The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [282]
And then, of course, Mr Crawford had to emerge, and walking forward knelt, while the Queen’s short-sighted eyes, frowning, looked down on him. Philippa could not hear what was said. But she saw him rise and step back bowing, first to the Queen and then to King Philip, and then incline his head, smiling faintly, to Petre and one or two other Councillors. Then, just as he stepped aside, he turned his head and sent the same smile, shared, between Lady Lennox and herself.
Recognition at last. Philippa grinned, despite all her resolutions, and he caught it, backing deftly into his place. Then, seeing she still had his eyes, she smiled again, but he had stopped looking and was listening, head bent, to something Rob Best was whispering. Then it was time to assist the Queen rise and walk, with the whole company following, to the chapel for Vespers. The Muscovite Ambassador was led before the entire Order to take his stately seat with the Duke of Norfolk, higher in order of ranks than all the lords of England and Spain and above all the other exalted personages then of the company. Afterwards, eschewing the reception upstairs, he was escorted to his barge to return downstream to his lodging.
Philippa Somerville, staging a brief and spurious moment of giddiness, handed her duties briskly to Jane Dormer and, chastised by her train, raced down to the landing-stage after him.
The Ambassador was there, surrounded by his merchants, his nine Russians and his aldermen, but the Voevoda Bolshoia had vanished. Ludo d’Harcourt, applied to, searched the landing-stage also. ‘He was here a moment ago. Has he gone back to the Palace?’
No one knew. At least, when the barge departed ten minutes later, he was not in it; and it had to be concluded that he had decided to make his own way back to Fenchurch Street. Which, indeed, proved to be the case. Long after the Knights of the Garter had laid their robes thankfully back in their coffers, and the Court, equally thankfully, had retired to the chambers it happened to favour that evening, Francis Crawford strolled into Master Dimmock’s fine mansion and appeared surprised and even faintly displeased to find himself waylaid on the stairs by d’Harcourt.
D’Harcourt, forced to deliver his message on the landing, was made aware of precisely how lame his embassy was. ‘I deeply regret,’ Lymond said, ‘and even had you approached me in the morning, I should have regretted as deeply, that I have no leisure at present for calling on ladies. If you have, then perhaps you would convey as much.’
‘She says then, Will you write?’ said d’Harcourt, with difficulty. Doors creaked audibly, but the Voevoda remained on the landing.
‘What about?’ said the Voevoda, eyebrows raised, watching him. ‘My dear d’Harcourt, I thought you were pursuing the lady. Do you really mean to act as her errand-boy?’
Ludovic d’Harcourt, keeping his temper under extreme provocation, made one last attempt for Mistress Philippa. ‘She said, if you wouldn’t write, I was to give you a message. She says, What about Gardington?’
‘And what does she mean by that?’ Lymond said. In the torchlight, his eyes were hard and arrogant: the Voevoda Bolshoia interrogating.
Ludovic d’Harcourt threw open his arms. ‘How should I know? She didn’t say. I’m only her errand-boy.’
He suffered, for an undue length of time, Lymond’s considering gaze. Then the Voevoda said, ‘I see. An angry piece of flesh, and soon displeased. Then you may retire gladdened by the assurance that your loving office is ended. Is there anything else?’
It was the kind of treatment which above all d’Harcourt disliked. He turned on his heel and walked off, and Lymond, standing, watched him quite out of sight before, at last, he let himself into his room and striking tinder, lit one stand of candles. Then he walked to his aumbry and stood before it a few moments longer before, with a sudden