Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [202]
If he regretted leaving his own newborn son, he did not show it. If there were more reasons than appeared on the surface for the recall of de Chémault, the Constable did not explain. The Marshal de St. André went on his way, and called on the English Embassy at Saumur as he passed. Sir James Mason, thankfully nearing the moment when his year’s French embassy would end and he could pass the two thousand seven hundred ounces of silver and gilt plate on to his lucky successor, left likewise to join his fellow countrymen on their slow journey to Nantes.
At Châteaubriant, the preparations drew to a close. This was what France did best. The guests on her soil, willing and unwilling, were forced to admire as the splendid, costly machine blandly continued to work. O’LiamRoe lingered, smitten with uncomfortable awe.
He had stayed, in spite of himself, because of the little Queen. Stewart was still at large. Since the cheetah hunt, O’LiamRoe himself had been amiably received at the Queen Dowager’s little Court, but he kept in touch circumspectly, lest he compromise Lymond.
His feelings towards Francis Crawford were still close to bitter; but he could not bring himself to see him denounced for something he did not do. Moreover, it had to be recognized that in this one man, however pagan, however despotic, however lawless, lay the little Queen’s main hope of safety. It had also to be recognized, with a pain at your vitals that grew as day followed critical day, that Lymond’s surest means of doing just that lay to hand, in the person of Oonagh O’Dwyer.
O’Connor was not to be at the castle for obvious reasons of diplomacy from which the Prince in his state of registered neutrality was exempt. Mistress Boyle and her niece likewise, harmless residents, were permitted to attend, and had rented lodgings for themselves in the town, which O’Connor would doubtless inhabit until the Embassy had gone on its laborious way.
They had not arrived yet. But the Queen Dowager’s train had. Presently O’LiamRoe went off by Madame de Paroy’s permission to visit Mary—Madame Françoise d’Estamville, Dame de Paroy, the plain martinet who had replaced Jenny Fleming at five times Jenny Fleming’s (ostensible) salary; and had heard a familiar, pleasant voice behind the door.
‘King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon?’
A young voice laughed. ‘Go on,’ said Lymond; and the young voice obediently, strongly French, continued.
‘Eight and eight and other eight—Don’t,’ said the young voice warningly, ‘pray me to add them.’
‘I don’t need to,’ said Lymond, affronted. ‘I can do it myself.’
There was a long pause. ‘You’re taking a very long time,’ said Mary.
‘Don’t hurry me.’
‘I can do it quicker than that,’ she said. ‘It’s twenty-four.’
‘Unfair! Unfair! Bestiall and untaught,’ said the pleasant voice, ringing like a wedding bell. ‘I have ten fingers and ten toes, and beyond that I must rely on my good and noble princess Mary. Again?’ ‘Again.’
‘King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon?’
‘Eight and eight and other eight.’
‘Will I get there by candlelight?’
‘If your horse be good and your spurs be right.’
‘How many men have ye?’
‘Mair nor ye daur come and see.’ And both voices laughed.
Then a page opened the door.
On the way out, Lymond spoke as they passed each other, lingering, in the doorway. ‘Hallo. Minerva covered with sweat. No attempt so far, as you see. Smile, Phelim. I called on your lady and she was not at home.’
Taking a deep and painful breath, O’LiamRoe said, ‘Is there nothing I can do to stop you?’
Lymond’s face closed hard. ‘Go in there,’ he said, his hand on the door. ‘And then ask me again.’
O’LiamRoe did not drop his pale gaze.