Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [123]
All the fair delicacy which had been Lymond’s at birth could be seen in Sybilla. White-haired, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed, she read the two messages and said instantly, ‘Francis, of course, embarking on some nutritive project, while all within hearing drop prone and their matins madly say.… Do you think they expect me to appear, unworldly and strongly maternal, like a Scotch clocking hen? It will be a pleasure to refuse.’
Long ago it had been recognized by all who knew Sybilla that, though she doted on her two sons, her astringent soul belonged to the younger. Richard did not grudge it. He had sufficient happiness at home here in Midculter not to deny Francis any comfort he could snatch. And always, as she had proved yet again, Sybilla’s quick mind and formidable intelligence kept her impulses controlled and her judgment sound.
She was watching him. ‘Such a pity. Not a time to be away.’
He was thinking, too, of Mariotta. And it was because of her that he said, almost before his mother stopped speaking, ‘Either the Queen is in trouble, or Francis … or both. The sooner I go and find out what that fool of a son of yours is doing, the sooner we shall both be back.’
In all her long life, Sybilla had perfected a blithe self-control which was absolute; if she had gone, the watchers, whoever they were, would have learned nothing from her face.
But she knew, who knew him through and through, that they might have learned something from Lymond’s.
But Richard, obviously, was another matter.
A good quarter drunk, the Bourbon party arrived in the Rue Chemonton, Thady Boy in its midst, and swept into the wide, low-ceilinged room in the Hôtel de Guise where their host’s scarlet gown glowed by the silks of his sister.
Margaret Erskine saw them come; saw Culter’s grey eyes rest on his brother, flatten and glance smoothly away; saw Lymond’s blue gaze return the look and continue unbroken to deposit its bloodshot burden of greeting on his major ecclesiastical target. In neither face was there a trace of recognition. They were a capable pair.
The meal was a princely one, perfectly served. Lord Culter without evident effort created small talk in an impeccable flow, and only Margaret, her senses unnaturally raw, saw that he was watching his brother throughout. Lymond’s behaviour, as always, went to the limits of polite usage and then hurtled off into space. Bursts of laughter rose like cannon-shot from his side of the table, and his voice was blurring, as it always did by this time. When the boards were drawn, he had drunk enough, and so had most of the men, to be ready for whatever outrageous feat of inventiveness sprang into his head. No one had troubled to ask him to play.
At this point, judging the ollave’s condition with skill, the Cardinal signed to bring on the wrestlers.
Jousting, fencing, fighting with staffs—this kind of knockabout combat was an old distraction; fresh, lively and painful, boisterous, sometimes malicious, they rejoiced in it to a man. Only Margaret, it seemed, was aware tonight of the queer tension in the air; only to her mind had the breathing space of good company and laughter suddenly shrunk, as if a door had shut in some lukewarm brood chamber, and something uncouth and organic had started to grow. Rumour had it that the chief wrestler, the Cornishman, had been challenged by Thady. True or not, the ollave seemed to be ready to wrestle; as the first exhibition bout started she saw something like eagerness on Lymond’s slackened face. It disturbed her. His mind was never, as a rule, so simple to read.
During the bout, her uneasiness grew. One man, the smaller, was quite new. The other, the Cornishman, had fought already at Court on that December night when Thady had roused all Blois with his race. He was a big man, over six feet and solid, with the vast limbs and the cream and rose-flooded flesh of the sandy-haired. His head was shaved, like