Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [217]
Richard, coming to question her, was diverted after all: she thought by his mother. Lymond, bending courteously, was talking to d’Andelot’s wife, reclining near her husband on a coffer-seat.
In paradise, for hunger still I starve;
And, in the flood, for thirst to death I dry.
So Tantalus am I, and in worse pain
Amids my help, and helpless doth remain.
Danny Hislop, twining among quilted backs like winter jasmine, arrived and seated himself nonchalantly in her circle. The Queen, and everyone else in the dim, scented room were listening to the singers. And as thought returned, and the flush died at last in her cheeks, Philippa listened to them too.
Help me to seek, for I lost it there,
And if that ye have found it, ye that be here
And seek to convey it secretly.
Handle it soft and treat it tenderly,
Or else it will plain and then appear;
… Help me to seek
The theme of the music was earthly passion. The songs sprang from every country and age, their story told sometimes by the music and sometimes by the singers and sometimes in mime by the dancers, grave of face and tranquil in manner, and faultlessly clothed, as were all the performers, in pale, clear colours which spoke of spring, and of young lovers and sunlight.
… I wis it was a thing all too dear
To be bestowed and wist not where;
It was my heart. I pray you heartily,
Help me to seek.
It was a display of art unmarred by slovenliness. One wept indeed for Jodelle, and for every masque born of Alciati and Giraldi and d’Avrigny, and presented, woodenly fixed to the drawing-board. Skilfully brought to this moment with wine and food and pleasure, with dim candlelight, and the warmth of their own kind, in talk and company, the guests were quite silent, watching and listening.
As hound that hath his keeper lost,
Seek I your presence to obtain.
In which my heart delighteth most
And shall delight, though I be slain.
Come cold upon it, Philippa saw it with clear eyes, and was pleased to be critical.
Cunningly done, O Francis, puissant comte de Sevigny. Nothing crude. Nothing too rich, or sickly, or posturing. Songs like a lost hearth-fire, that one had known from one’s childhood; songs rarely come upon, and the rest like new lovers, moving in their unfamiliarity. Songs which spoke direct to the heart. To the heart, and not to the intellect.
She looked at Lymond.
The dark wood of his chair defined his head. His profile, pure as the flowered spurs on his porcelain, was turned from the singers. His lids at first she thought were closed; and then she realized that he was fully occupied. He was watching time, and his guests; and guiding noiselessly through his maîtres d’hôtel the weaving pattern of footmen, pages, sommelier. Tonight he had no hostess and equally needed none. He had done this, somewhere, many times, and it was effortless.
I fold thy gentleness within my cloak
Thy flying wit I braid with jewellery,
I span thy courage with my bravest clasp
And sip the sweets of thy integrity.
They think thee fair.
They see not what I see.
The guests sat close. The gold in Strozzi’s earring flashed, above the girl’s hair coiled across his breast. The white hand of de La Roche-sur-Yon stroked, down and down, the charming boy who sat beside his feet. Condé watched Catherine, and the Maréchale watched him until, with a soft movement, the demoiselle d’Albon rose and moved to Lymond’s side.
Then he looked up, and smiled, and watched her as she settled by him: black hair, white neck, and azure skirts spread all around the floor.
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
Therewith all sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, ‘Dear heart, how like you this?’
The music rose again, and his hand moved and stilled, as Catherine leaned her head against the carved chair-arm. Aşk Olsun sang the plaintive, sweet voices to the undulating airs one had heard inside Zante, through Thessalonika, within the gates of Topkapi itself. Askin Cernai Olsun … Let there be love. May thy love be beautiful.