Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [40]
O’LiamRoe and Stewart found their obscure benches and sat. With glint, twitter, rustle, like the flight of small costly birds, the Court of France and its guests settled around them. Silence fell, into which, quavering, rose the Exaudiat te Dominus of the first advancing procession.
Bedded in scent and blinded with cloth of gold, The O’LiamRoe watched with the rest as, blackhooded, tall crosses trembling, a file of clergy appeared and paced slowly towards them. The Triumphant and Joyous Entry had begun.
The Chariot of Happy Fortune was in the middle of it, after the councillors and the corporations and the parliamentarians and two overdecorated floats. Drawn by unicorns and surrounded by nymphs, spearmen and halberdiers, it represented King Henri, enthroned, with four of his children at his feet, and a winged figure loftily poised at his back, offering a paper crown to his bonneted head.
It received a great welcome. Phalanx after phalanx of worthy bodies, however splendid, had had time to pall. The unicorns, led by costumed grooms, were behaving well about their horns, and the painted rhapsodies all round the cart were more than flattering while the pseudo-king, sceptred in ermine, was positively handsome, as well as resembling the real one quite a lot. The small boy acting as the Dauphin, was obviously his son. It was easy to guess that the angel and the other three children, demure on tasselled cushions, were also related. Reminded by the red heads before her, the Queen Dowager spoke absently to Margaret Erskine. ‘I must tell your mother to destroy that marmoset. Mary teases it, and it bites.’
Her gaze, resting idly on the float, suddenly focussed, slid down a familiar small body, and stopped at a hand adorned with a small piece of bandage. The Queen Mother of Scotland drew a long, shuddering breath and brought her fingers hard down on Margaret Erskine’s soft wrist. ‘It isn’t possible!’
Jenny Fleming’s daughter, pressing her lips tightly together, caught her husband’s eye. There must be no scene. But, of course, except in private, there would be no scene. The Dowager’s hand was already relaxing. ‘It is, you know,’ said Margaret Erskine. ‘Look who the angel is.’
The Chariot of Happy Fortune reached the Pavilion. It paused; king bowed to king, flowers were thrown and cheering broke out; then the unicorns took the strain and it rumbled on in its turn, bearing with it, unnoticed by its less observant French audience, Lady Fleming, Mary Fleming, Agnes Fleming, and Her Majesty the Queen of Scotland.
The O’LiamRoe was very taken with it also, mentioning to his neighbour that it would be a grand cart for market day, and the hens fairly cross-eyed peering and marvelling at the pictures. The elephants which followed, tasselled, crescented and harnessed, pacing in three pairs between their turbaned attendants, fascinated him even more.
Long trunks docile, brush tails lightly twitching, they patiently paced with shaky replicas of ships, forts and captured castles on the mighty massif of each back. The finest beasts led, a monolithic pair with the noble head and bright hazel eye of a healthy animal in the prime of its life. The bull elephant, with a certain amount of planned forethought, carried on its back four bronze ewers smoking with scented oils. On its high brow there lay a broad and shallow serenity, and its small, searching ingenious eye was irregularly gay.
They passed, and the foot cortège came, and the mounted Children of Honour. As the end of the procession came in sight the King rose, the princes and peers of his retinue with him, and prepared to mount and follow his burghers into his good city of Rouen.
The head of the procession reached the bridge and began to cross it. In silence the trample of hooves and the tread of feet rumbled over the boards. Gaunt and splendid in the October air, the Cathedral bell spoke. It rang in great strokes, beating on the wind