Gossip, bright-eyed and smiling, brought the news of this exchange to Lymond later in the afternoon and went away empty-handed. The final verdict on Robin Stewart he already knew. It meant that the affair of the Tour des Minimes and the spurious thefts were still attached to the name of Thady Boy Ballagh, and he was finding the evidence, despite his own formidable efforts, to be of a vaguely damning nature very hard to disprove. If this disquieted him, nothing of it showed to his companions of the afternoon. In the logis he shared with two others he received visitors and abstractedly exercised his charm.
There was nothing else he could do. In casting her pearls so casually before the enraged swine, the Dowager had not only risked his life. She herself made no further demands on his time; he was free, and in the absence of his afflicted tabard, in ordinary clothes. But so successfully had she marked him that he could safely go and see neither Abernaci, whom he had not met since his return, nor O’LiamRoe, whom he had last seen at Dieppe, until darkness fell.
Black Angers, from which all England was once ruled, was overflowing with the French Court and its outriders; with Scots, Irish, Italians and assorted Ambassadors, with officials, couriers, huntsmen, wagoners and other staff of the toiles, with experts on foraging and requisitioning, with prelates and physicians, with lawyers, archers and halberdiers, people’s servants, Gentlemen of the Household, musicians, pages, equerries, barbers, ushers, secretaries, hawkers, entertainers, prostitutes and officers of the college of arms. Among the throng, in a flattened way, were the Angevins themselves, making what profit they could out of the situation before the food supplies ran out and the Court passed from this grazing to the next.
It was a dark night, and the narrow streets, packed as they were, had only irregular lanterns: a discreet man who took care to avoid the liveried torch-bearing servants had every chance of escaping notice. Lymond arrived without incident at the small lodging where O’LiamRoe had taken a room; found the back door and a shutter which opened, and followed the sound of O’LiamRoe’s voice, discussing elephantine habits in Gaelic with another which was almost certainly that of Abernaci. Without knocking, Lymond opened the door and went in.
O’LiamRoe, who had only been filling time anyway, stopped abruptly in what he was saying; and Archie Abernethy, incognito out of turban and without his Oriental silks, split his dark, dry-seamed face in a grin. ‘I guessed you’d be here. Man,’ said Abernaci, ‘you’re looking a sight better set up than the last time I saw ye.… Yon was a lovely stroke at the pig.… It’s a case of finding proof against yon bastard of Aubigny, I take it?’
‘Yes. Well done, Archie. I wanted to see you. I’ll tell you why in a moment. Phelim—’
‘D’ye think,’ said Abernaci, who had something he wanted clear in his mind, ‘d’ye think he’d really try to harm her again? He would have to be wud.’
‘The smart answer to that,’ said Lymond patiently, ‘is that we are all mad. But in fact men who wreck whole ships and stampede elephants and destroy cavalcades of riders out of hand are probably less balanced than the rest. Lord d’Aubigny, if it hasn’t already struck you, is a slightly stupid man of exquisite culture who has been living for years off the fat of his ancestors’ reputations. Up until quite recently he assumed that being the King of France’s dear friend meant that you became a Marshal of France like Bernard, or Regent of Scotland as Stewart, Duke of Albany, did. When Henri took him out of prison on coming to the throne, d’Aubigny arrived fully primed for his role in history as the man behind, beside and very nearly on the throne of France. Instead, he found himself merely a foundation member of the Valois old compère society, the circle of dear old friends whom Henri had rescued from the displeasure of his father. And inside, in an exclusive circle around the King were his mistress, the Queen, the Constable the de Guises, St. André. Lord d’Aubigny wasn’t going to be the Great Man of Europe.’
‘So that after a bit he goes seeking a different throne to support.’ O’LiamRoe, his voice austere, tried a guess in spite of himself.
‘Of course. Lennox, his brother, had a claim to the Scottish throne and even to the English throne though his wife. Mary’s death would give Lennox at least a chance with the Scottish succession. And if the English King were to die, Catholicism would come back with his sister Mary—or even before, if there were a Catholic revival. The Lennox family are dear friends of Princess Mary Tudor. You can see—or at least d’Aubigny could see—a Lord Chancellorship waiting for the man who should put all this into motion by disposing of Mary of Scotland. He was going to make a new career of being brother to royalty—I shouldn’t be surprised if the original hint even came from the Earl of Lennox. So Lord d’Aubigny set out to sweep aside Mary of Scotland—of course; but also to teach a lesson to the French Court he was attempting to despise. He devised his murders like a masque … a poor, perverted vehicle for all the ingenuity of his fathers. And I think he will want to end Mary’s life with equal ceremony, now that he has the perfect theatre. I think he hopes to kill her during the English envoys’ visit, before brother Lennox’s very eyes. A triumph indeed.’
Lymond’s soft, even voice paused a moment to give point to this, and then went on unaltered. ‘Robin Stewart in prison is an embarrassment to him. Robin Stewart dead,’ as we have seen today, would be better. Robin Stewart free would be best of all. Phelim, have you seen Stewart?’
‘Since the boar fight? No,’ said O’LiamRoe politely. ‘They’re taking him to Plessis-Macé tomorrow, you know?’
‘Have you tried to see him?’ said Lymond directly.
O’LiamRoe flushed. Then he said, ‘I have, then. He’s in the north tower this minute, with a power of young men guarding him. No one is allowed through.’ He paused, his lips pressed with uncommon firmness against their wreathing habit of irony, and then said, ‘You may as well know this thing: that Stewart and myself—’
‘Oh, the pact. I know,’ said Lymond with brief contempt. ‘God, did you think there was anything new in it? And you are going home now, are you?’
‘You have the right of it.’ It was amusing to note, said the Prince of Barrow’s mind to him angrily, that whatever humanitarian impulse prompted him that afternoon, he was getting no thanks for it. ‘I am for home after the execution,’ O’LiamRoe continued, ignoring Abernaci’s jerk of surprise. ‘I owe it to the fellow to stay the length of that, at least.’ He did not add, You can live for seventy hours on the wheel.
‘And the woman?’ said Lymond.
He had expected that. He had known, when Stewart’s denunciation of Lord d’Aubigny failed, that all this pitiless excellence would turn against Oonagh. ‘The woman is no concern of mine,’ said O’LiamRoe. ‘Nor of yours either, if you are wise.’
‘If you won’t go to see her, my dear,’ said Lymond, ignoring the threat, ‘you may be quite sure that I shall. Haven’t you seen Cormac O’Connor?’
‘I have done more than that,’ said Phelim O’LiamRoe, and his pleasant voice was quite changed. ‘I have seen Oonagh O’Dwyer; and I have written her a letter asking her would she say nothing at all about either Lord d’Aubigny or herself.’
‘That was large-spirited of you,’ said Lymond. ‘And his lordship may now do as he fancies?’
‘I am sure,’ said O’LiamRoe on a deep breath, ‘that you or some other busy fellow will find a way of stopping him. Go and sit in front of his lordship and show your little sharp teeth. He might even confess.’
‘Oonagh O’Dwyer knew beforehand about the Tour des Minimes,’ said Lymond. ‘If she knows the name of even one man to connect it with d’Aubigny, it is enough. Your opinion of O’Connor is so high, I gather, that you are willing to concede him the lady and the run of your native land? Or are you afraid that once you have her, you cannot hold her, so you prefer to resign? If she is any man’s leavings, you may be right.’
O’LiamRoe was on his feet, the pale eyes shining. ‘You have a delicate way with a lady’s name, for a hired sniffer at chairs and a licker of footmarks.?
??
‘It’s damned picturesque,’ said Lymond bitterly, ‘but it doesn’t alter facts. Is that cunning, crib-biting lout your notion of a prince or a lover? And if I’m warned off, what do you mean to do? Wait for the execution, and then leave for home? “You owe it to the fellow”.’ The mimicry was merciless. ‘What do you owe to Ireland? To yourself? To Oonagh O’Dwyer?’
The Prince of Barrow, standing foursquare and steady, lifted his smooth chin. ‘The grace to leave her alone, my deaf and blind apostle of frenetic employment. Alone with her chosen life and her bruised face and the white and red weals on her arms.’
It was a hit. He saw it, bread to his famished ego, in the flicker of Lymond’s eyes. He let the silence lengthen and then said, ‘Go and see her. They live quite near at hand. After all, you can’t be after making a pudding without slitting a—’
‘You left her with him?’ said Lymond.
‘She has no desire to leave him,’ said O’LiamRoe simply. ‘Whatever he thinks fit, she will accept.’
‘And O’LiamRoe also.’ For a long moment Lymond stared at him, then got up and with a rigid, exasperated gesture, laid both fists on the chimney piece. ‘Phelim, Phelim—a normal man would be there making knife handles out of his bones.’
‘And of her a keening vampire at a martyr’s grave,’ said O’LiamRoe, his face pale. ‘Or become any man’s leavings.’ His lids fell; he looked, with a familiar vagueness, at Lymond’s flat back. ‘I have some business to do. Stay and have out your talk with Mr. Abernaci if you wish. I leave you to whet your tools and to pluck up the weeds and to cut down the tree of error.’ He stared at them both for a moment, then with Dooly behind like a shadow, he left his own room.
Lymond, his head between his arms, continued to look at the fire. After a while: ‘He’s sore in love with that one, the fushionless loon,’ said Abernaci, not without sympathy. ‘You’re smitten a wee bit yourself, I shouldna wonder.’
‘Maybe.’ It was not the voice of a man in love.
‘She was his father’s before she was his; that’s why she won’t leave him.’
‘I know. But if we give her up,’ said Lymond, straightening, his white face full of mockery, ‘as with Faustina, we give up her dowry the Empire.’ He paused, smiling with charm, at Abernaci’s chair. ‘What would you give to change places with me?’
‘A night in my lioness’s cage,’ said Abernaci calmly. ‘Robin Stewart’s skin is saved, but the lass is let suffer?’
‘I have a spare card up my sleeve,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘In case of need. And if you are comparing the two, I did Robin Stewart no service today, and I shall probably do none for Oonagh O’Dwyer tonight. Thus I distribute my favours impartially.’ A little later he left; and after a suitable interval, the Keeper also departed.
O’LiamRoe himself came back to the house very late and rather drunk. The next day, reporting thickheaded to the castle, he found the Court in labour, preparing yet another majestic move. Robin Stewart, under heavy guard, had already left for his last prison at Plessis-Macé, where the King was also due that day.
The news was given him by an Archer. Pausing irresolute outside the guardroom, where the blue-tiled city lay spread below him, the smooth Maine to his left, the cathedral spire lifting ahead, he heard the rattle of a hard-ridden horse on the cobbles and was there still, intuitively waiting, when the rider, dismounting, flung himself indoors to announce that Robin Stewart had escaped.
Liking or sympathy for that difficult man The O’LiamRoe could never find. But he did understand, in part, the mark left on him by Crawford of Lymond’s careless hand. His first reaction to the news was relief and even pity: no sort of life remained now for Robin Stewart but the life of a failure and an outlaw. Then he realized, with a slow chill in his stomach, the one inevitable and Damoclean result. With Robin Stewart at large, the would-be killers of Mary had been given carte blanche to finish their work.
III
Châteaubriant: A Bed-Tick Full of Harpstrings
A woman who offers upon a difficult condition: she offers herself for a wonderful or difficult dowry; i.e. a bed-tick full of harpstrings, or a fistful of fleas, or a white-faced jet black kid with a bridle of red gold to it, or nine green-tipped rushes, or the full of a carrog of fingernail scrapings, or the full of a crow’s house of wren’s eggs.…
There is no fine for forcing these women.
BY this time, the English Ambassage Extraordinary, three hundred strong, with its aching diplomacy and its groaning digestions, with its cliques, its amateurs, its professionals and with the Earl and Countess of Lennox, was already at Orléans, not much more than two hundred miles away.
Except for the Lennoxes, they were all Warwick’s men. Most of them were familiar with France, because you could not be a soldier or a statesman under Henry or Edward without sitting at a French siege or a French conference table at some point in your career. By the same token, most of them had also fought in Scotland.
None of these facts was at all likely to embarrass the Embassy or its distinguished leader and chairman, William Parr of Kendall, Marquis of Northampton and Lord Great Chamberlain of England, and brother to the old King’s last wife; a grand gentleman of limited gifts who had never quite lived down his military shortcomings during the recent rebellion.
So far, all had gone smoothly. A week ago, they had been met at Boulogne by a charming and efficient Gentleman of the Chamber who had escorted them to Paris and then further south with their trains of horses and mules, their wagon teams and guard dogs and their interminable luggage.
They had been feted. They had been entertained. At each town on their route, mayors and échevins had made their speeches of welcome; presents had been exchanged. The political factions in the Embassy kept to themselves; the diplomats were diplomatic; the arguments—even the arguments in and on Greek—had been staid.
My lord of Northampton hoped to God it would remain so. For they were ahead of time. In a fortnight’s time, the Embassy was due at Châteaubriant, and before them lay only a simple journey by boat down the Loire.
They were due at Châteaubriant for the symbolic service of Investiture. They were due also for other and momentous affairs: to arrange a treaty of strict alliance and defence between England and France; to demand the Queen of Scots in marriage with the King of England and in the event of refusal, to solicit the hand of the King’s daughter Elizabeth instead. They were due to appoint commissioners to visit Scotland and settle all the vexed points not yet comprehended in their treaty there; and they were due to introduce Sir William Pickering, the new English Ambassador to France.
And now, the retiring Ambassador, Sir James Mason, wrote anxiously from Angers enjoining delay. The Marshal de St. André had not even left on his duplicate journey to England; the great preparations at Châteaubriant were unfinished still.
The Marquis of Northampton read this dispatch, ejaculating at intervals, with his gentlemanly face flushed. The Scottish Archer accused of attempting to murder the young Queen was at Angers, and had been condemned. He knew enough to be thankful that the affair was to finish, it seemed, without any awkward revelations implicating the Earl of Warwick more closely in the attempt. The Earl and Countess of Lennox, for whom he personally had little time, were attached to his Embassy, he well knew, in case such a thing happened. If England were accused, by Stewart or anyone else, of helping or condoning Stewart’s murder attempts, Northampton’s orders were to saddle the Lennoxes with the blame. Lennox himself was in no doubt, presumably, about the situation, but was in no case to protest.
They would not get the little Queen for Edward, of course. Or if they were offered her at all, it would be on terms so ruinous that he could not accept. But even so, the Queen Dowager of Scotland could not be too pleased about any sort of alliance between her enemy and France, even an alliance on paper as frail as this would be. And she and her family were a power in France. They could point to Edward, schismatic, excommunicated, as no fit bridegroom for
Elizabeth or Mary. And they might seize any excuse, any false step on Warwick’s part, to persuade the French King to drop these overtures of friendship.
On the other hand he knew from Mason, the faithful Mason, that Scotland was becoming restive under the French yoke; that they watched with mistrust the rebuilding of forts which might turn out to be as much for their discipline as their defence. And in France, the de Guises had their ill-wishers. The Constable, notoriously, wanted the proposed wedding between Mary and the Dauphin deferred, and even the King had jibbed at presenting the Queen Dowager with the whole of her annual fifty-thousand-franc pension to take home in gold. Last month, Northampton knew the Receiver General of Brittany had been heard to comment that nearly two million francs had so far been spent on the Queen Mother, and he wished that Scotland were in a fishpool. Northampton, irritable with his responsibilities and the delay, wished the same.
Sir Gilbert Dethick, Knight, alias Garter Principal King at Arms, tried not to think either of fishpools or rivers. For twenty shillings a day, he had to take and deliver to His Majesty of France the two trunks with the livery of the Noble Order of the Garter, all wrapped in a pair of fine holland sheets with a couple of taffeta sweet bags inside. They had crossed the Channel safely. But it was with a heart chafed raw with anxiety that he contemplated confiding them for two long, slow weeks to the Loire.
Scattered between Angers and Châteaubriant, where grandstands, spectacles and temporary housing had been six weeks in the making, the French and Scottish Courts accordingly took their time, having purchased leisure, cheeringly, at English expense.
The Queen Dowager’s party, although not Mary of Guise or her daughter themselves, spent two nights in the fields outside Candé and enjoyed it. Reclining in the garden of France under the soft sky of June with half the Privy Council given up and gone home, they slept, ate, read, talked, and did a little desultory hawking, denigrated their hosts and the English with some thoroughness and dispersed a good deal in gentle company. In the free air, the bickering sank and died.