Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [3]
The Queen Mother’s manner remained bland. ‘He is possibly tired of trifling at home?’
‘He isn’t dull enough to commit himself to a contract.’
‘But he might come to France?’
Oh, God! ‘To entertain himself,’ said Tom Erskine warningly. ‘But for nothing else.’
The Queen Mother smiled, and he knew that he had misjudged her again, and that, as usual, streets and palaces and prisons beyond anyone’s grasp lay under her thoughts. She said, ‘If he is in France for the term of my visit, I shall be satisfied. You will tell him so.’
Tom Erskine thought briefly that it would be pleasant to fall ill, to be unable to ride, to become deaf. ‘It will be a pleasure, madam,’ he said.
I
Silent in the Boat
If there be a hand-party there, and a rowing party, and a party of middle-sport, the hand-party is the swamping-party, the middle-sport party is the rowing party, and the spectators are they who are silent in the boat.
ON the last Thursday in September, and the fourteenth day out of Ireland, the wind dropped to a flat calm, forcing the galley called La Sauvée to approach Dieppe under oar.
The best ships, the reliable crews and the senior captains had just brought the Scottish Queen Dowager to France. La Sauvée, built in 1520, was only fetching some Irish guests to the French Court, a common errand enough. But her captain, an able courtier, was no seaman; her seamen, through a misplaced concession, were far from sober; and her bo’s’n had been taking hashish for months. Thus, two hours off Dieppe, the flags and streamers lay ready on deck, a little too early; the oarsmen, capping shaved heads, were resting and re-engaging oars; and the pilot, involved with banners, was far too busy to attend to the wind.
Robin Stewart, baulked of small talk, had found a chair in the poop beside the fat Irishman, who was asleep. There were three of them, and it was Stewart’s task as one of the Royal Guard of Scottish Archers in France to bring them safely to Court. For a century and a half, Scottish Archers had guarded the King of France day and night, had crowned him, fought with him, buried him, and were looked on, by others as well as by themselves, as the élite of the men-at-arms who served the French Crown. Thus Robin Stewart was used to odd jobs; ferrying the King’s less sophisticated guests to and fro was just one of them.
Ahead was a reception party on the quay, a speech, a meal at the best Dieppe inn, and a good night’s rest on a bed before the ride inland to deliver his guests. Nothing difficult there; but little to earn him money or fame either. Heir to nothing but an old suit of armour and a vacant post in the Guard, Robin Stewart had always been deeply interested in money and fame, and had for a long time been convinced that in a world of arms, skill and hard work would still take you to the top, however doubtful your background.
It had only latterly become plain that success in the world of arms ran a poor second to success in the world of intrigue; and that while no one worked harder, a good many people seemed to be more skilful than Robin Stewart.
This was palpably impossible. He applied a good analytical brain to discovering how other people managed to give this appearance of excellence. He also spent a good deal of time trying to breach the stockade between reasonably paid routine soldiery and the inner chamber of princes or of bankers, or even at a pinch of the fashionable theologians. At the same time, he could not afford to lose ground in his regular job, however irritating its calls on him.
He looked round now, counting heads. At his side, the Prince’s secretary was still asleep, in a poisonous aura of wine, his black head bound like a pot roast by the sliding shadow-pattern of the rigging. Whether from panic or habit, Thady Boy Ballagh had been asleep or stupefied for two weeks.
Further off, Piedar Dooly the Prince’s servant was just visible, fitted into a recess, like something doubtful