Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [165]
Lymond did leave Durham House the following day; but only to visit the Earl and Countess of Lennox, from whose rooftree he had made up his mind to remove Phelim O’LiamRoe.
VI
The Nettle and the Venom
It is not the tooth of old age that merits it: it is not age that shares the tribe-lands; it is not the age of nettles that gives them venom.
He is entitled to full honour-price out of his confidential, talking or discoursing amus.
AS a child might toy with a squirrel, Margaret Lennox had played with O’LiamRoe in the three weeks which followed his first critical visit to Brice Harisson’s house, the heroic venture in the bookseller’s, and the visit to de Chémault which had ended his share of the affair.
She played with him idly, softly, skilfully; and he knew it. Lazy to the bone, he was also perspicacious. A few weeks ago, he would have taken all the amusement he could get out of the situation, and at the first twinge of discomfort escaped. This time he did his level best, cursing wildly under his breath, to hit the ball back.
He had not gone to de Chémault again. Lennox, whose fair, sagging charm O’LiamRoe could not find funny, came sweeping into the great reception room one afternoon, flung his hat on a chair, and said, ‘Well, they’ve got him. They’ve got both of them. Now he can damned well take his foot off my neck.…’
Then Lady Lennox had followed him into his study and they had discussed the rest privately. But that evening as Phelim himself was nicely launched on a favourite tale about the two little dogs and the eggshell, the Countess of Lennox broke in, her robes as sheerly pure in the firelight as they fell from the loom, the pearls milky in her greenish-fair hair. ‘I have news for you tonight worth more than two dogs and an eggshell. You should go to Cheapside, Prince, now and then; we can match Dublin, nearly, for excitement.’
‘How so?’ O’LiamRoe was busily interested.
‘The Archer who took you to Ireland was arrested today at Cheapside, and has confessed to planning the death of Scotland’s Queen Mary.’
‘Do you tell me?’ O’LiamRoe’s blue eyes were round. ‘And myself sitting easy on that deck, within a foot of the rail, and he might have had me over in a winking. A would-be assassin!’
‘An assassin in fact,’ said the Countess. Across the hearth, her firm, well-made features were bathed in innocent light. ‘As he was taken, he ran a sword through his betrayer—a man Harisson who had been his friend.’
‘Ah, the devil,’ said the Prince. ‘That’s the French for you. There was Harisson smoothing the way for them. The least they could do, you would think, is protect him.’
In the ensuing silence, Margaret Lennox’s fine eyes fixed on his, within them the faintest spark of amusement. ‘Now why ever should you think he confessed to the French? It was the English who took him. He’s in the Tower tonight.’
He heard the story through, and wondered vaguely what had gone wrong. It did not seem greatly to matter. Robin Stewart had confessed, and justice could be done. The name of the herald Vervassal had cropped up briefly. It meant nothing to him, but thinking it over later he wondered if this was the man whom the Queen Dowager, on receiving his message, had decided to send off to London. He spent some time that night thinking about Margaret Lennox.
She had been interested, of course, in his visit to France. He had become used to that after Paget and the rest, politely questioning, had tried to find out what he had been offered, and what he knew. The January rumour had taken a long time to die: the rumour that a vast French fleet was preparing to invade Ireland and throw out the English neck and crop. He could have told them that since she had repossessed Boulogne, France was sitting back in comfort watching Croft and all the rest of the English Council’s minions in Ireland crying wolf. He didn’t say so. O’LiamRoe’s feelings, to himself, were not at all clear.
Other people had done extremely well out of England. Long ago, Ireland