Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [134]
A second consideration had to do directly with George Paris’s errand to fetch Cormac O’Connor, and with a little uneasiness growing in Blois over the less disciplined of the Scottish Dowager’s noblemen. And lastly, having interviewed Richard Crawford and found him uncompromising, uncomplicated and personally likable, Catherine de Médicis had been content to dismiss him to Amboise with his Queen and a discreet observer to hand. Anonymous advice was always better investigated, but Lord Culter’s presence in France seemed unlikely to bring either profit or anxiety to the crown, and the letter which inspired it came, no doubt, from some private malice.
In this Queen Catherine was right. She was also right in guessing the incident closed, although she could hardly know why. For motives all her own, the Queen Dowager had forestalled Lymond’s suggestion and had granted Sir George Douglas what he wanted: the earldom of Morton for his son. Sir George had enjoyed thanking her in suitable terms, but had not so far made the decision public, even to his closest relative in France, since he took pleasure in encouraging Lord d’Aubigny’s occasional mild hysteria on the ingratitude of princes. It amused him to listen to his lordship comparing with acrimony the rewards brought him by a life of devotion to the arts, and the attention being showered by the Court of France on the head of Thady Boy Ballagh.
Sir George, too, had noted how, during all those wild weeks of festivities that lasted from Candlemas up to Shrove—the revels, the pageants, the masques and the balls, the baiting and tournaments and battles of oranges—the gay, crude libidinous life of the private parlour and supper table began to lick at the stiff, sugary edges of etiquette.
The Vidame de Chartres arrived, fresh from conquests in London, where he had spent half a year, along with d’Enghien among others, as nominal hostages for France’s final payments on Boulogne. D’Enghien and d’Aumale had put in a formal few months, made the most of the festivities, and had come home. The Vidame had stayed, to charm the young King, to entice the Marquis of Northampton’s handsome wife, to attend weddings, give banquets and visit Scotland, as he pleased.
The Vidame, an ally of Mary of Guise, called on her at Amboise and Châteaudun, and entertained the rest of the Court with tales of his boudoir. He also cast his large, practised brown eyes on d’Enghien’s new ami, and gently made himself known to Master Ballagh.
However tumultuous the ungartered life of the Court, the old King had never allowed vulgarity to penetrate the Throne Room. Now, under the debilitating impact of Thady Boy and the relaxations of the season, affairs were being made to wait which could not wait, or were going by default. The historic half-cast of political frivolity in the fine eye of France had become something like blindness.
It was a bad February. Although never doubting that Lymond would keep his word, Richard had said nothing of it to the Erskines, to Lady Fleming or to the Queen Mother. This was a promise undertaken to his brother. With Lymond gone, and the Special Ambassador due home very shortly, the mantle of protector would have to fall on himself, and he knew well that the Queen Mother was as anxious for him to go back to Scotland as he was to return. It would go badly against the grain to keep him here in France to look after young Mary. But whom else could she trust? Moreover, he had no illusions about the danger. The assassin, if he still remained, knew quite well who Thady Boy was. All he had to do was transfer the attack to Thady Boy’s brother.
Richard