Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [227]
‘I came to France to find freedom,’ said Lymond. About him, the Archers had fallen back, leaving him standing alone, his arms bent to the lashing. Impatience had gone; he looked alive and alert in the soft light.
‘You have found a prison, it seems,’ said the King, and let his eyes rest for a moment on the still face of the Constable, his old compère. Then he drew a long breath and let it hiss as a sigh in the quiet room. ‘Is this not the truth then; that such a talent, working only when freed, must also be caged? From adversity, illness, poverty, persecution, comes the discipline necessary for perfect creation?… And yet,’ said the careful voice thoughtfully, ‘you do not appear a man lacking in self-control. This is, perhaps, a man who studies other men, and himself in relation to other men? An amateur of modulated conduct; a man who traps mutations, freakish properties of the soul and sets them in conflict; a keeper of menageries …’
He paused. ‘You did this, intending theft or worse, for which your doom will be death; or you did this with no purpose other than mischief inspired by the devil. I should condemn you if you had meddled with potboys on these terms. It may please you to think that, had you not succumbed yourself, you might have pushed apart the fabric of a nation and turned our very greatness against us. I regret,’ said Henri of France, turning his dark eyes to the Dowager, upright and still in her chair, to his wife, the Constable, the silent faces of all his courtiers and the pale oval grimness of O’LiamRoe and addressing at length the contained presence of Thady Boy Ballagh, who had been their treasure, ‘I regret; but art without conscience is a hunting cat no mansuetarius alive should be expected to tame. At a place appointed you will be broken; and your music with you.’
With no purpose other than mischief! ‘Mother of God!’ said O’LiamRoe furiously, and took three thrashing steps towards Mary of Guise. The big, passive face did not even turn.
‘My dear Phelim.’ It was Lymond who had moved, his voice prosaic, a shade of irritation and something else in his face. ‘I appear to be committed, even though you may not be. Since you cannot improve matters, at least allow me the fruits of my own husbanding. Go and get drunk.’
It was said quite kindly. Phelim O’LiamRoe and his ollave stared at each other for a long moment, blue eyes meeting blue; then the Prince of Barrow turned and, uncaring whom he buffeted, strode headlong from the room.
Piedar Dooly had been caught unawares. Unfolding hastily in a pentagon of angles, he jumped behind his master, whistling under his breath. ‘Heaven protect us, there’s some sense in the creatures,’ said O’LiamRoe’s familiar, scurrying along. ‘And where now, Prince of Barrow?’
The face that turned on his he hardly knew for Phelim O’LiamRoe, Chief of the Name, so angular was it with purpose and a kind of harsh and miserable anger. ‘The likes of you, fortunate man, will be going home to your bed,’ it said.
For a moment, in his surprise, Dooly dropped back. Then catching up, he put his question cautiously. ‘And yourself, Prince? Where do you be going?’
‘To the house of Cormac O’Connor, fellow. Where else?’ said Phelim O’LiamRoe, artist in living, the very core and prototype of detachment.
It was already Sunday, the 20th of June; and the first grey-veiled light of the new day would hint soon at the trees in Châteaubriant park, and breathe on the dark confines of its lake.
V
Châteaubriant: Proof, Without Love or Hatred
Test is not easy without proof. Proof of certain necessity may be demanded with the Feine, without love or hatred.
What is the reason that there is more for them as foreign slaves than as Irish slaves? Is it that the Irish slave has greater hope of becoming free than the foreign slave has, and so it is proper, though there be more for him as a foreign slave than as an Irish slave?