The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [44]
Opposite them was the long pavilion for the Court. Beside that, on a platform, was the dummy unicorn with its dummy damsel, small in the distance; and smaller still, the choir of live maiden attendants, among whom his sister Katelijne was undoubtedly the liveliest. He caught the glitter of trumpets, preparing to lift.
Sersanders said, ‘I’ll tell you later if I have a complaint.’
‘Tell the good Knights of St John,’ de Fleury said. He seemed to have time on his hands. ‘I wouldn’t dare question the programme. My contribution was the unicorn. And I dressed one of the dwarves. You know your Dr Andreas is there if you need him? The lances are buttoned, but some of our friends are exceptionally good. I like the scarf.’ He was, unnervingly, using both dimples without actually smiling.
Whatever Nicholas de Fleury said, he had done rather more than dress a dwarf. Barring his uncle Adorne and himself, de Fleury must know more than anyone present about the protocol for a joust of mixed ranks. And the Burgundian party couldn’t be applied to: the tournament, after all, was in its honour.
You would think, therefore, de Fleury would be busy. Instead, he was intruding, deliberately intruding, where he was unwelcome. Sersanders said evenly, ‘The scarf? It’s Katelijne’s.’
‘Well, at least she didn’t give you a ball. The Medici would have hanged her. I suppose I should wish you good luck.’
‘Against Simon?’ said Sersanders briefly. ‘You’ll have to wait. That comes last, before the King takes on the winner and wins.’
‘You’ve done this before. No, I was wishing you enduring good health and fortitude. You could smack Crackbene for me, if you get the chance.’
‘I wonder why?’ Sersanders rejoined in the same tone. He was momentarily amused, amid his resentment.
‘You ought to know. Your sister’s in the same holy retreat,’ de Fleury said. The rebuke in his voice was a mockery. ‘And the King’s little sister, who didn’t really want to give her kerchief to your uncle, did she? Such a cold country: even the late Pope sired a son here; anything for comfort. Oh, listen. They’re going to start. Did I wish you good luck?’
The trumpets blew and the drums began. The waiting was over, and one Burgundian contestant was colder than ever. And angry.
‘Thank you,’ said Sersanders bitterly.
‘It comes with the service,’ said de Fleury, standing off from the doorway. He was already looking elsewhere. It had been an idle impulse, it was clear; arisen from God knew what wish for diversion. He went off and, rather surprisingly, joined a dark-haired young woman in green. Sersanders watched him, and then walked carefully outside to where his page stood by his stirrup.
Will Roger said, ‘Now, my darlings. And if you get the A right, I’ll kiss each one of you twice after supper.’
He liked training choirs. He liked it best, to tell the truth, when the voices came to him natural as they were born, welling out of big healthy bodies whose owners spent their days in the fresh air of the fields or the shore, and not bent double sewing in palaces. He had very little time for palaces. It was probably why he got on with young James so well. Everyone should remember his manners, but there was no need to crawl.
The well-born bitch with the simper was going to lose the beat again. Will Roger caught her eye, smiling, and rocked his head up and down. While a performance was in progress, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep them singing and happy. Strip and turn somersaults. Fuck them there on the stage, as they sang. He heard, with disbelief, that all the voices, ending, were coming together, at the right tempo, with the right tone, in the right notes, and they were articulating precisely as he had taught them.
Tears welled into his eyes.