Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [12]
All this, the Great John, present Lord d’Aubigny, had inherited, and it had done him as much good as Robin Stewart’s old suit of armour. For his brother the Earl of Lennox, having failed to marry the Queen Dowager and obtain the power he wanted in Scotland, had defected to her enemy England, with 10,000 stolen French crowns in his pocket, and had thereby forfeited all his Scottish estates. Brother Matthew, as it happened, had come out of all that little the worse, having had the forethought to marry Margaret, King Henry VIII’s niece, which brought him wealth and asylum in England, and the promise that one day he would govern Scotland on Henry’s behalf.
But the King of France, where young Lennox had grown up, had been in no mood to be charitable, especially about the lost money; and since he could not touch Lennox, had seized his brother, John Stewart of Aubigny, instead, and thrown him into prison, deprived of office and honours. From there the present King had released him, on coming to the throne. The incarceration, in Stewart’s view, had not done his former captain much good.
‘A Scotsman!’ O’LiamRoe was saying. ‘Then roll out the Latin, boy! Air your astronomy! We mustn’t let down the old country before the great chief ones, with the silver buttons like mill wheels on their shirts!’
Very soon after that, Lord d’Aubigny arrived, very creditably got up in blistered velvet, with a curled beard, and a diamond or two, and a neat, small cap on his head, sewn with pearls. With him were two young noblemen and a priest.
Stewart smelled the scent even before they came in, and knew which of the boys had come. They had amused themselves dressing in full court style, with their fans; as the introductions were made he saw O’LiamRoe’s eyebrows shoot up. The priest, master of the hydrography school, started to bow and considerately stopped; the young men, with joyous accord, bowed three times each, right knee bent, bonnet low in the left hand, gloves gripped at the stomach in the right.
O’LiamRoe smiled widely. Lord d’Aubigny sketched a bow, advanced steadily and kissed the Prince of Barrow on both cheeks.
‘Man, you smell nice,’ said The O’LiamRoe appreciatively as they sat. ‘I see how it is. The O’Donnell, God save him, came back from France the very same, tasselled like a cushion and with a particular smell. Excuse me.’ And grasping his secretary, he drew him into the circle. ‘My travelling ollave. You’ll forgive him. He had the manners all bled out of him in the water, and is dead sober on me today besides. He can talk Greek itself when he has the drop in: I got him to sing at the milking and every cow in it gave off pure alcohol.’
Lord d’Aubigny was not quick-witted. For a moment he was wordless, the big handsome face reddening under the pearls. Behind, the two gallants were scarlet; and it was the priest who stepped in, his eye twinkling. ‘We are all glad to see you; and sorry to hear of the shocking voyage into harbour.’
‘Shocking! A Flemish galliasse. You can’t trust them. Criminally poor seamanship. Letters have been sent,’ said Lord d’Aubigny sharply, to reduce the levity he sensed behind him and suspected in front. ‘The King himself will make amends.’
‘Ah, no apologies,’ said O’LiamRoe, his oval, soft-whiskered face alight with freckles and good humour.