Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [352]
‘Their main affliction,’ said Avandale, ‘would be progressive obesity. But we are in agreement. The King should stay out of reach. The person Albany has to see is the Queen … Nicholas?’
‘I heard you,’ said Nicholas.
• • •
VISITING THE QUEEN was never a chore for Drew Avandale, who regarded her, sometimes, as his creation. He couldn’t recall whether it was himself or Whitelaw or Argyll who had hit on the idea of presenting that great Scandinavian Queen, another Margaret, as her model. Two generations ago, the other Margaret had ruled Denmark and Norway and eventually Sweden, either herself or by proxy. She had come to power at twenty-two, a clever, ambitious woman, and never relinquished it till she died, aged nearly sixty. Margaret Two was not thus preternaturally endowed, but she would do, and she had been fourteen years on the throne. He trusted her, at twenty-six, to carry off this, the most difficult act of statesmanship in her life. And in his own, very nearly. Bringing Albany to the Queen was a device that could either pull them out of this mire, or sink them for good.
The Duke of Albany’s Grand Entry had gone off well enough. As demanded, the escort of honour had ridden south to receive him and bring him to Edinburgh. The streets had been unblocked and swept and there was a lot of dutiful cheering: since the English army had recrossed the Tweed, the children had come back to their homes, if not all the money. Albany had wanted to storm up to the Castle and solicit his brother to come out and greet him, but de Fleury had talked him out of it, and they had settled in Holyrood, with Archie Crawford at his most sincere and disarming. There was no one contentious in Albany’s train. The less acceptable supporters had presumably gone straight to Dunbar, now vacated by Murray, the King’s man. And Jamie Boyd, if he had marched north with the army, had discreetly left it before it turned south. A few days ago he had turned up, all innocence, in his mother’s household, and was now with the Princess in Stirling. Both the Princesses were in Stirling, with the Queen. Sandy was to be made to feel at home.
Using Nicol de Fleury had been a wise move. Sandy’s face, seeing him there at the rendezvous, had been a study: the princely hauteur giving way to something less cool, even through the formalities. De Fleury cleverly had not presumed; but had presently been called out to ride at Sandy’s side. On his other side, of course, was Jamie Liddell, whom Albany had greeted with a wet-eyed embrace. It was the sentimentality in Sandy that made him vulnerable, as de Fleury had certainly counted on.
Over five continuous years, Drew Avandale and his colleagues had all come to appreciate what they had been given, when Nicol de Fleury chose to turn his back on the turmoil in Flanders, and then extended his stay. They had assumed he was hoping for power, but such power as he had—and it was real enough—was all indirect. He had not even laid claim to the St Pol inheritance. The family funeral was due to take place this week, just as they were setting out on this visit to Stirling, and de Fleury was here, and not in Paisley. Of course, he and Kilmirren were at loggerheads. It was natural. Two prize bulls in one pen. Guts, and guile, and intelligence; but the one with fewer scruples would win.
The Queen had chosen to wear her portrait hennin and gown, and the jewels with a name. The rest of the Court, including the King’s sisters Mary and Margaret, were also in heated splendour: it was still August, and warm. From the windows of the audience chamber, looking down and abroad upon the silver links of the Forth, the flowery plain, the hills of the Highlands in the distance, the entering breeze was hardly cooler than the crowded room. The Queen