The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [271]
‘Drakes’ necks?’ Lymond said. He lifted a basket of brass bells in passing and shook it, so that all the tailors looked up. Master Holt, walking heavily in front, hoped the young people weren’t going to be any trouble. ‘For the pilgrims, the Germans or the Irishmen? What will Mr Becher’s ducks do?’
‘Form a harem,’ Philippa said. ‘Like Vladimir, who converted your Russia to Christianity. He had, I am reliably told, three thousand five hundred concubines.’
‘I should think,’ Lymond said, ‘Christianity was his only hope of survival.’
Nicholas cried, ‘Look! A dragon?’
It was indeed, painted green and red, with a plated mouth and a flax-box beside it. Ludovic d’Harcourt, suddenly entering into the spirit of the thing, picked the box up. ‘Gentlemen!’ said Master Holt, smiling anxiously. ‘Gentlemen, please! The stuffs are the Queen’s, and strongly inflammable.…’ Ludovic d’Harcourt tossed the flax-box to Lymond, who tossed it to Nicholas, who gave it to Philippa. She handed it, apologetically, to Master Holt. The procession moved on.
The labels were enchanting. Cats, to fur a garment, read Nicholas. Masks of Covetous Men with Long Noses. A coat for the Ape. Furred Heads for Savage Men. And bales and bales of cloth of gold and cloth of silver and velvet. Hangings from the King’s old timber Houses, to cut down for masques. Crates of old masquing garments for men. Crates of ditto for women. Antique Head Trimmed About with Changeable and Red Sarsanet …
‘Who does that remind you of?’ said Lymond.
‘Ox Legs for Satyrs. Who does that remind you of?’ Philippa said. ‘Wigs,’ said Ludovic d’Harcourt, embarked, oblivious, on a tour of his own. ‘Canvas shirts of mail. A pottle of aqua vite to burn in a masque … empty.’
‘A pity,’ said Lymond. ‘My God. Hay, for the Stuffing of Deaths.’
They all came to a halt. ‘Medioxes, stuffed with Hay, Half Death, Half Man,’ Philippa read.
‘Now I do know who that reminds me of,’ said Lymond feelingly. ‘How much farther, for heaven’s sake, to your butchered drakes’ necks?’
‘Here,’ said Philippa. They had reached a tall stand filled with parcels of feathers: red and white plumes for angels’ wings, pheasants’ tails, peacocks’ plumes, cranes’ feathers trimmed over with spangles. The Yeoman, delving, pulled out a shimmering bundle and shook out a fur made, indeed, of drakes’ necks. Nicholas had found a stand full of wooden swords, hatchets, targets and staves, and, seizing a sword and a shield, had attacked Lymond and d’Harcourt. And nothing loth, his two elders, who happened to be among the best fighting men then in Christendom and had not touched a weapon in anger for ten months, lifted a sword each in turn and set to, delicately.
Master Holt, turning, said, ‘Gentlemen! The stands are not stable!’ but this time was ignored.
They were certainly not very stable. As the boy, laughing, prodded and dodged, the two men moved like wraiths after, swords clacking, and turned on the tall posts like maypoles: a lion’s head of paste and silk feathers, dislodged, dropped from above on a shelf full of lan-thorns. ‘Gentlemen!’ the Yeoman said again.
‘Yes, gentlemen: said Philippa impatiently, and seizing a stout wooden heading axe, let it fall on the next person who passed.
It was Lymond. He dropped to his knees, his hands covering the nape of his neck, his skin flushed with laughter. Philippa, lowering the axe, said, ‘I have never in the whole of my life seen you laugh before.’
He looked up at the red sock, still gasping. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is ridiculous. Although, now you mention it, I didn’t laugh last time it happened. Hit d’Harcourt on the head and see if he laughs.’
But d’Harcourt had put back his sword and