Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [28]
‘I must apologize for these damned entrances,’ said Francis Crawford of Lymond. ‘I feel Tom here never knows if he should send for a bishop or start a round of applause.’ And lifting finger and thumb, he slid the mask from his face, disclosing the intelligent, sardonic features of Thady Boy Ballagh.
It was late when Lymond returned to his lodging, walking silently under the rocking lamps skeined sagging over the crooked streets. Behind him lay an interview remarkable for its courtesy, its cool vigour and, from the Dowager’s point of view, for its total lack of success.
Tom Erskine might have warned her, had she given him time, that it was a mistake to allude to O’LiamRoe’s shortcomings. Personally he shared her doubts about Lymond’s choice of travelling companion. Whether or not the sinking of La Sauvée had been an attempt on O’LiamRoe’s life, O’LiamRoe’s present actions had certainly led to his and Lymond’s dismissal from France. About the Prince of Barrow’s innocence in all this Tom was perfectly confident: Lymond had not only studied the Chief in that preliminary week in the Slieve Bloom before sailing for France; he had set on foot an investigation of appalling thoroughness into O’LiamRoe’s character before ever O’LiamRoe was approached.
And Lymond had been right. O’LiamRoe was the one man in ten who would look with amusement and even enthusiasm on the prospect of duping his royal hosts by passing off a foreigner as his Irish secretary and bard. Unhappily, it was this very irresponsibility which had brought the scheme to a halt.
The Queen Dowager only got halfway towards speaking her mind about that, when Lymond stopped her. She turned next to the future, and to the prospect of closer cooperation, object unspecified, between the Master of Culter and herself. The Master of Culter simply reminded her, with unvarying deference, that what he did in France or out of it, by their mutual agreement, was his own affair and not hers. For Lymond, who could explode into fire and brimstone when he chose, could be equally formidable in the language of etiquette; and had already managed to give Jenny Fleming a chaste verbal trouncing for her morning’s work at the bridge, unnoticed by either Tom or the Dowager.
It was at this point that the Queen Mother played her master card, and startled even her Chief Privy Councillor. ‘And what,’ she had said, ‘if the Queen my daughter’s safety were in question?’
In the ensuing silence, ‘Is it, ma’am?’ had asked Lymond.
But already, she was retreating. ‘Of course, we know of nothing. Where could the child have better care than among our dear friends in France? But if her life were threatened, by some madman, let us say …’
‘Then double your bodyguard, madam,’ he had coolly replied. ‘They are not in your confidence either, but they are in your service.’
They let him go after that, with something like relief; and after he had gone, Margaret Erskine was very silent, counting up in her mind the frequent illnesses and the unexplained accidents that had befallen Mary Queen of Scots, during her sojourn in France. Her thought had reached her husband. Tom began a single, hazy question, ‘Does your grace suspect that …?’ and received the snub of his life for his pains. Her grace was visibly regretting that the subject had ever been raised.
To Lymond, presumably, the interview meant no more than an irritation brushed aside. Retiring, exploring, the swinging lights as he walked lit an emotionless face.
The streets were not empty. Light shone from most houses, seeping in slits round baffled shutters where shields were painted, swords burnished, jewels embroidered in the great, consuming fever of the Entry. A troop of the de Guise household went quickly by, banner held at thigh and wrist, and the lamps tripped and rocked afresh as the silver eaglets of Lorraine, the quartered lilies of Anjou and Sicily, the