Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [106]
Henri of France was a moderate man, but short of disrespect for the throne, licence at this feast time was nearly boundless. Copied, encouraged, cosseted by the younger Court, Thady Boy had now the amused applause of the royal family; and on the King’s orders someone, generally Stewart, was always at hand at midnight, at dawn, or whenever the wayward day ended, to roll Thady Boy out of the pothouse, the ballroom floor or the gutter and see him safely to bed. Solicitude, of one sort or another, was remarkably widespread. Completely charming, completely drunk, completely irresponsible, he accepted it all.
The Scottish Court watched him do it. The Erskines and Jenny, a little subdued, observed in silence. The Queen Mother, retreating gratefully from her state discussions, continued to smile superbly at her hosts, in a bold effort to deny the billowing and tramping behind the curtains, where the ambitious, half-bribed lords of her retinue were quarrelling like henwives. And Sir George Douglas took time to write an anonymous letter to the Queen of France, suggesting that one Richard, Lord Culter, should be invited to Court. Catherine de Médicis received it next day.
It was the day, chilly with sleet and early dark, that they danced a pavane on horseback in the Gran’ Salle, weaving between the bright pillars, fire sparking from the chipped tiles. The clatter of hooves drowned the music as they moved, laughing, through their paces, and Thady Boy, threading sideways, plucked the candles from their brackets one by one and threw them, juggling, to his scorch-fingered partners, swearing, laughing and plunging, until hysteria and ultimate darkness crowned the exercise.
Leaning watching on the fretted balustrade, the King read the letter his wife had given him, while the large, shallow Médicis eyes marshalled the scene. ‘Does this wildness distress you?’
Glancing up from the letter, he followed her gaze. ‘Art roots in mouldering soils. I suppose that is always the answer.’
‘He is of a fresh and original talent, even when outside himself, certainly,’ said the Queen. ‘But I had thought lately that even the bloom was becoming a little tainted. What do you make of the letter?’
Henri scanned the paper. ‘The name is a famous one. But who exactly is Richard Crawford of Culter?’
Catherine’s lashes lay discreetly on her coarse-grained, powdered cheek. ‘I enquired of Madame the Queen Dowager. He is the third baron of the name, with considerable power and money in Scotland, and a supporter of the young Queen. The story runs that he has remained behind until his wife should be brought to bed of an heir.… By now the child will have been born. Since he is free, we might well suggest to Madame the Queen Dowager that it would delight us to see him.’
She was right. France had promised to do all in her power to install Mary of Guise as Regent of her daughter’s kingdom. It was only common sense, given the hint, to inspect whatever influence, for good or for evil, she had found it politic to leave behind her at home.
Below, sleeves flying, fringes swaying, the riders streamed past. The King, leaning down, snapped his fingers; and Thady Boy, lifting his eyes, sent a torch flying with a flick of his wrist. Henri caught it, raising it a little in salute; and turning, held the flame thoughtfully to the edge of Sir George Douglas’s letter.
Three weeks after that, Robin Stewart heard that he was to travel once more to Ireland, this time with an agent, to bring back Cormac O’Connor. It precipitated one of the great crises of his life: the day he stood up to John Stewart of Aubigny.
Robin Stewart had been seconded to his lordship in order to help with the O’LiamRoe visit. For his extra work with the Irishman, and for all the special services he had rendered Lord d’Aubigny for far longer than that, Stewart had expected one day to receive an appropriate reward: a minor household post, perhaps with the