Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [154]
He was due the courtesy of a fair answer, at least. O’LiamRoe mentioned that he was the guest of the Earl and Countess of Lennox, and would remain there at least until the affair was cleared up. If his evidence was required, M. de Chémault had only to call.
M. de Chémault made no comment. At the door he took a serious farewell, and laying one broad, brown hand on the Irishman’s sleeve said, ‘You know your own business best. But should you wish to go back to France, there would be many who would welcome you for your own sake only. And whatever your conclusions or your policies, the friendship of the French Court can be assured.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Phelim O’LiamRoe, smiling. ‘I was never easy with ghosts; and France there is bursting full of them. I shall never go back—God save us, no.… I might meet the shade of Phelim O’LiamRoe face to face.’
That afternoon, Piedar Dooly came back. He had delivered his master’s message with some trouble to the Scottish Queen Dowager, and had been provided with more than enough money to cover the double journey, and an obscurely worded message of thanks.
He also had news. Stewart’s attempt on Thady Boy Ballagh’s life had not been successful … but a later accident had. From Piedar Dooly, in Gaelic with spectrum-like detail, The O’LiamRoe heard the story of the Tour des Minimes at Amboise, of Lord Culter’s investigation and of the burning of the Hôtel Moûtier with Ballagh inside.
That night the Lennoxes, chaffing lightly through the supper courses from their heavy, crested gold plate, found him erratic and even unresponsive to their quips. Margaret, her dark eyebrows raised, more than once caught her husband’s eye over the sensationally cropped silky head, and afterwards redoubled her solicitous concern for her guest, expressed in the cool voice with which Margaret Douglas’s sentiments were most often presented, ice-fresh and bloody, like newly caught fish. She made little headway. O’LiamRoe, clearly, had other things on his mind.
Robin Stewart, who dared not be seen by any man, Scot, Frenchman or Londoner, was hiding in the brickfields at Islington, and making the rarest visits to the Strand. He did not know that on the morning before the momentous interview with Lord Warwick, his faithful friend Brice rode round the corner to Durham House and, passing through courtyards hazy with young green, was closeted ten minutes later with the French Ambassador and addressing him in fluent French. ‘M. de Chémault, I hope you have news for me. I come to tell you that tomorrow I shall be able to give you information of some considerable value.’
This time there were three of them in the room: de Chémault himself, seated at his fine desk, an undersecretary, and someone’s herald, deep in conversation with them both. They were all speaking French. Harisson meticulously did the same.
M. de Chémault heard him out. At the end, he said, ‘We have not been slow, sir, in extending our powers to help you. The gentleman beside me is Vervassal, herald to the Princess Mary of Guise, Queen Mother of Scotland. Address your wishes to him. On the other matters you have just mentioned we should of course be interested to hear more.’
Harisson was sure they would. But he wanted to find out what they would pay, first. He bowed. The man called Vervassal smiled; then picking up a handsome, light stick, came over and sat down beside him. The discussion began.
The conversation was conducted in French. Brice Harisson’s requirements were soon told, confined as they were to simple matters of land, money and security, and a safe haven in Scotland. The herald, dealing with them point by point, was excellent, quick, accurate and fair; and his powers of treaty seemed to be unlimited. Harisson, no novice at bargaining, could admire his skill while jarred by something underneath the words.
Twice, he found himself caught out in a foolish error of grammar. To Harisson, this was staggering; as shocking as if he had become partially undressed. Indeed he, always penguin-neat,