Free Queens' Play by Dorothy Dunnett Page A

breathing, Henri II, Elect of God and Most Christian Majesty of France and her peoples, heard O’LiamRoe’s translated words falter to a close. ‘If his hair were shaved off, there’s not enough skull in it for brains,’ said the sieur de Genstan; and looked anywhere but at O’LiamRoe.
    For a long moment, many things hung in the balance, and not the least of them O’LiamRoe’s life. But Henri was not quite committed to an alliance with England. His need of Ireland might return. And royal dignity, in the long run, mattered more than royal vanity. He prepared to speak.
    O’LiamRoe’s face, as realization struck him, went quite blank. Then he drew himself quietly together, his fair skin hotly red, his blue eyes steady; and by a visible effort of will, detachment, cynicism, amusement even flowed back into his bearing as, slow, heavy, measured, the King’s words proceeded, shadowed by the light, hurried English of de Genstan.
    ‘You claim a culture. You speak of a common ancestry. You call yourself the son of a king. You show scorn for our customs and make fun of our person.’
    ‘It was a mistake,’ said O’LiamRoe.
    The King’s hands were clasped behind him; his voice continued unchanged. ‘We are aware of your poverty. We are aware of your claims to learning. We are aware of the racial distinction of your people. But we had expected certain courtesies of the person and of the tongue. We were prepared to entertain you at our Court as an equal; and without offering you or dreaming of offering you the insult of our compassion. You had better, Prince of Barrow,’ said the King, and the gilded gloves in his hand were wrung like a rag, ‘you had better think well and invite that insult from us now.’
    O’LiamRoe looked round the circle. Shocked and shaken, they avoided his eye. The Prince’s fair face hardened. Rubbing his nose with one finger, he cast a mild blue eye on the controlled and angry figure before him. ‘Dear, dear,’ said O’LiamRoe in concern, in contrition and with, at the back of his eyes, the faintest unregenerate spark of joy. ‘Dear, dear. I have fallen into a small error of judgment. I thought the King here, you see, was a play-actor.’
    There was another silence. Then, with an explosion of disgust, Henri strode off, pacing the court, and de Genstan seized O’LiamRoe’s arm. ‘Go now. Quickly,’ he said.
    With a strength quite unlooked-for, the other man resisted. ‘Not at all, so. It will never do to be losing our heads.’
    ‘My God,’ said de Genstan, who had lost his a good time ago. ‘You’ll come to table tomorrow with an apple in your mouth.’
    ‘Not at all, now. Wait. Here he is,’ said O’LiamRoe, as the King swung to a halt before him. ‘Ah, bad cess to it, it’s a damned heathen language, the French. What’s all that about?’
    De Genstan translated. ‘Since you have proved your ignorance in these matters, it might please you to study the monarchy of France and her peoples in their great moment of accord. His grace desires you to stay in Rouen at his expense until and during the celebration of his Joyous Entry on Wednesday. On Thursday you and your party will be escorted to Dieppe and at the first fair wind a galley will be at your service to return immediately to Ireland. Between now and Wednesday, his grace expects to hold no further communication with you.’
    O’LiamRoe had flushed again; but beyond that, there was no trace of anger or of chagrin on the disingenuous face. ‘Tell him I agree so. Why would I not? The Emperor is the King of Kings, so they say; the Catholic King is the King of Men, and the King of France is King of Beasts, “therefore whatever he commands he is instantly obeyed.” And who am I, a mere gentleman, to deny him?’
    He waited, to do him justice, until it was translated; he bowed three times in the doorway like the unrolling of some primitive carpet, and he departed. Thus Phelim O’LiamRoe, Chief of the Name, Prince of Barrow