Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [238]
The bells for Tierce stopped ringing, but Robin Stewart stood and watched by the door.
Dethick had lost his temper. Hearing the thick Dutch-French ringing from the Privy Chamber the Constable banged with his blue-robed thickset shoulder through the tambours and fifes, the silver-tissued Gentlemen nursing axes, the Audiencier and the Commis du Controlleur de l’Audience in black velvet, the heralds at arms, lined up uneasily in silk and gold fleurs de lis, the mob of silver-hoquetoned Archers and the ground-matting of pages into the King’s room.
He was not there yet. Garter, his crown pushed back, his beard limp as a lapdog’s front paw, was demanding the upholsterer. The French heralds hung by uneasily and Chester, embarrassed, was on his way out to fetch help. There were, he saw, only two tables instead of three, and the carpet had not been spread. He silenced Garter, his courtesies a little belated, and got a third table in.
There was half an hour yet before the Investiture. He opened the door of the French robing room; the dresses were blinding, and so was the scent. Three Knights of the Order of St. Michael jangled together in their shells and white velvet; he missed the red velvet hat of the Chancellor and came away dissatisfied. His white ostrich feathers bobbed, and the thirty ounces of gold, troy weight, round his neck clinked garter to garter as he strode along.
The English Embassy Extraordinary, similarly dressed, waited about rather silently in a room nearby. Anne, Duke de Montmorency and Constable of France, sent a page to tell the drummers to begin, and all but trampled on the boy de Longueville, Mary of Guise’s French son, with extraordinary news.
Waving a thick hand at the plaintive business around him, Montmorency heaved about him his blue robes the colour of heaven, and hurried off.
‘Witness against Lord d’Aubigny is clear,’ he was saying ten minutes later, standing again, his clothes gathered ready to leave. ‘And this man Cholet, when we can trace him, will no doubt be made to confess. But until that moment, remember, there is nothing to say that the Tour des Minimes was d’Aubigny’s doing. I cannot release Crawford without clearer proof. As it is, the affair of d’Aubigny, evidently, will require the most gentle attentions.… Madame, I must go.’
He had no special liking for the Queen Dowager of Scotland, but he could admire her gift for negotiation; he had never before caught her with her timing at fault. Hurried by the boy, he had found her with only one of her ladies, the mad Irishman O’LiamRoe who had insulted the King, and a big man he recognized vaguely as some sculptor.
Listening to the tale, he realized that the unfortunate was happening. The sculptor Hérisson had evidently in his keeping a man called Beck, a Flemish merchant who would swear to d’Aubigny’s guilt at Rouen. On top of that, the Irishman had just come in with a tale of a man loose in Châteaubriant who meant to do the little Queen harm.
If he were caught, it meant the convenient scapegoat in the Vieux Château must be freed, and the King must be coaxed to put aside the friendship of d’Aubigny. While his heart could wish for no more, the Constable knew this particular diplomatic labour was beyond him. He said, staring at Mary of Guise, ‘We can do nothing while the Embassy is here … corbleu; envisage the Commissioners sent to ask our princess’s hand watching the grounds being combed for a French assassin intent on killing the girl … especially if the assassin is inspired by some English minority.—You have no firm reason to believe the attempt will be made today?’
O’LiamRoe answered. ‘Only that the man has left his home for Châteaubriant. And it seems likely that it will be done while Robin Stewart is at large and while Lord d’Aubigny himself is plainly on duty. A house-to-house search, monseigneur—’
‘No. Unthinkable,’ said the Constable. ‘No. I must go. And you, M. le duc. Thank you, M. Hérisson, and you, my lord of