Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [161]
In the weeks he spent alone, or during the rare, discreet visits to Harrisson, the image of Mary, the living child he was to murder, never took shape in Stewart’s mind. His half-set, vulnerable emotions, trodden underfoot too hard and too early, had become a cage lined with mirrors in which daily, nightly, he could examine the shrinking image of himself. And the people he met who spoke to him through the bars, and pushed him, and directed him, and exercised him, were his food.
Much of this, in his queer way, Harisson must have understood. In Scotland, long ago, he had endured Stewart’s pricking aggression without riposte or impatience: on a creature as confined in his way as the Archer, Stewart’s shafts had simply missed their mark. Also, as a matter of vanity, Harisson happened to enjoy, from time to time, using his neat-fingered charm. Coming back to Harisson, for Stewart, had been like returning to a private, mossy plateau after wading rotting through the treachery of some infested swamp.
When Harisson had concluded his interview with Warwick, he was to send for the Archer. The summons came: the rendezvous was not at Harisson’s house, but in Cheapside. Full of firm, purposeful efficiency, Stewart pulled his bonnet low over his long, bony face, and set off.
Just past the High Cross of Cheap, next to the rich gables of Goldsmiths’ Row, the sun gay on its sinewy carvings, the painted balconies, the gilded statues, was the house Harisson had designated. Cheapside was thronged. Its sparkling conduits, its church spires, its inns, its calling apprentices (‘What d’ye lack?’), its thrusting bustle of men and women, cheerful, noisy, decently dressed, were all kindly to Stewart’s eyes: a fat token of promise for the leisure to come. He dismounted at the gate; a boy ran forward to take his horse, and he was conducted instantly to the sunny parlour overlooking the garden, where he found Brice Harisson waiting.
Excitement, suspense, pleasure, had never altered the middle-aged smartness of Brice’s face. He was dressed as usual, with extreme care, his doublet braided and his cuffs showing, a slit of frill above the small hands. He wore a dark puffed cap on his brushed hair, and the flat of his cheeks and his thin nose shone.
He represented success, amity, excitement, and a haven from the brickfields of Islington. Stewart grinned, his Adam’s apple moving untidily, before he noticed that Brice was not alone. Beside, him in black and scarlet robes and the gold chain of his office, was a sheriff of the City of London, with his usher and clerk.
By God, thought the Archer, and paused, controlling his delight. By God, Warwick is with us. We’ve got a sheriff to deal with the affair. Next it’ll be the Mayor, Alderman and Recorder. But naturally he won’t risk getting the Council openly involved. An intermediary, this would be. And a very nice house, thought Robin Stewart, looking round appreciatively, to conspire in. There were two men standing at the door.
‘That is the man,’ said Brice, the pliant voice flat, not taking time to answer the grin. Stewart looked round, but no one had come in. Instead the sheriff, a stout man marbled in puce, unrolled a paper, depressed a firm pink underlip as overture, and read, ‘Robin Stewart, late of the Royal Guard of Scottish Archers in France and now in London and in no known abode: know ye that I, John Atkinson, Sheriff of the City of London, am bid and empowered to seize and hold you on the charge of conspiring against the body and person of the high and mighty Princess Mary, by the grace of God Queen of our dear sister kingdom of Scotland, while under the roof and domicile of the Most Christian King and our dear ally, Henry II of France. And until instruction be received from France or Scotland as to your disposal, I have here a warrant that you may be put under ward and guard, from this day onwards, in the King’s Tower of London. Take him.’
There was a soldier at either of his elbows. Robin Stewart didn’t heed them. His long face yellow, the grain