The Ringed Castle: Fifth in the Legendary Lymond Chronicles

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The Lord Mayor gave him a banquet, with five Knights Aldermen and five other Aldermen and many notable merchants of the Muscovy Company. Master Nepeja attended it in a gown of rich tissue, his undergown being of purple velvet embroidered, and the edge of his hat set with pearls and other fine jewels, while his horse trappings were crimson velvet embroidered with gold, and his bridle gorgeously sewn. Those who lined the streets and admired him were not to know that the horse was a present, or that the rich cloth of tissue, the cloth of gold raised with crimson velvet, the crimson and purple velvet in grain, the crimson damask and the damask purpled of which his clothes and those of his nine servants were cut, were all gifts sent to his rooms by Her Majesty.

  Nor, from a distance, did they as yet show much signs of soiling. Master Nepeja hoped, when the time came to hand them back to their donor, that she would take the length of wear into her reckoning.

  Francis Crawford, with clothes of his own and money to supplement them, did the same polite rounds without enthusiasm, in between arranging, with great efficiency, for the four ships now loading in London to be suitably freighted with his special cargo. It was there that he came across Tony Jenkinson conferring with John Buckland his Master, and Buckland introduced the two men.

  Jenkinson showed him over the Primrose, his flagship. At two hundred and forty tons, she was a third as big again as the Edward Bonaventure; and the John Evangelist, the Anne and the Trinity were all larger than the little Esperanza and Confidentia, and even than the Philip and Mary. And Jenkinson, too, who was to succeed Richard Chancellor; who was to try the overland route to Cathay which had been Richard Chancellor’s dream, and whom Richard Chancellor had commended, proved to be young and dark haired and vigorous, with the kind of driving curiosity which had already taken him to Germany and the Low Countries, the Alps and Italy, Piedmont and France, Spain and Portugal, Rhodes, Malta and the Levant, Sicily, Cyprus and Candia, Greece and Turkey, Galilee and Jerusalem, Algiers, Bona and Tripoli.

  They should have met long since, he and Lymond. Jenkinson had been conferring for weeks with Best and Buckland and with the other three men from St Mary’s: in several sessions at the house of John Dee they had barely missed one another. It was not all entirely by accident. Lymond did not greatly wish to meet Tony Jenkinson, and although, once introduced, the younger man’s enthusiasm overbore any restraint on his part—did Mr Crawford know that they had been in the Levant at exactly the same time? how strange that he and his friends had not met in Aleppo! was it true that Dragut Rais’s mistress was now living in Moscow?—Lymond left before long. It was coincidence that the first person he met on entering Lady Dormer’s parlour by invitation next morning should again be Jenkinson, and the second, Richard Chancellor’s younger son Nicholas.

  There was no doubt who he was, even before Lady Dormer led him forward to introduce him: he was the image of Christopher. And he was staring at Mr Crawford as his brother had looked at the Voevoda Bolshoia, one night long ago, in Güzel’s beautiful house in Vorobiovo. Nicholas said, ‘I am told, sir, that you swam after my father.’

  There was no escape from the tasteless situation. Beside him was his hostess, old Lady Dormer; beyond her Jenkinson; and behind him Ludovic d’Harcourt, whom he had also been asked to bring. Lymond said, ‘We all did a great deal of swimming, and some of us were lucky.’

  He paused, and the voice of his child-bride said prosaically, ‘If you are wondering who enlightened him, I did. Robert Best told us the story. Nicholas, Emma is asking for you.’

  ‘But——’ said Nicholas uncertainly.

  ‘Emma is asking for you,’ said Philippa firmly. ‘You can come back at suppertime.’ And to Mr Crawford, as the boy disappeared, Philippa said, ‘It is really not easy to receive someone’s thanks, but you must make the effort. Is this the man who doesn’t like eagles?’

  Ludovic d’Harcourt, smiling, took her hand. ‘What …? Robert Best?’ Lymond said.

  ‘No. John Buckland,’ said Philippa. She grinned back at Ludovic d’Harcourt. ‘It was you who buried the Tartar girl?’

  ‘Philippa …’ said Lady Dormer with a perfect and natural kindliness. ‘I think the gentleman would prefer to enter and sit. Where is Henry …? Ah, there you are. Mr Crawford, Henry; and Mr d’Harcourt. This, gentlemen, is my dear Jane’s uncle, Henry Sidney.’

  Courtier, soldier, patron of the arts and the sciences, conqueror in single combat of James Mack O’Neil and Vice Treasurer and General Governor of all the King’s and Queen’s Revenues in Ireland, Sir Henry Sidney rose to his feet from behind a red velvet chair with silk tassels and said, ‘I beg your pardon. I am delighted to meet you. Aunt Jane, I’ve dropped an eye on your beautiful floor.’

  ‘Then pick it up!’ commanded old Lady Dormer. ‘I will not have my maids tormented by your wandering eyes. Mr Crawford, you will help him.’

  Mr Crawford, exquisite in a high-collared jerkin with hand-ruffs, dropped neatly on his hunkers at the other man’s side and said, ‘One of Master Dee’s contrivances, do I gather? Is this what you are looking for?’

  Sir Henry received the round painted glass with relief. ‘He gets them from France. It’s not worth my life to mislay them. Now.’

  ‘Over here,’ Philippa said. Standing just inside the porch of the room, she had her arm round a great feathered owl. Four times life-size at least, it reached as high as the neat, stiffened pads at her shoulders. The great dish of its face, lacking an eye, gazed at the company soulfully.

  ‘My … stars,’ said Ludovic d’Harcourt. Sir Henry fitted the eye in its place.

  ‘Now,’ said Philippa, and stepping aside, let the owl go. There was a rumbling sound, and the owl started to move. It advanced upon them across Lady Dormer’s small Turkey rugs; it lifted its wings. Its eyes, headily beginning to spin, gave off intermittent beams of red and mysterious light. Its beak opened, and a strident call, earsplitting and monotonous, attacked the eardrums of everyone in the room. Lymond, on his feet, slid a table out of its way: Jenkinson, jumping, removed a cushion. The call wavered and sank; the revolving light halted, the wings dropped to rest. The owl, creaking, came to a sudden sharp halt, and one of its eyeballs fell out.

  ‘Damn!’ said Henry Sidney, dissatisfied. ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt Jane. Now where did it roll to?’

  They played with it until they were called in to dinner, by which time the shadow of Richard Chancellor had temporarily vanished, even though Nicholas took his place at the board and was kept talking, briskly, by Philippa, while Lady Dormer steered Jenkinson and d’Harcourt to share their reminiscences of Malta.’ Henry Sidney leaned back while his wine was being poured and said to Lymond, ‘I met a friend of yours in Ireland, a man called Phelim O’LiamRoe. You won’t remember me in France, during the Northampton embassy. It was six years ago. You were rather occupied, I gather, in chastising Lennoxes.’

  ‘You know the story, then,’ Lymond said.

  ‘I know why the Lennox family dislike you quite so much, yes. I am glad you came back from Russia,’ said Henry Sidney. ‘Whatever befalls, I am sure you will handle it capably. But I was afraid for Mistress Philippa.’ He paused. ‘I have often wondered if Diccon Chancellor told you of the threat to his own life.’

  ‘The heresy charge?’ Lymond said. ‘No. Or not until we were already on the way home. He warned me of my own danger if I stayed on in Russia. In fact, if we must speak of it, he saved me from one attempt on my life. But you know him better than I do.’

  It was difficult to continue against a resistance so adamant. Henry Sidney said, ‘The sledge race: I know. I have had it all at second hand from Rob Best. Did you ever discover who paid your captain to kill you? It is a matter which troubles me. The English colony over there is very small. A man who would murder a fellow countryman for money is a danger to the whole Muscovy Company.’

  ‘And you wish him disvisored. Yes, I know who it was,’ Lymond said. ‘And I promise you justice, once I have proof of it.’

  Henry Sidney cou
ld read nothing in his profile; nothing in the hands dealing with his knife and his food. Sidney said, ‘Will you not tell me of your suspicions? Or at least Best and Jenkinson and Buckland, before you arrive back in Russia? It is Jenkinson and Best and Killingworth who will have to act for the Company, and bring the assassin to justice. Unless …’ He ceased speaking, his lips pursed.

  ‘Unless either Best or Killingworth is the culprit. Or Richard Grey, your other agent, who was with us at Lampozhnya.’ Lymond’s voice was perfectly calm. ‘If I told you, could you speak of him to your fellow members without betraying yourself? Perhaps you could. But I prefer to be certain. If it reassures you, I believe that he is quite harmless to all except me.’

  ‘Then you will be careful,’ Sidney said. ‘From what Will Petre tells me, the Tsar cannot afford to lose you. Perhaps you have heard that they have refused my whole order of gunpowder?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lymond, ‘you don’t know the right people.’

  ‘Or read the right books,’ Sidney said. He turned and, stretching out his arm, lifted something from a table against the window behind him, and laid it beside Lymond’s plate. ‘I bought it back for you.’

  It was the Cicero. For a moment, Lymond sat without touching it, then he lifted his eyes, for the first time, directly to Sidney’s. He said, ‘But I did not find him.’

  ‘Open it,’ Sidney said.

  Inside the front cover, two lines of quotation had been added, below Lymond’s own name and the name of Pierre Gilles, the first owner. They had nothing to do with the Cicero. One was from Robert Thorne’s letter to King Henry VIII: There is no land uninhabitable or sea unnavigable. And the other was merely a phrase: They made the whole world to hang in the air.

  ‘But you tried,’ Sidney said. ‘I now wish to speak about owls, and this excellent theory of John Dee’s, that a mirror propelled into space at a speed greater than light should be able to reveal all history to us by reflection. M. d’Harcourt, do you favour the prospect of all your lightest actions being subjected to the scrutiny of your grandchildren? I have begun to shed all my vices already. Philippa, when he returns from Spain, you will have to watch your conduct with Don Alfonso.’

  ‘I have to watch it already,’ said Philippa gloomily. ‘Don Alfonso is the first thing any mirror would pick out; like a cake with periwinkles on it. Have you noticed my hat?’

  ‘I have noticed,’ said Henry kindly, ‘that you are wearing a sock with a tassel in scarlet. I thought it better not to refer to it. Spanish?’

  ‘Spanish,’ said Philippa.

  ‘The Count of Feria,’ said Lady Dormer, ‘has given my dear Jane a diamond.’

  The company murmured its approbation. ‘And there you have it,’ said Philippa, turning her brown eyes owl-like to Lymond. ‘Jane Dormer gets diamonds and I receive socks.’

  He turned and looked at her, his face perfectly blank. Then he said, ‘Where are you wearing the other one?’

  Her eyes, staring at his, were equally expressionless. ‘I keep my dowry in it,’ she said.

  He studied the smart little cap below which, for once, she had allowed her brown hair to hang loose. ‘Forgive my scepticism,’ he said, ‘but is it big enough?’

  ‘My head,’ said Philippa, ‘does not require a large hat. And a Somerville cranium brings its own dowry. Moscow does not have a monopoly of females with compounding assets.’

  ‘No. The world is full of them,’ Lymond said. ‘But not usually borne in the head. Robert Best is as good as a play, isn’t he? What else has he told you?’

  ‘Why?’ said Philippa. ‘Shall I be shocked?’ She reflected. ‘Could I be shocked?’

  ‘After Suleiman’s harem? I should think it unlikely,’ Lymond said. ‘I was simply afraid you would explain it all too clearly to poor Robert Best. Your wedding night, sweet Philippa, is going to be a revelation to someone.’

  ‘When I wriggle up from the bottom of the bed? Do they do that in——’

  ‘Lady Dormer,’ said Lymond, ‘is listening to you.’

  ‘She is watching me. She is listening to M. d’Harcourt. Why do you call him M. d’Harcourt? You called Jerott Jerott.’

  ‘I called Jerott a great deal worse than that. His name is Ludovic. You will like him. He doesn’t like eagles.’

  ‘Slata Baba? Did you call her Slata or Baba?’ Philippa said. ‘Or was she exempt, since she couldn’t presume on acquaintance?’

  Francis Crawford turned to her and laid down his knife. ‘Philippa Somerville,’ he said. ‘Will you kindly take a new sight for your cannon? You see me beaten quite flat to the groundsilling. Try Mr Jenkinson. He may understand Persian love-poetry.’

  ‘With internal rhymes?’ Philippa said. ‘What about the most copious and elegant language in the world, the Sclavonian tongue? Or is Baida the only man to have ballads sung for him? No odes to the Voevoda Bolshoia?’

  ‘Incantations,’ Lymond said. ‘Wisdom in the form of counterfeit pearls of dried fish eyes, to accompany the votive offerings.’

  ‘Travelling about in a wheeled cult-vehicle known as St Mary’s, to the sound of imprecations.… Do I frighten you?’ said Philippa.

  ‘Yes,’ Lymond said.

  ‘That’s odd. I don’t frighten Austin Grey. The Lion in Affrik and the Bear in Sarmatia are fierce, but——’

  ‘… but Translated into a Contrary Heaven, are of less strength and courage. It is not necessary, Mistress Somerville, for the heaven to be quite so contrary. Are you looking forward to Greenwich?’

  ‘No,’ Philippa said. ‘The Queen has a cold. She isn’t appearing in public.’

  ‘And King Philip is arranging to go hunting with the Duchesses of Lorraine and Parma?’ Lymond said. ‘How is Cardinal Pole treating the delicate problem of King Philip’s threats to His Holiness?’

  Philippa glanced at Lady Dormer and smiled, while diplomatically lowering her voice. ‘As Papal Legate, he publicly failed to give King Philip the formal welcome which was his due. In private, he called on him later to apologize.’

  ‘And the Queen?’ Lymond said.

  For a moment, Philippa was silent. Then she said, ‘The Queen has written to Rome, expressing great regret at the rupture between His Holiness and the King her consort, especially as she had done so much to return England to its devotion to the Church. And she excused herself for giving King Philip her help, as she couldn’t do otherwise.’

  Lymond said, ‘They talk of war when the harvest is in.’

  The chatter all round the tabled covered their words. Lady Dormer, assuming them launched on a battle of words, had not attempted to separate them. Philippa said, ‘Sooner than that.’

  Lymond gave his attention to the meal. ‘Can you tell me?’

  She said, ‘There is a plot afoot, among the English rebels in France. The English Council know all the circumstances. If … the threatened event occurs, the blame will fall on France, whether the King was truly implicated or not. And if that happens, it may move English popular feeling at last towards war.’

  ‘Against the Pope?’ Lymond said.

  ‘Against the French. It is the same thing,’ said Philippa. ‘I am not looking forward to Greenwich. And my advice to anyone with a shipload of munitions would be to sail. To sail quickly, before you are stopped.’

  ‘I shall be gone in three weeks,’ Lymond said.

  ‘And I before that,’ said Henry Sidney, catching it. ‘Aunt Jane, I have an errand. May I steal some of your guests to befriend me?’

  His journey was only to Blackfriars, a few minutes down-river from Lady Dormer’s. His errand was merely to talk to a man about hangings. And because the place of his appointment was the Office of the Revels and Masques, Mistress Philippa begged to go with him, on a matter, he understood, to do with feathers.

  Sir Henry had hoped to have a few minutes’ quiet conversation with Mr Crawford. Mr Crawford, perhaps, had hoped the same. But in the event, five of Lady Dormer’s dinner guests took leave of her presently and embarked for
Blackfriars: Sir Henry and Mr Crawford, Philippa Somerville and Ludovic d’Harcourt and the boy Nicholas Chancellor who had never, he said, been in the Storehouse of the Revels. And since it was a sunny, sparkling day and the company was both gay and congenial, Sir Henry smiled and let affairs take their course.

  It was a short journey, and more fateful than any one of them knew. A journey inevitable from the day Francis Crawford was born, and set firm in his stars where already old eyes had distinguished it and younger eyes, also far-seeing, had chosen to ignore and defy it.

  Of its significance he himself had no inkling when he set out, relaxed by the company a trifle more than was usually possible; his quilted shirt sleeves white in the sun under his sleeveless green jerkin; his sunlit head sheathed in his high, elegant collar. The two barges rocked at the steps, their four oarsmen waiting, and Philippa’s maligned scarlet sock unbent and flew like an ensign in battle as she took her place under the bow hood and settled down, confidentially, beside Lymond. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

  He eyed her warily, in the way she had learned to mistrust. ‘You aren’t devoted to feathers?’

  ‘I can take them’ said Philippa, ‘or leave them. I wanted to speak about Lady Lennox and the Angus inheritance. Queen Mary has had a letter from the Queen Dowager of Scotland.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lymond said. Sir Henry had stepped into the other barge, and Nicholas had followed suit. Ludovic d’Harcourt was still to come.

  ‘The Scottish Queen Dowager says that she has given favourable audience to Dr Laurence Hussey, appointed by the Privy Council at our Queen Mary’s insistence to break ground for Lady Lennox’s claim to the Angus castles and property in Scotland. And that she has now opened justice to him and given express command that the Chancellery shall be patent to Lady Margaret. That means she is to be permitted a Chancery suit on the matter.’

  ‘I know,’ Lymond said. ‘In fact, I have, back at Fenchurch Street, a packet I received from the French Ambassador yesterday. It contains a statement sent by Lady Lennox to Scotland, clearing you of all implication in any untoward passage of information between the two countries. I assume you know of the bargain because you are in ceaseless communication with your mother?’