Queens' Play (15 page)

Margaret had recovered her placidity. ‘Tell me later. You may feel differently,’ she said. ‘But I really shouldn’t let the Queen Dowager drive you to drink. Did Madame de Valentinois make any advances?’

‘Considering,’ said Lymond with a little constraint, ‘that she is twenty years older than even the King.… No. But then she had a large escort with her. She was surprisingly effective, as it happens. And most thoughtful. Is it likely to continue?’

‘On an intellective level, I believe. She nurses all the royal children. And Lord d’Aubigny is also liable to take you up now. You will visit La Verrerie, admire Goujon and Limousin, take wine with the professors of the College, take lessons in drawing from Primaticcio, listen to readings by the Brigade and recitals by Arkadelt. You will be expected to like Chambord.’

‘I am prepared to like anything,’ said Lymond, ‘except his lordship of Aubigny. But he did me a service tonight with his glum, heifer’s face. There was a moment when I thought they were going to throw me out. And now—’

‘And now?’ She could not keep the hopefulness out of her face.

Jaded, nervy, sober at last, he watched her with a bleak amusement. ‘Yes. The game is yours. It seemed rather likely from the beginning that Her Highness would win. We shall merely hope that under your sheltering wings, no fingers will be burnt other than my own in protecting this one child from her fate.’

Over the turbulence within, ‘My natural place is by the hearthstone,’ said Margaret Erskine dryly. ‘No one will notice me there.’

‘They will be the losers,’ said Lymond; and as Margaret looked down, her skin red, altered his tone. ‘Very well, my lady. If we are to protect the young Queen, there are some pertinent questions to be asked. About this rumour linking Montmorency and your mother, for a start. Tell me: is Jenny the Constable’s mistress?’

It was a subject on which, in adult life, Margaret felt nothing but a resigned tolerance, or an amused exasperation, depending on her mother’s current fancy. Irregular relationships among a royal family and its adherents were a matter of course; often a matter of business; and only occasionally a matter of love. The arrangement, temporary or otherwise, was usually public and acknowledged when at the highest level; only when it was clandestine and conducted to the injury of legitimate relatives did it become untenable in the oblique moral eye of society.

But such considerations only applied on home ground. As guests of foreign royalty, the Scottish party’s behaviour was required to be impeccable. So exasperation informed Margaret Erskine’s quiet voice as she replied.
‘Montmorency
? Heavens, no. The
Constable
isn’t Mother’s bedfellow,’ she said. ‘Mother’s lover is the
King
.’

For the first time in his restless evening, Lymond genuinely shouted with laughter. ‘Oh, God, oh, God. Why didn’t I guess? Oh, for Christ’s sake—the Chair of Happy Fortune.… Isn’t she a priceless, beautiful, giddy queen of a woman?’

He dissolved into silent mirth. ‘If Diane finds out she has a royal competitor—if the Queen finds out he has
two
mistresses—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Who else knows?’

She had flushed. ‘The Constable. One of the King’s Gentlemen. My mother’s maid. And me.’

‘She has dreams, of course, of establishing herself in the aging Diane’s place. Are you sure Queen Catherine doesn’t know?’ asked Lymond more soberly. ‘For unless you’re sure, I should strongly suspect her of throwing Jenny and her husband together. It would be a stroke of genius. In one move, ousting the permanent maîtresse en titre, discrediting Jenny and the Queen Mother, reducing Scotland’s worth as an ally, and weakening all the related de Guises in France—’

‘—And also,’ said Margaret, ‘throwing doubt on the little Queen’s moral standards and general fitness to marry the Dauphin.… This is habitual. Mother flutters her wings, and every institution within sight tumbles flat.’

‘She must put a stop to it, I’m afraid. Tell her. No, I’ll tell her myself. Then I’ll want some help. You’ll find you’re being watched by the King’s people quite apart from our conjectural friend with designs on the Queen, and nothing we do, naturally, must seem to question French goodwill or French security.’ He added suddenly, ‘Whom does the Queen Mother suspect?’

She had come hoping for help, and was beginning to realize, to her anguished relief, that she had called in a professional. For a moment she stammered. ‘I—don’t know.’

‘Someone at Court, obviously. Or she would have confided in the King, or at least in her own family. Who, I wonder. The possibilities are interesting. Queen Catherine? She hates the de Guises. The Constable, or his nephews? He’s said to favour a different marriage for the Dauphin; they wouldn’t mind a snub for the de Guises, and there’s a rumour they wouldn’t mind a change of religion either. Have any of the King’s other close friends a motive? Or what about some of the Scottish nobles … I shouldn’t trust the Douglases or their relations, for example; and some of the others lean towards England and Lutherans rather than a Scotland allied to Catholicism and France. The Dowager would hesitate to call in a Frenchman to deal with a situation like that.… Now what else? Which of the child’s maids of honour are Scottish? Whom can we trust absolutely? Can her food be privately supervised? Her play? Her lessons? Her travelling …?’

Exhaustingly, it went on. At length—’Has it struck you,’ said Lymond suddenly, ‘that everything that has happened so far, barring the elephants, has been directed at O’LiamRoe? The fire at the Porc-épic was in his room, not mine. The tennis-court frolic was devised to get O’LiamRoe into trouble. The
Gouden Roos
which tried to sink us off Dieppe was captained by a well-known adventurer who was paid to do it, and told on no account to bring back O’LiamRoe alive.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I asked. For reliable information, apply to a lawyer, a barber or prostitute. My informant hasn’t found out so far who paid the captain.’

‘But she will,’ said Margaret, her face grave.

‘I hope so,’ he said with equal gravity, and continued unshaken. ‘It is possible that these attacks are purely against O’LiamRoe. It is also possible that O’LiamRoe is being frightened or driven back to Ireland in order to remove me as well. But not likely. I might remain; I might assume another identity. No attempt has been made on my life, although God knows I’ve given them enough chances. And really, no one with any information about my concerns would attempt to do me damage at sea. Which leaves only one other possibility.’

‘What?’ Her deadened brain attempted to keep track with his.

‘That O’LiamRoe is being attacked
because someone has mistaken him for me.
’

There was a silence. His composure was quite unchanged. In face of it, Margaret struggled to remain matter-of-fact. ‘Of course. That must be it. But … the elephants stampeding was no accident? How can that be accounted for?’

‘It was organized,’ Lymond said. ‘The man who planned it was killed before he could speak. The man he paid to push out that hell-begotten whale knew nothing beyond his orders and will trouble us no more.… Which reminds me. O’LiamRoe and Dooly, as you know, are aware at least who I am. But if you, or Tom, or Jenny, or anyone connected with protecting the Queen should need help and you cannot find me, go and see Abernaci, the King’s Menagerie Keeper. He will do what he can. Meantime, we’ve two forms of incredibly careless plotting: one against O’LiamRoe, and one against the small Queen. In both, Destaiz, the dead man, was used. Everything has been done at second or third hand, and on a ridiculously distorted scale; as if by someone who had no means of scouring the alleyways for the usual paid assassin. A Destaiz presents himself, or some rogue of a captain; and the hint is dropped. If it is successful, so much the better. If it isn’t, there is no hurry, and plenty of money for next time.’

‘It may not be a person,’ said Margaret bluntly. ‘It may be a nation.’

Lymond smiled. ‘It leaps to the eye, doesn’t it? The obvious inspiration for both kinds of attack—anti-Irish, anti-Scottish—is England, and I’ve kept close to Mason to feel my way there. But he’s too patently anxious to have O’LiamRoe on his side; and anyone can see he’d be more valuable to England alive. Which leaves us in delicious confusion, with one good thing to look forward to, and one bad. It’s going to be hard to detect any attack on Queen Mary, because it won’t be blatant; every attempt so far has been made to look like an accident. On the other hand, O’LiamRoe is staying, which is helpful. Someone is bound to try to murder him again.’

It was said seriously, but she caught the glint in his eyes, and laughed. Then she sobered. ‘But are you sure The O’LiamRoe will choose to stay in France? Won’t he find it too humiliating? You will be with the Court, and he will be on the fringes.’

‘It needs a little energy to be humiliated,’ said Lymond dryly. ‘He will stay.’

Margaret was on her feet, making at last for the door, blind with fatigue. He was committed to help the Queen. She could report it thankfully to Tom before he left, to the Dowager, to her mother, and to all those in the Queen’s inner, most trusted circle with whom he would be working henceforth. Lymond had risen too, still talking, his face fine-drawn with tiredness.

Margaret Erskine spoke abruptly. ‘I seldom quote Tom, but not because he isn’t capable of producing hard common sense. He thinks you’re mad to tie yourself to O’LiamRoe. The Prince may be a wag, but he’s lazy and foolish and unreliable to boot. Tom says he’s so damned harmless he’ll kill you.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lymond. ‘Why should I suffer moral blackmail and The O’LiamRoe escape unfettered? He is an educated man. He has a brain. He shall be made to use it. I shall make him drunk on the palm wine of power,’ said Lymond sweepingly, ‘until he falls out of his tree.’

T
HE news of Thady Boy’s unlooked-for success was brought his employer the next morning by Robin Stewart, who had risen very early for this privilege. O’LiamRoe, listening, scratched his feathered golden head.

At the end, he looked pleased. ‘Ah, ’Tis a tearing fellow, a noble champion itself. To the devil with your pearldrops and your parroty manners. A filled mind and an apt wit will earn you all the respect any man has the means to deserve.’

‘Man, ye canna trust them
. Look how choosy they were with you thon day at the tennis. And now they expect you to sit here on suffrance while the wee smart fat ones go about arm in arm with the dukes,’ said Robin Stewart, employing tact much as O’LiamRoe employed fine clothes as a blandishment.

His cheekbones grinding, the Irishman yawned. ‘If Thady Boy is desperate to squeeze kisses on to princesses, my dear, O’LiamRoe won’t begrudge it.’

‘You’ll scour France at his shirttails, and sit behind the closed door? They’ll have him at every supper like physic. I’ve seen a fancy take them before.’

‘I believe you. He’ll be clean worn down and fit to pass through a dog stirrup before he sees Ireland again. What of it? I’ll not lack entertainment.’

Quarrelling with the Prince of Barrow was like fighting a curtain. Robin Stewart gave up.

It was a busy day for O’LiamRoe. His next caller was d’Aubigny, bearing the King’s deferential request for the continued company at
Blois of the Prince of Barrow’s gifted ollave, Thady Ballagh. No mention was made of O’LiamRoe’s mooted departure, but the letter implied, and Lord d’Aubigny confirmed, that he himself would be at O’LiamRoe’s service, and that on the journey south and beyond, he need have no worry about tolls, fares or fodder, or about his nights’ lodgings. O’LiamRoe was delighted. ‘
Dhia!
It’s like being cuckolded.’

With Lord d’Aubigny was the small, red-haired, pretty woman O’LiamRoe had first met at Rouen on the other side of a whale. Jenny Fleming had seized the excuse to survey him.

The Prince of Barrow’s interest in Lymond’s affairs was minuscule. But he knew wilful curiosity when he saw it. She and d’Aubigny seemed on good terms: he was, after all, also of royal Stewart descent; their forebears were the same. Her liveliness and her graces fitted elegantly into the fiddling pattern of her kinsman’s behaviour The reservoirs of his speech flowed freely for her entertainment; his voice mellowed. Listening, you could guess how he had impressed the gauche boy who became King.

O’LiamRoe amused her with Irish nonsense, let her tease him, and contrived one or two exchanges with his lordship which almost reached the dignity of serious conversation and probably startled both men. In fact, a shade of puzzlement occasionally crossed d’Aubigny’s face and once, unexpectedly, he addressed Lady Fleming less than civilly.

She had been talking of home; but at the tone she lifted her clear eyes to his lordship. ‘John, if you wish to leave so badly, you may wait for me below.’

And huffily, to O’LiamRoe’s mild astonishment, Lord d’Aubigny left. As the door closed behind him with unnecessary firmness, Jenny, triumphant, turned to the Irishman. ‘And what do you make of our darling?’

She had come, breaking every prohibition, to talk about Lymond. O’LiamRoe, amused, picked up her furred cloak and said, ‘Thady Boy? He’ll be in crumbs in a year, with all that scurrying about; but he makes a middling good Irishman.’

‘Then don’t show me a bad one. He came to my room and read me a lecture this morning—’ She broke off. It was no part of Jenny’s technique to destroy her own charming image.

Affairs of status meant nothing to O’LiamRoe. He hitched the cloak round her straight shoulders, and patted it, dispatching her. ‘He’s a quaint fellow, to be sure; but dead lucky with women.’

She must have realized then that no confidences would be forthcoming. He was simply not interested.

At the door, she paused. ‘Don’t tell him I came. Or he’ll do it again.’

O’LiamRoe, who knew a little more about Lymond than she
bargained for, noted that occasionally Lady Fleming had a conscience. ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all over Court by nightfall, surely.’

He was right. Tom Erskine was among the first to hear it, and the news added to a certain uneasiness which already tinged his confidence in Thady Boy Ballagh. The situation made him hesitate, but it was nearly time to leave on his embassy to Augsberg. He made his final calls, formal and informal, and at the end of them lost his escort and slipped unseen into the room where Thady Boy Ballagh as guest of the kingdom of France had spent his interrupted night.

Hindered by visits from the Constable, from Madame de Valentinois’s matron of honour, and from the Queen’s page, Lymond was preparing, among the ruins of an uneaten meal, to return to the Croix d’Or, where he and O’LiamRoe were to stay until the Court left. At the click of the latch he looked up.

‘Sacré chat d’Italie!’
said Francis Crawford. ‘The wife, the wife’s dam, and now the husband. Let’s have the Schawms of Maidstone in a pack on the doormat. Secrecy was your idea, wasn’t it?’

Erskine might bow to a superior brain, but he had no patience with temper. ‘The visit to Jenny, I understand, was initiated by you.’

‘My dear Thomas,’ said Lymond, ‘any man can visit Lady Fleming without comment. Unhappily she formed a low opinion of the night’s events, or lack of them, and took her complaints, I suspect, to O’LiamRoe. The much revered mother of your wife needs to be turned on her stomach and bladed on the back of a captured Bacchante.’

Erskine was sharp. ‘I’ve been taking formal leave of the King. And it was d’Aubigny who took Jenny to visit O’LiamRoe.’

‘Why?’

‘They get on well together.’

‘Well, get her away from him. Tell her it’s incest. And keep her apart from O’LiamRoe as well. She would have her work cut out anyway. He could thigh you a pigeon and disfigure a peacock and unlace a coney, but I’m damned sure he couldn’t undress a—’

‘—Particularly as he knows just who Jenny is, and no doubt, admires your restraint more than she does. This is rubbish. You’re talking as if she were someone from the Pont Truncat. We’ll interfere with you as little as possible; have no fear. Remember that you also have accepted an obligation.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lymond. ‘Margaret worked very hard last night; you should be proud of her. I gather that if our deceased friends and lovers could see us, they would be proud of us. Even including, she seems to believe, Christian—’

Erskine’s face stopped him. For a moment their eyes met; then Lymond turned away, his lip curling. ‘All right. You’re leaving for Brussels and Augsburg and Margaret stays. You’ll be back when?’

‘After Christmas. Then home via England. Meanwhile, the little Queen, so far as we can manage it, will stay with the Queen Mother and not the royal children. All the safeguards you suggested will be applied. Everything she eats and everything she does will be watched; there will be a day and night guard. It can’t be complete, for above all, we must work invisibly. It mustn’t look as if we don’t trust her safety in France. That is our work. Yours is outside.’

Lymond said nothing. He had finished his sketchy packing and was lounging discouragingly by the door. Erskine wondered if he knew what was ahead of him. He said, ‘It’ll take God knows what time to get to Blois. You’ll go mostly by river, stopping off at lodges and palaces and staying exactly as long as the game lasts in each place. Nothing in this lunatic country matters as much as the hunt. Fifteen thousand people, this man’s father went about with, their beds, their clothes and their furniture on their backs, signing state papers on horseback and heralds running after him yearning in couples. They never stayed above fifteen days in one place, unless they were at war, and every ambassador in Europe hated hunting for life.’

It was a favourite subject; but something in Lymond’s manner made him stop. ‘But of course, you know France quite well.’

‘Once,’ said Lymond, ‘when I had too much money, I laid out some of it here. Sevigny is mine.’

Nicholas Applegarth of Sevigny was a friend of Tom Erskine. He began cautiously, ‘But Nick—’

‘—Is a tenant of mine.’ The tone of voice was dismissive. ‘And how will the Queen Mother’s coup d’état prosper when you go?’

It was then that Tom Erskine, finding a mine at his feet, temporarily lost his wits. The Queen Dowager’s purposes in France were many, but only one of them could properly be called an attempt at a coup d’état, and that so far was strictly secret. It must be obvious enough, God knew, that the Scots lords were being honoured: that pensions were hailing down indiscriminately like rice at a wedding, while Governor Arran’s heir, without a syllable of French, was now captain of the Scots troops in France and drawing twelve thousand crowns a year.

But no one could know for certain what he knew: that a meeting between the Queen Mother of Scotland and Henri of France would presently settle once and for all whether France would help the Dowager towards her greatest ambition—to oust the Earl of Arran from the Governorship of Scotland, and to rule as Governor herself for the rest of her daughter’s minority.

The Queen Mother wanted Lymond, and Lymond suspected the
truth. Now, if ever, in this delicate matter of state, was the time to engage his concern. But she wanted him, as Erskine knew, for his sword-arm, not his mind. In her tortuous ways, a trained and meddlesome intelligence was the last thing she sought.

So, his hands tied, Tom Erskine hesitated, and delivered the fateful rebuff. ‘The Queen Mother’s affairs are her own, as you probably know. We can trust her, I think, to do what is best. In any case, there is really no alternative.’

Crawford of Lymond raised his delicate, dyed brows. ‘There is union with England.’

He had guessed, then, what was afoot. ‘There is suicide,’ said Tom Erskine, his voice flat.

‘Not while you may come to me,’ rejoined Lymond, and rising elegantly, sketched a sardonic bow. ‘And buya fit of mirth fora groat.’

There was nothing to say. Erskine didn’t need that to tell him that, somehow, at some level too subtle to be understood, he had not done quite well enough by the Dowager, and perhaps in some way by Lymond himself. In his heart he knew that if Lymond had not chosen to speak coarsely of Christian, his impulse would have been different. It did not help to guess that Lymond’s words were not a matter of impulse at all.

Robin Stewart arrived, just after Erskine had gone, to escort Thady Boy to the inn. He was the picture of cynical amusement. ‘You’ll be fairly joco this morning?’

‘I am, then.’

‘Dicing for you all night, they tell me.’

‘So I’ve been told three—no, four—times. No one mentions the only aspect that interests me. Who won?’

‘I believe,’ said the Archer stiffly, ‘it was the sieur d’Enghien,’ and watched disapprovingly as Thady Boy choked with laughter. ‘In some circles, vice doesna matter,’ said Robin Stewart. ‘Some people will do anything to get into a certain type of company, never mind is it coarse as cat’s dirt.’