Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [61]
‘Once,’ said Lymond, ‘when I had too much money, I laid out some of it here. Sevigny is mine.’
Nicholas Applegarth of Sevigny was a friend of Tom Erskine. He began cautiously, ‘But Nick—’
‘—Is a tenant of mine.’ The tone of voice was dismissive. ‘And how will the Queen Mother’s coup d’état prosper when you go?’
It was then that Tom Erskine, finding a mine at his feet, temporarily lost his wits. The Queen Dowager’s purposes in France were many, but only one of them could properly be called an attempt at a coup d’état, and that so far was strictly secret. It must be obvious enough, God knew, that the Scots lords were being honoured: that pensions were hailing down indiscriminately like rice at a wedding, while Governor Arran’s heir, without a syllable of French, was now captain of the Scots troops in France and drawing twelve thousand crowns a year.
But no one could know for certain what he knew: that a meeting between the Queen Mother of Scotland and Henri of France would presently settle once and for all whether France would help the Dowager towards her greatest ambition—to oust the Earl of Arran from the Governorship of Scotland, and to rule as Governor herself for the rest of her daughter’s minority.
The Queen Mother wanted Lymond, and Lymond suspected the truth. Now, if ever, in this delicate matter of state, was the time to engage his concern. But she wanted him, as Erskine knew, for his sword-arm, not his mind. In her tortuous ways, a trained and meddlesome intelligence was the last thing she sought.
So, his hands tied, Tom Erskine hesitated, and delivered the fateful rebuff. ‘The Queen Mother’s affairs are her own, as you probably know. We can trust her, I think, to do what is best. In any case, there is really no alternative.’
Crawford of Lymond raised his delicate, dyed brows. ‘There is union with England.’
He had guessed, then, what was afoot. ‘There is suicide,’ said Tom Erskine, his voice flat.
‘Not while you may come to me,’ rejoined Lymond, and rising elegantly, sketched a sardonic bow. ‘And buya fit of mirth fora groat.’
There was nothing to say. Erskine didn’t need that to tell him that, somehow, at some level too subtle to be understood, he had not done quite well enough by the Dowager, and perhaps in some way by Lymond himself. In his heart he knew that if Lymond had not chosen to speak coarsely of Christian, his impulse would have been different. It did not help to guess that Lymond’s words were not a matter of impulse at all.
Robin Stewart arrived, just after Erskine had gone, to escort Thady Boy to the inn. He was the picture of cynical amusement. ‘You’ll be fairly joco this morning?’
‘I am, then.’
‘Dicing for you all night, they tell me.’
‘So I’ve been told three—no, four—times. No one mentions the only aspect that interests me. Who won?’
‘I believe,’ said the Archer stiffly, ‘it was the sieur d’Enghien,’ and watched disapprovingly as Thady Boy choked with laughter. ‘In some circles, vice doesna matter,’ said Robin Stewart. ‘Some people will do anything to get into a certain type of company, never mind is it coarse as cat’s dirt.’
‘It’s little I’d know,’ said Thady Boy, his eyes guilelessly clear. ‘I’ve not been at either end of this trade up till now.’
The austere voice softened. ‘Some people,’ said Stewart, ‘get carried away when the women behave yon way, and think their fortune’s made, and that from now on they’re something special. They don’t know French ladies. I’ve seen them turn in a night, and what they fancied before they’ll fling in the moat. You’d be as well to understand—’
‘I understand,’ said Thady Boy concisely, ‘that I have a headache. Come along.’
Lymond, as it happened, spoke the truth. Looking narrowly, Stewart launched the theme which was to dog Thady Boy, in tenor and soprano, for four stricken months. ‘Man, you’ll need to watch that! You’ll need to cut down the drinking! They’ll egg you on for sheer devilment and it can fairly strip your inside.… Did ye get those burns looked at?’
‘Yes. My