The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [44]
Lymond never finished the letter. He read half-way through and then, closing it into its folds, tossed it one-handed into the brazier where it lingered, the penned words for a moment bright-lit: He is going to be tall. Across the plume of new flame: ‘Why should it matter?’ he said. ‘You can hardly imagine I pine for her.’
‘Not when you leave half her letter unread. Does it offend you to read of the boy?’ Güzel said. ‘Or does it remind you too much of the other?’ And met the gaze he turned on her, with serenity.
‘A moment ago,’ said Lymond with irony, ‘you reminded me of my handicap. I have been cheated of the tender emotions. Including nostalgia.’
Then play to me,’ said Güzel calmly. ‘There is the harpsichord. You compliment me on the life I have shaped which offers more than common refreshment for more than common employment. If there is nothing to fear, there is nothing to avoid.’
It was late. She was not as young as her protégé, and under the paint, the sills of her eyes were darkened with tiredness. But informed by experience, her instinct was quite unimpaired. She sank, cup in hand, in her cushions and sustained his level regard as he faced her, the light still and bright on the thready gold of his hair; over the mould of cheekbone and brow; about the strictly bracketed mouth.
Then he laughed, and, walking straight to the instrument, lifted the beautiful lid. He struck the spaced keys a few times to test them before, sitting, he brought them, ringing, to play.
When the noise had continued for some time the Chamberlain, who had no musical ear, called for a candle and knocked on Master Grossmeyer’s door to invite him to share his wakefulness. ‘God’s mercy, a marvellous player,’ said the Chamberlain, straining at loyalty. ‘In twenty minutes, he fails to repeat himself.’
Huddled listening on the edge of his bed, Master Gorius Grossmeyer nodded two or three times. ‘My scalpel, could you teach it to play, would give you just such a performance. The Tsar is fortunate.’
‘The Tsar has no interest in music,’ the Chamberlain said. ‘And surely the Mistress’s presence is fortune enough for any ruler?’
Master Grossmeyer dragged off his coarse woollen hat and explored, scratching, the ruffled grey hair underneath. ‘The Mistress,’ he said, ‘is a woman. But this is hardly a man, but an impervious and versatile engine. You have only to listen to hear it.’
‘Does she hear it?’ the Chamberlain asked.
Discretion, at three o’clock in the morning, is often a victim to slumber. ‘She hears it,’ Master Grossmeyer said grimly. ‘She wished to be the eminence behind the Tsar’s chair of state, and this she will be. She did not expect to see her chosen escort reach there before her, or to sleep alone in her bed while she did so. She is to be pitied.’
‘I prefer to think,’ the Chamberlain said, with a boldness he was later to wince over, ‘that they deserve each other.’
Which was the conclusion, did they but know it, that the victorious and drink-happy men of St Mary’s had, with tolerance, agreed on already that evening.
Chapter 6
As a highly qualified Turkish-trained concubine from the harem of Suleiman the Magnificent, Philippa Somerville settled into English court life as a kite among chickens, and as a kite among kites into the Spanish court of the new King-consort Philip.
Never had summons to Court been more opportune. Returning stricken from the Convent of SS Winning and Mary she had alarmed Richard by a new gentleness in addressing them all, he said, as if they were dying. She had not told Sybilla where she had been, but, feeling those blue eyes studying her more than once, she had