The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [138]
‘Steady,’ said M. de Fleury. He looked at the nail thoughtfully.
The King’s uncle said, ‘I need to rest the mirror on something. No – Christ – don’t climb beside me. Get me the nail. What did I do with the hammer?’
‘In your belt,’ said M. de Fleury. ‘What’s under the quilt?’ He had picked up the nail and, walking over, was lifting the book-cushion.
‘Your parrot,’ said Dame Betha calmly. She raised the cotton cover, removing her hand rather suddenly as a large red-and-blue object lunged at it from within.
‘My parrot?’ said M. de Fleury.
‘I am told it arrived on the Ghost. Perhaps you were not aware. In any case, when my lady expressed a longing to buy it, Master Crackbene thought you would have no objection.’
‘I didn’t know. Does it talk?’ de Fleury said. The parrot looked at him evilly.
‘Not a word. My lady is planning to teach it.’
‘A welcome for my lord,’ said the Lady of Dean Castle, blushing. ‘M. de Fleury, we are receiving you with small ceremony. Will you forgive us? Once the mirror is hung …’
‘Holy Mother,’ said her uncle. ‘Never mind that. I need the nail and somewhere to rest –’
‘Here,’ said M. de Fleury. He put on his hat, lifted the book-cushion on top and, laying the lozen nail on top of that, walked to the ladder.
‘It isn’t tall enough,’ said the King’s uncle James. ‘Put a book on top. Turn over the handbasin there with the lugs. Mary, are those your red stockings? Now the nail. Now come here, and I’ll let down the mirror. What –?’
The scream this time came from Dame Betha, invoking the Trinity in the vernacular. It had been preceded by a clang and a whipping of wing-feathers. The cage-door hung open. ‘The wee hoor’s flitted!’ exclaimed Dame Betha, still in the vernacular.
All those present looked up except James of Auchterhouse, embracing the mirror, who was already higher than anyone, and Nicholas de Fleury, standing under the towering skewer of brochettes on his head with only his contorted mouth and chin to indicate his reaction.
‘Oh!’ said the lady Mary. ‘Oh! Oh! He’ll eat the hangings!’
Phemie choked. Katelijne, who had been attempting to keep a grave face, burst into laughter. Dame Betha, pushing her hand into the cage, extracted a handful of cereal and tossed it over the floor. Katelijne said, ‘We need a net and two brooms and some gloves and three eggs. M. de Fleury? What do parrots like?’
‘Other parrots,’ he said. Under the weight of the mirror, the pyramid on his head had sunk heavily, bulging out and overlapping the brim of his hat: his voice sounded nasal. The King’s uncle, hammer in hand, was attempting to knock the lozen into the wall. The muffled voice added, ‘Sing to it. Where is it?’
‘On the bed-rail. We could sing it the laud. Phemie’s gone for the brooms. Oh, the windows. My lady Mary, do you want …’
The lady Mary had no intention of losing her parrot. She ran to both shutters and closed them. Darkness fell. The noise of hammering abruptly stopped, with a surprised oath, and the muffled voice under the hat made a remark. It could be deciphered as a desire to know whether or not he was now wholly suffocated and actually dead.
‘No,’ said Katelijne, feeling her way to the tinderbox. She collided with Dame Betha doing the same and fell to her knees in a patch of gravelly parrot-food. The parrot, which had been consuming it, blundered croaking into her hair, started away, and could be heard hurtling about the room like wet washing. The door opened, admitting Phemie, daylight, and an assortment of servants with implements. On a shrieked order from the Countess of Arran the door was slammed shut and darkness fell again. Amid the hubbub of voices the demands of James of Auchterhouse on the ladder remained the most penetrating. The parrot couldn’t be heard, nor could Master Gregorio or M. de Fleury, who appeared to be voiceless. Katelijne lit a candle.
The parrot flew up to the ceiling, batted frantically along its leaping shadows and, shooting downwards and sideways,