Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [193]
‘That was large-spirited of you,’ said Lymond. ‘And his lordship may now do as he fancies?’
‘I am sure,’ said O’LiamRoe on a deep breath, ‘that you or some other busy fellow will find a way of stopping him. Go and sit in front of his lordship and show your little sharp teeth. He might even confess.’
‘Oonagh O’Dwyer knew beforehand about the Tour des Minimes,’ said Lymond. ‘If she knows the name of even one man to connect it with d’Aubigny, it is enough. Your opinion of O’Connor is so high, I gather, that you are willing to concede him the lady and the run of your native land? Or are you afraid that once you have her, you cannot hold her, so you prefer to resign? If she is any man’s leavings, you may be right.’
O’LiamRoe was on his feet, the pale eyes shining. ‘You have a delicate way with a lady’s name, for a hired sniffer at chairs and a licker of footmarks.’
‘It’s damned picturesque,’ said Lymond bitterly, ‘but it doesn’t alter facts. Is that cunning, crib-biting lout your notion of a prince or a lover? And if I’m warned off, what do you mean to do? Wait for the execution, and then leave for home? “You owe it to the fellow”.’ The mimicry was merciless. ‘What do you owe to Ireland? To yourself? To Oonagh O’Dwyer?’
The Prince of Barrow, standing foursquare and steady, lifted his smooth chin. ‘The grace to leave her alone, my deaf and blind apostle of frenetic employment. Alone with her chosen life and her bruised face and the white and red weals on her arms.’
It was a hit. He saw it, bread to his famished ego, in the flicker of Lymond’s eyes. He let the silence lengthen and then said, ‘Go and see her. They live quite near at hand. After all, you can’t be after making a pudding without slitting a—’
‘You left her with him?’ said Lymond.
‘She has no desire to leave him,’ said O’LiamRoe simply. ‘Whatever he thinks fit, she will accept.’
‘And O’LiamRoe also.’ For a long moment Lymond stared at him, then got up and with a rigid, exasperated gesture, laid both fists on the chimney piece. ‘Phelim, Phelim—a normal man would be there making knife handles out of his bones.’
‘And of her a keening vampire at a martyr’s grave,’ said O’LiamRoe, his face pale. ‘Or become any man’s leavings.’ His lids fell; he looked, with a familiar vagueness, at Lymond’s flat back. ‘I have some business to do. Stay and have out your talk with Mr. Abernaci if you wish. I leave you to whet your tools and to pluck up the weeds and to cut down the tree of error.’ He stared at them both for a moment, then with Dooly behind like a shadow, he left his own room.
Lymond, his head between his arms, continued to look at the fire. After a while: ‘He’s sore in love with that one, the fushionless loon,’ said Abernaci, not without sympathy. ‘You’re smitten a wee bit yourself, I shouldna wonder.’
‘Maybe.’ It was not the voice of a man in love.
‘She was his father’s before she was his; that’s why she won’t leave him.’
‘I know. But if we give her up,’ said Lymond, straightening, his white face full of mockery, ‘as with Faustina, we give up her dowry the Empire.’ He paused, smiling with charm, at Abernaci’s chair. ‘What would you give to change places with me?’
‘A night in my lioness’s cage,’ said Abernaci calmly. ‘Robin Stewart’s skin is saved, but the lass is let suffer?’
‘I have a spare card up my sleeve,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘In case of need. And if you are comparing the two, I did Robin Stewart no service today, and I shall probably do none for Oonagh O’Dwyer tonight. Thus I distribute my favours impartially.’ A little later he left; and after a suitable interval, the Keeper also departed.
O’LiamRoe himself came back to the house very late and rather drunk. The next day, reporting thickheaded to the castle, he found the Court in labour, preparing yet another majestic move. Robin Stewart, under heavy guard, had already left for his last prison at Plessis-Macé, where the King was also due that day.
The news was given him by an