Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [219]
And so, smiling, in English and in Latin, the Lord President of the Court of Session thanked his former prisoner, in elegant terms, for the quality of his hospitality; and the comte de Sevigny, also in English and in Latin, turned in a graceful speech which brought three graded roars of laughter and a howl at the end when he sang, quickly and lightly, four lines from Ce petit homme’s chorus, neatly warped to malign Piero Strozzi.
Strozzi himself leaped over a bench to reach him, as they all began to make their farewells. ‘You are mollified! I knew it! To Scotland, arse of the world, I bring many well-endowed patrons, and allow you to impress them. Par le mort bien, many a gentleman would embrace me.’
‘I shall let you know,’ Lymond said, ‘when I am ready to embrace you, and with what. In the meantime should you seek a favour, ask elsewhere.’
Antoine de Navarre, smiling, held out his hand. ‘Feu contre feu. It is becoming a legend: Sevigny and Strozzi. How did you cease to fight each other long enough to conquer Calais?’
‘I cannot quite recollect,’ said Piero Strozzi, his face contorted in thought. ‘The Duke de Guise could tell us. This Sevigny, you observe, works only to become one of the four Marshals of France, and then he must say bon soir et bonne nuit to Fortune, for there is nowhere to progress but downwards.’ He sighed.
‘I have your example,’ Lymond said. ‘Madame Marguerite?’
‘You have become too eminent to sing?’ said the King’s sister. ‘Or might one invite you to perform in private? I should like to have the musician and poet who wrote and arranged this entertainment to visit me with you.’
‘We are all honoured,’ Lymond said. ‘The only obstacle is our natural modesty. Mademoiselle d’Albon and I wish to thank you for joining us.’
Richard caught the words, waiting with other Commissioners to take his leave, Sybilla beside him. The inexplicable storm of tears had ceased without trace: the tensions of evening, he supposed, had over-tired her. There had been no exchanges with Lymond. He was glad that Philippa had come, at last, to spend some time at Sybilla’s side. He had left them to talk quietly together and on returning, had found the girl gone, so that he did not require to offer his escort back to the Hôtel de Guise. One supposed there were plenty of gallants who had leaped at the opportunity.
He moved forward with Sybilla, hearing Lord James’s slow voice ahead, making all the proper remarks to his brother. The girl Catherine stood at Lymond’s shoulder and his hand had come to rest lightly on her waist. The mother, creaking with jewels just behind them, looked positively hilarious. ‘He had heard about Marguerite de St André. It was not surprising, he supposed, if she clung to her youth. St André, they said, was a harquebuzier de ponant. It was the rottenness at the French court which had ruined Francis.
Then it was his turn and he bowed, without approaching for an embrace; while his brother returned the gesture with practised, careless courtesy to them both. The decoration pinning the Queen’s glove, he now saw, was the gold Medal of Calais. He wondered if the Queen knew he had another glove donated last year by Madame Elizabeth of England. Neither Francis nor Sybilla avoided the other’s eyes, he noticed, although neither was smiling. The two delicate skins even yet could look identical: milky-fair in the dazzle of ruff-gauze. There were oyster shells made from silver spools, a pretty conceit, half concealed by the seaming and arm-hoops of Lymond’s nacré velvet and within each a white pearl, tastefully glimmering. The St Michael, they said, was the most privileged Order in France, and opened the only sure doorway to power.
Sybilla said, so quietly that none but he and Francis could hear it, ‘You brought me here, it seems, for one purpose. If it pleases you to ask me again, you must not be surprised if I refuse you.’
Richard felt the heat rise through his face. Erskine of Dun, damn his eyes, was just behind him. He said harshly,