Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [221]
In the rows about the Queen and the Queen Dowager silence had fallen. Across the passage, the faces in the King’s pavilion, sewn like freshwater pearls on its tapestry, were turned also on the Englishman’s broad back, straining pink through the oiled film of his shirt; on the rough russet head and fat hips, sinuous under the cloth; and on the jagged line of pelvis, elbow and throat belonging to the Queen’s herald, gripped fast underneath. And Lymond made no move, for the only one he could make would have branded him, like a confession, as Thady Boy Ballagh.
At the edge of the field, someone in the de Guise colours moved quickly; a man bent over the King. Then, unexpectedly, a trumpet blew, and the rattle of conversation hesitated and stopped. The King’s baton fell and rose again; the King got up. The fight had been ended.
Sir John Perrott had not noticed, or hearing, had decided to ignore. He lifted his body a little, giving them a glimpse of his ripe, beaded skin, the splendid teeth bared in stress and eagerness. Lymond’s hands, resisting, were white to the bone and O’LiamRoe said, ‘Mother of God, that leg—’ and stopped.
From in front, Will Flower, Chester Herald, turned round, his plain Yorkshire face animated with knowledge. ‘A good fellow, that is. His own people sent to stop it, and I can’t say I’m sorry. He has some war wound, they say, and he’s not just himself again yet; and you’d want to be at your best, my word you would, to stand against Perrott. A brave effort, I’d say; and no shame to the lad—no shame at all.’
Into the silence: ‘No shame to him; but a very great pity. Since he was at it,’ said George Douglas succinctly, ‘he might as well have broken Sir John Perrott’s neck.’
It was true. Watching as the Constable’s officers smoothly prised the combatants apart, O’LiamRoe realized that this opening round Lord d’Aubigny had won. For in spite of all Francis Crawford’s care, the association of Lymond with recent injury alone was enough to make an observant man think. In saving him, the Queen Dowager had opened the breach.
On the pavilions, everyone had risen, shaking their skirts, regrouping, embracing. Perrott, dragged up, had marched off across the clearing field without a salute. Vervassal, after waiting a moment, rose in one collected movement and was standing, with extreme care, looking towards the King’s bench.
There, among the baring seats, someone else stood, the sun, through a chink in the awning, proclaimed the day’s blue dress of the Household. To John, seigneur d’Aubigny, Lymond raised his left arm in formal salute and then, moving smoothly, walked off the field.
Mary was still safe.
They returned to the château. Mary was still safe. She looked from her window at dusk as the long cavalcade left, apple-green under an apple-green sky, the torches like embers amongst them, to hunt the red deer in the forest.
You would not think it possible to isolate one man out of hundreds, to illumine him with accident, admiration, solicitude, so that in every episode of the hunt the French Court was made aware of Lymond. He dropped back finally, melting into the darkness in preparation for a quick return home; and d’Aubigny’s Archers blocked the way with an unanswerable request. The King desired his presence, with the Queen Dowager’s, at supper.
Douglas, never far away, touched Lymond on the shoulder then. ‘Christ, get away, man. Feign sickness. You mustn’t think of going. They’ll take your ashes away in a tigerskin sack.’
The voice of Quetzalcoatl answered him. ‘Be calm! Be calm!’ said Francis Crawford soothingly. ‘To dispel doubt and error, one must exercise the light of supreme wisdom. If his lordship is really determined to expose me tonight as Thady Boy Ballagh, nothing