Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [155]
‘That was sickening,’ Tobie said. ‘What Mar said to Kathi. Sickening. Sickening.’
‘I said, Forget it. Who else is to come? Henry?’
‘He’s on duty till later. The Scougals are downstairs, talking horses with Knollys. So is Abbot Archie. And Abbot Henry. Remember Henry Arnot in Rome? He’s back in Cambuskenneth for a bit. But none of the Lords Three; they’ve scattered to do their duty at home. Some of these will go home as well. This room will only hold about fifty in comfort, and the wine’s going round. They expect the Queen to retire.’
Nicholas had not been near the Queen since his entrance. She was Adorne’s perquisite, as the young were supposed to be the targets of Nicholas. With the exception of Johndie Mar. He said, ‘And Adorne?’
‘He’s staying here. You know how well he gets on with them all. He’ll come later. Andreas is also here somewhere, and Conrad, and Scheves.’ He was making a point. The timber guest accommodation outside must be full. All the Court physicians and apothecaries were in attendance, as ever. And Tobie himself.
‘Good. Now talk to Willie,’ Nicholas said. ‘I know he’s blowing his trumpet, but that never stopped him from speaking: I’ve heard him perform on a pair of brass urinals and order a marrow tart with the same breath. Agreed, Willie?’
Whistle Willie gave a virtuoso bray and laid down his instrument. The other players caught his glare and continued. A dance was beginning. Nicholas said, ‘I sent you some verse.’
‘I don’t need your putrid verses,’ said Willie. His chin was wet and the brim of his beaver, descending over his brow, was resting on the ferocious grey ridge of his brows. He added, ‘I’ve got my own writer now. John of Stobo. Doesn’t make blots.’
John of Stobo was a royal clerk. Tobie had once heard one of his poems. Moral tales aimed at the King were generally devoured for their gossipy sub-text. This one hadn’t mentioned Phemie in the same breath as seduction, but had slipped her sister’s husband’s name into the story. Tobie said, ‘Stobo? Willie, it’s tumpety-tump. This officer but dout is callit Deid; Is nane his power agane may repleid; Is nane sa wicht, na wyse, na of sic wit—’
‘Agane his summond suithly that may sit. Tobie, stop talking,’ Nicholas said.
‘Why?’ said Tobie robustly, and then stopped and said it again. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But just stop.’
THE ARGUMENT BROKE out fairly soon after that, when more fiercely spiced wine had been brought, and the reek in the hall—sweat and ginger and cumin, damp fur and pepper and dogs—lay in the mouth like sour cake, despite all that sweet rushes and kindling could do. Ill-advisedly, someone had attempted to assuage the consequent thirst by serving bowls of black, pungent soup which the King drank earnestly dry, sending Sandy for more. The kitchen was just outside the screen.
Subject to nasal afflictions himself, Tobie had always suspected some such explanation for the Stewart disregard of the finer principles of savour and smell. Unhappily, what the royal kindred did, all must do. Over the rim of her bowl, the gaze of Katelinje Sersanders, to Tobie’s amusement, appeared perfectly square, while Gelis, occupying a cushion at a distance, came within a fraction of tipping the contents of hers into the extremely large fireplace. The Queen by then had gone, and the King’s two sisters with her, Meg with some reluctance. There was no sign of the Sinclairs. Jodi, returned to the charge of the lady Mary, bowed to each of his parents, and received a kiss in return, his eyes rather bright. Halfway to the screen, he broke protocol and ran back to his father. Head bent, Nicholas received him in a friendly, murmuring way, his big smoothing hands on either side of the child’s burrowing face until Jodi lifted his head and stepped back, smiling shakily, and turning, ran to the chamberlain, neatly side-stepping Jamie Boyd’s kick.
The Earl of Mar came in, his eyes lack-lustre, and was contemptuously filled with soup by his