suffer a fanfare?’
The speech had ended, and the comte de Sevigny’s antiseptic blue gaze was turned on his garrulous companion. ‘He’s going to recite,’ Philippa said.
Lymond recited. It was, happily, something she could help him with.
‘His prayses with the princely noyse—’
‘—Of sounding trumpets blow’:
‘Prayse hym upon the viole, and—’
‘—Upon the harpe also.’
‘Prayse him with Timbrel and with Flute—’
‘—Organnes and Virginalles,’
‘With sounding Cymbals prayse ye hym—’
‘—Prayse hym with loude Cymbals.
‘—There are times when I feel,’ Philippa said, ‘that one set of cymbals would be sufficient.’
‘But the Duke de Guise,’ Lymond said, ‘is happy with two sets of cymbals, and quand le bâtiment va, tout va … Philippa, Philippa, what have you been hiding from us? A plague of demons is attempting to enter the room, a sword of fire out of the gullet of each of them, and every one of them as high as the clouds of heaven. The City Fathers have commissioned a Spectacle?’
‘Oh dear!’ said Philippa, groaning. ‘The City Fathers have commissioned two entertainments from Jodelle. But they should have drawn the boards first.’
‘They should certainly have drawn the boards first,’ Lymond concurred. ‘They’re going to act in and out of the King’s jacket buttons.… Oh, Christ. Orpheus?’
‘Orpheus,’ agreed Philippa sorrowfully. Fighting his way through the crowd, his laurel wreath knocked quite a little askew, trod a singular figure with a carmine smile, a paunch and a lyre. From the shifting shape of his mouth, but from nothing else, one could tell he was singing.
The court, being accustomed to mime, made no concessions. The volume of greeting, conversation and comment rose, intensified and thundered back on itself, carrying Orpheus into masterful inaudibility. A pasteboard belfry jammed in the doorway, tripped, and entered on six dirty feet. A second one followed.
‘Francis …’ said Piero Strozzi.
‘Be quiet,’ said Lymond. ‘I’m lip-reading. Chantés rochers, et avecq’ vostre Orphee, Adorés moy d’un grand Roy le Trophee. Rochers?’
‘Clochers,’ Philippa said. ‘They ordered rocks and got belfries. Bad handwriting.’
‘Hell’s own bells too, if I may say so,’ said Lymond.
‘Rocks with Sirens in them,’ Philippa corrected him patiently. “You’re very slow. It’s Jason and the Argonauts.”
‘No one’s handwriting could be that bad,’ said Lymond. The Sirens, quavering, retrieved their meandering minims, breathed, and arrived in scratchy unison at their ultimate lines.
O trois trois fois trois fois heureus Orphee
O trois trois fois trois fois heureus Trophee.
A yap of hysteria rose from the audience. ‘Francis,’ said Piero Strozzi. ‘Mon petit François; Madame; I have done my best to help make of this historic Triumph an event which Messieurs of the Ville will relate to their grandsons. I have tried. You have tried. But nothing, mort-Dieu, can redeem this bella cagata. I, Hesychast,’ said Piero Strozzi, ‘am going to lie on the floor and—forgive me—study my belly-button.’
And he did, gracefully, accompanied by the claret flask. Philippa Somerville looked up at Lymond, who had risen and was concentrating visibly on the players.
‘Well?’ said Philippa kindly.
He turned his head slowly and stared at her. ‘Minerva in a canvas shirt of mail and a helm with a cock on the top. There