Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [55]
Her own voice was quite level. ‘Will you really find it enough to fill the next months? Sharpening your claws on them between foolhardy pranks?… The women were already drawing lots for you when you left.’
‘And you won?’ His eyes matched his words.
She bit her lip, the first sign of discomfiture she had shown. ‘I came because a visit from Tom would be dangerous. Whereas a visit from myself would be merely … compromising.’
‘God, how patriotic,’ said Lymond. ‘And considering the relatives you have, what fool would imagine you’d come to talk politics.—Damn it,’ he added with a sudden interest. ‘Only the ladies?’
Her voice remained level. ‘No.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘If you will not serve the Dowager, why are you troubling to stay with the Court?’
He had roved away from her, kicking the preposterous velvet skirts out of his way. He turned, unnecessarily expansive, interested in nothing as yet except being difficult. ‘Because in this sweet realm of France, my dear, lives a small, venal animal who will drown a shipload of men or trample a gathering of women and children to death on the strength of a whim; and I mean to peel his knees with his backbone before I leave.’
Pale, persistent, she outfaced his restlessness and his boredom. ‘I know nothing about La Sauvée except what I have heard from Tom. But today’s accident—Tom, my mother, the Dowager, are all sure of it—was an attempt to kill or injure the Queen. It has persuaded the Dowager to tell us plainly what you guessed, perhaps, when she talked to you last. There have been other accidents to Mary, and other coincidences. It was because of these that the Queen Mother asked you to come to France. Openly, she dared say or do nothing without seeming to question the good faith of France, or their capacity to look after the child.… Instead, she relied on you.’
Against the far wall, the window shutters were open. Lounging between them, Lymond took no time for reflection. ‘Why interfere?’ he said airily, over one velvet shoulder. ‘Why interfere? The Dauphin may have plans to marry again.’
A personal attack, this, against her own marriage, following so fast on the death of Tom’s first fiancée, Christian Stewart, killed tragically in Lymond’s service two years before. She knew, and Lymond knew, that only after Christian had gone did Tom Erskine notice the plain person of the widowed Margaret Fleming, who for years had been his silent admirer. She had not been prepared for such a challenge, but she was equal to it. She said quietly, ‘You hate me because I am Christian’s successor—even if inadequately; even if only in Tom’s eyes. But you didn’t love her. You know that perfectly. Love has never struck you yet, and you should thank God for it. Be honest, at least. You are not refusing to help because of me.’
She waited, while Lymond stood looking out over the quiet cobbled courtyard and the lantern-lit trees of St. Ouen. Then, stepping back, he closed and flicked the latch of the shutters, and turning, faced her again. ‘I’m tired,’ said Lymond,’ of funerals. Show me a project, and I’ll promise you that before it is ended half my so-called friends will have thrown their illusions, their safety and their virtue into the grave. There was Christian Stewart, about whom we need not speak. There was a man called Turkey Mat. And a number of others. I have refused to become a royal informer, my dear, to spare my associates the pains of paying for it.’ There was a difficult pause. Then his cold blue stare softened. ‘I am not really fit to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I think you should go.’
‘But I have something more to say,’ said Margaret Erskine placidly. ‘And I could say it more easily if you were sitting down.’
This worked. After a moment’s hesitation he walked forward, and finding a fireside seat opposite hers, dropped into it and propped his head