Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [268]
The doors opened again to emit a roll of drums and a squall of trumpets and clarions, announcing the forthcoming service. It entered, carried under napkins by two hundred pairs of gentlemanly hands and preceded by the twelve masters of the royal households, who in turn were led by the heralds of France and Scotland in their tabards, two by two, and by the dazzling cloth of gold presence of the Duke de Guise, his bâton of office before him.
On the handsome, scarred face of François de Guise was a smile of perfect complacency. Today, he was Grand Maître d’Hôtel to the King, and had filched at last the Constable’s coveted office. Today, without complaint, interference or open impediment, his niece had received with the ring on her finger the rights to three kingdoms. Through her he had laid at the feet of this king the priceless gift of the nation of Scotland, and the larger claim which that throne embodied. Through her, when the time came, the Duke himself might govern three nations, and his brother the Christian cosmos.
The vessel of such superb statecraft, fifteen years old, with the brilliant crown held blazing over her head, received smiling his careful deference. Tiredness hollowed the hazel eyes, but the flush and glitter of pride and excitement still drove aside all awareness of strain. She was the shrine, the fountain, the flame which drew all men’s eyes: praise and envy and adulation settled clinging upon her like garlands. Above her hung the French fleur de lis and the lion of Scotland. Her arms and those of France laced through the blue and gold vault of the ceiling. The painted file of arched windows, blazing with the late sunlight drenched the pillars with jewels and burned upon the riches of her subjects in flecks and prisms of colour, bright as soap-bubbles.
Later, when the third service was over and the cressets were lit, the buffet was opened with all its ten shelves laden with the gold plate of France, and the King lifted from it a great quart-pot of red gold for the heralds to carry from table to table, calling largesse. Then the Reine-Dauphine of France and Queen of Scotland was glad, for she could cease appearing to eat a meal for which she had no appetite. Soon, grace would be said and the tables drawn and she could move, and laugh and dance, and be admired all over again.
The demoiselles of honour, who had not been married today, looked more tired than she was. She spoke, twice, to Madame la comtesse de Sevigny, and finally obtained the rosewater and napkin she wanted.
Then the tables were lifted, and the austere replicas of past Presidents, Counsellors and advocates, peering down from the carved pendants and ogives, could see the black and white marble floor bare, where by day the merchants’ booths stood, and where the Procureurs of the Court leased their benches. And round the room, in blue and ducat-gold stood, without voicing opinion, the statues of the Kings of France, from Pharamond to Charles IX; the spiritual with arms and eyes uplifted, the less commendable with hands and heads lowered. The Dauphin, his wide-cheeked face suet-coloured, was led away, briefly, by his gentlemen.
The Queen did not want to leave, even temporarily. It was Madame de Valentinois, exerting incredible tact, who finally persuaded her to retire, and Philippa left the room with her, glancing for the last time, as she went, towards the group of gentlemen wearing the silver collar of the Chevaliers of the Order; and in particular at the one Knight of the Order whose shoulder had been turned to her throughout the whole turgid meal.
Adam also had been conscious for the last hour of Francis Crawford, and of the table with the Scottish Commissioners at which he had been sitting. Through all the meaningless vows of the ceremony you could see, if you knew, the anger simmering behind the nine correct faces: but at least up to now the ritual had been ecclesiastical,