Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [206]
Since then, she had found out at last the nature of the canker he lived with; the scourge which accounted for everything he had ever said or done. And worse, she knew that at any given moment it might be broadcast to all the world, unless she herself could prevent it. And all this, by whatever means, must be kept from him.
The last time they met, she had rushed from the house like a schoolgirl. Dressed today by the Cardinal’s decree in stiff blue velvet to offset the Queen’s impressive cloth of silver she stood with the rest, and begged the mute gods of the Masque to uphold her as she watched the Commissioners enter, two by two, while trumpets like golden-voiced drakes quarrelled together.
And there was Richard, brown and heavy and grave, and a glimpse of fair hair, picked out by the low winter sun. Then the half-brothers entered, almost together.
And, knowing their parentage now, you could see Sybilla in both her sons; but more clearly still, the legendary presence of the first baron Crawford of Culter: blurred through two generations in the square, brown-haired person of Richard; and undiluted in Francis, the love-child.
Richard, seeking her as soon as he stepped through the door caught her eye and smiled, before filing forward to make his salute to the Queen.
Francis Crawford looked only at the Chair of State, and if the arc of his gaze included the demoiselles of honour, he gave no indication of it whatever.
It was beyond Philippa to look anywhere else in those first moments. He had become a romantic figure in the country, they said. The pale, pleated taffetas with their exquisite needlework and the channel of cabochon emeralds on the short, reversed cloak confirmed the suspicion that he was living up to it. His manners during the presentations were of a courtly perfection verging on the caricature. When he chose to assume the high style, as when he chose to be vulgar, he could always equal or outdo the professionals.
Of the illness at Dieppe there was no trace, unless it were in the weight of his gaze, modishly languorous. But when, stepping back, he did allow his eye to be caught and bowed delightfully to his countess, every nerve from his mouth to his fingertips was unquestionably within his control.
He was not alone in that form of dexterity. Into her answering curtsey Philippa put a matched degree of suavity and slightly more distance: Richard, she saw, grinned; and Lord James Stewart, also observing, was watching her critically. Then the speeches began and ended, and Lymond rejoined his compatriots and she was left with the Provost of Edinburgh, whose royal ancestors had bequeathed him a certain amount of conceit which she suffered, because he was brother to one of the four little Maries. But she had always thought George Seton facile, and now the charm barely covered the drift of his questions.
Of course, her interest for them all lay in her marriage. But she was thankful instead of wary when at last Richard came and displaced him. ‘Dearest Philippa, you would take away the breath of any right-minded man who was not talking politics. You must come to see Sybilla. She misses you.’
Kind as of old, but greyer and a good deal more adroit, he was studying her as he was speaking. She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Of course I shall come soon. Is she well, Richard? And Mariotta at home, and the family?’
‘Come to the Hôtel de l’Ange and you shall hear,’ Richard said. ‘Yes, we are well, and Kuzúm is flourishing. Kate has been looking every day for your letters. We thought you were coming home before now. But after this, of course I see what is keeping you. I hear the royal marriage would founder without you.’
‘I hope not,’ Philippa said, ‘or you would all have to go home. What did the Queen say?’
‘She asked,’ Richard said, ‘if I thought my brother really intended to marry the Marshal de St André’s daughter. You know, of course, about that?’
‘Yes,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘I think it’s a splendid idea.’
‘So do I,’ Richard said.