Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [151]
Stewart swore. ‘Did I not try every other way? The messages never reached him. I knew he was sailing to Greenwich that day. The rest was easy.’
Harisson’s voice was still agreeable. ‘Were you plain with him?’
‘I said I had news for him that would do great good to England, and that because it was secret, I wished that he would speak to me alone.’
‘And—?’
‘He said he did not mean to discuss anything forced upon him by intrusion. I was to think myself lucky not to be put in the river and carried to Newgate; and if I had had anything to say, I would need have written him in the proper way. But he was interested.’
‘He does not sound interested.’
Stewart’s aggressive voice was smooth with complacency. ‘He was, then. I lifted the edge of my cloak and showed him the Archer’s insignia.’
For the first time, Harisson’s voice sharpened. ‘Who else saw this?’
‘Not anyone. Good God, is it foolish I am? The boat was full of servants and officials—not anyone who knew me at all. Then they waved to a ferryboat and threw me off. But the next letter I will write, by God, he will read.’ His voice, in his excitement, had risen. ‘Now is the time. I know it. A fresh message, Brice. We shall ask him to speak to us. And if he will not do that, we shall suggest place and time for a meeting with any man he may appoint. He cannot refuse. And once he knows what we offer, our fortune is made. That brat Mary married to France would mean a French menace at the Scottish Border for all time; whereas if she were dead Arran would likely rule Scotland, and Arran favours the English and could be got for a groat. Warwick might even get them persuaded to let Lennox rule—he’s got a good enough claim.
‘As it is—’ Stewart’s voice, hoarse with enthusiasm, pounded on. ‘As it is, Mary’s a downright threat to the English throne. If the Catholics came back into power, France might well incite them to push her claims here to the crown. She’s the granddaughter of Henry VIII’s sister. Considering the mess he made of his marriages, you could say her claim was as strong nearly as his daughter Mary’s.’
‘Or that of the Earl and Countess of Lennox?’ Brice Harisson mused. ‘I was thinking you had taken your offer first there.’
‘Well, then,’ said Stewart. There was a long pause, during which the Prince of Barrow had time to think that the tiles below him would begin to drum under the lashing of his heart. Then Stewart said, with uneasy brusqueness, ‘I said something once, as I remember. But I don’t have a kindness for the family, and that’s the truth.’
‘Oh, I agree.’ And, his voice amiable and unchanged, Brice Harisson used an expression about the Lennoxes which O’LiamRoe had heard in the gutters of Dublin. Then without pausing he said, ‘Then we shall write to Warwick; that I agree, too. Give him time to consider, and a place to meet. A bookseller’s is always useful. There are too many ears at an inn.… Would you think of letting me go? I have, to my cost, a long experience of this Court, and I think they would give me a good hearing. No one would question your standing, but your name, naturally, is not so readily known.’
‘I was going to say the same,’ said Robin Stewart; and in his capitulation O’LiamRoe read relief disguised as intelligent realism. Then they fell to discussing time and place for the suggested meeting and, this done, began the preliminaries of parting.
It was then, when O’LiamRoe was preparing to leave, that his own name was spoken. Harisson was answering a question. ‘They went off—I told you. And he won’t be in it again. I made sure of that too. He couldn’t be knowing you were here. It was purest chance; my fool of a brother had sent him.’
Stewart’s voice, thin with worry, said, ‘I can’t understand it. I left him in Ireland.’
‘My dear Robin,’ said Harisson dryly, ‘he wouldn’t be the first man to wish to change masters. If the man you called Thady Boy Ballagh were alive and in London, you would have had reason to worry.’
‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Stewart