Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [214]
‘For what?’ she said. The flecked hazel eyes regarded him, as in after years perhaps she would regard her chancellor, her treasurer, the president of her council of Scotland. ‘Is there any king living with the right to deny his subjects happiness?’
‘There are tribes today,’ Lymond said, ‘who find happiness in lust and cannibalism and the worship of idols. Doesn’t that open up a whole familiar pattern of argument over the purpose of kingship? I shall spare you all of it. These are baked crabs, and these are primrose cakes, made of honey and almonds and saffron. The primroses are real: I shouldn’t advise you to eat them. And the liquid is Russian, and called Gorelka.’
‘It looks like water,’ said the Queen of Scotland. ‘Surely, if his subjects’ souls are in danger, it is the duty of a monarch to correct them?’
It did not taste like water. Mr Crawford said, ‘But then he will make them unhappy.’
‘In this world, yes,’ said his Queen, ejecting a primrose.
‘It is this world,’ said Mr Crawford tranquilly, ‘that we are discussing. In any case, who decides whether their souls are in danger?’
‘The Church,’ said Queen Mary indistinctly. ‘Who will advise the monarch.’
‘And if,’ Lymond said, ‘there are two churches? If one tribal witchdoctor says you may make a meal of your grandmother, and the other says burning is holier?’
‘You are talking,’ said Mary, ‘of savages. To civilized nations, there is only one church, and a Pontiff to whom we turn for guidance. And if you question that, Mr Crawford, it is blasphemy.’
‘I know I’m talking of savages,’ Lymond said. ‘Have savages no right to be happy? Presumably, also, savages have souls. So what is a savage monarch to do for them?’
She did not balk at it. More than the food or the vodka, the lure of the argument pulled her attention. She laid down her cup and her knife. ‘If he is a king, and is offered conflicting advice from his ministers, then he must seek the truth himself. He must find others outside the tribe who will enlighten him. This is the work of our missionary priests, Mr Crawford.’
‘He should take the word, then, of the first man he meets? All religions, Madam, have their missionaries.’
‘Then he must speak to many men, and weigh what they say. If he is King, he must have judgement.’
‘Not necessarily. But if he is King long enough, he will usually attain judgement. For example, you have reached a sound conclusion and one day, I trust, will have sufficient judgement to apply it. These are anchovies. May I give you some? There will be an entertainment for you shortly.’
She gazed at him over the anchovies. ‘You lecture me, Mr Crawford?’
‘I,’ said the comte de Sevigny, ‘am attempting to offer you foodstuffs. It is you, your grace, who insists on conversing of cannibalism: chacun a sa marotte. You are going to live on an olive a day, like the Stoics?’
‘Did they?’ said Mary.
‘I have it on the best authority. You know what they say. Feed a horse or a poet too well and neither will ever do anything. Lord James, your royal kinswoman requires nourishment. Forbid her to talk, and while she eats discourse to her on the duties of kingship.’
‘No!’ said Mary.
‘A masque on the glorious union soon to take place between France and Scotland?’ Lymond said hopefully.
She glanced at him sideways, her expression commendably close to the gracious. ‘You have prepared one, Mr Crawford?’
‘No,’ said Lymond with regret. ‘What we have for you are love songs. They need not keep you from eating. Simply recognize the singers, now and then, with a wave of the hand, and allow Mr Hislop, there, to join in the choruses.’
She laughed; and through all the company, the volume of talk rose a little, and then rose again as, nerves assuaged and stomachs full, each man began to come, as Lymond had undertaken, to his natural self.
‘I am sad,’ said the Bishop of Orkney to Lord James Stewart as the tables were gently drawn and the floor cleared and the candied ginger passed from place to place. ‘I am sad because we live, you and I, on two sides of one river. And whoso list to hunt, I know