at the Croix d’Or at three in the morning.
Not a few people heard him arrive. A door banged after repeated farewells, and an uneven satisfied chanting ascended the stairs interrupted by innumerable thuds and clatters:
‘
Cows, pigs, horses, sheep, goats,
Dogs, cats, hens, geese—noisy goods—
’
The O’LiamRoe heard it. He awoke from his fireside snooze in the parlour and turned a speculative blue eye on the door.
‘
—Noisy goods,
Little bees that stick to all flowers:
These are the ten beasts of the world’s men.
The reason I love Derry …
’
‘Death alive, the world’s only liquid chapbook,’ said O’LiamRoe.
‘
—The reason I love Derry …
’
The solemn voice was outside the parlour. There was a prodigious fumbling, a scrape, and the door shook.
‘The reason I love Derry is for its quietness, for its purity and for its crowds of white angels. Still up?’ Thady Boy Ballagh strolled in, locked the door, slung a spattered cloak on a chair and stuck out his tongue at a mirror. ‘God, I’m full of sour wine and cows’ feet and you could make scones from my underwear.’ His voice was pleasant, without accent, and clear as a bell.
O’LiamRoe, while philosophic enough about a reverse of his own, did have a conscience, and had been out of temper ever since Lymond’s summons from his Dowager Queen. Addressing his prodigal ollave, his voice had an edge to it. ‘The Queen Mother of Scotland surely has a queer style of entertaining?’
‘Oh Lord, no. I spent the evening elsewhere. Playing at paper games. With your admirer Robin Stewart.’
‘In Ireland,’ said The O’LiamRoe shortly, ‘that man would be put into petticoats and set to milking the goats. He’s a terrible let-down to his sex.… So the royal audience was brief? Fruitless her corn, fruitless her rivers, milkless her cattle, plentiless her fruit, for there was but one acorn upon the stalk, and it failed her?’
Quickly, methodically, Lymond was stripping. Under his soaked shirt the false stomach sagged in its leather covers. He unbuckled it,his face unruffled, and examined it before laying it by the hearth. ‘She has her worries. No need to concern yourself.’
‘What did she say?’ asked O’LiamRoe, driven to being explicit.
Lymond paused. His black hair, damply curling, showed a tinge of gold at the roots; and only the dye ingrained in his skin disguised the gold stubble of his beard. In the slack-lidded eyes lived an echo of something hilarious and vital. O’LiamRoe felt a sudden obscure drag at his entrails. If he could, he would have withdrawn the question.
‘What did she say? “I have brought you to the ring—hop it if you can.” Quotation,’ said Lymond.
O’LiamRoe stood up. ‘My life for you, it’s another master you’re needing. Is there not a smart, orthodox rebel of an Irishman that would do? There’s young Gerald of Kildare now; but he’s in Rome and maybe a thought too small for the hire of an ollave. Or Cormac O’Connor, then. His father’s between four walls in the Tower of London and Cormac is wild, wild to kick the English out of Ireland; Henri would see that he came to Court and sat soft in the crook of his arm, and his ollave too. You would need only another name, and pink hair maybe.’
Lymond glanced at him, and picked up a towel. ‘What’ll you wager I can’t enter the royal circle as Thady Boy Ballagh?’
‘Before Wednesday?’ O’LiamRoe spoke sarcastically, the exaggerated ease out of his manner.
‘Or Thursday.’ Below the collarbone, Lymond’s skin was surprisingly brown, and the contouring was neat-muscled and shapely, despite the flawing of scars. He added, glancing up from his towelling, ‘If I achieved a foothold at Court, would you stay?’
O’LiamRoe’s freckled face gleamed as he enjoyed the idea. ‘As your ollave? Let you not be tempting me.’
Lymond flung a bedsheet round his shoulders and hugged his knees, his gaze on the hot charcoal, and this time
Not a few people heard him arrive. A door banged after repeated farewells, and an uneven satisfied chanting ascended the stairs interrupted by innumerable thuds and clatters:
‘
Cows, pigs, horses, sheep, goats,
Dogs, cats, hens, geese—noisy goods—
’
The O’LiamRoe heard it. He awoke from his fireside snooze in the parlour and turned a speculative blue eye on the door.
‘
—Noisy goods,
Little bees that stick to all flowers:
These are the ten beasts of the world’s men.
The reason I love Derry …
’
‘Death alive, the world’s only liquid chapbook,’ said O’LiamRoe.
‘
—The reason I love Derry …
’
The solemn voice was outside the parlour. There was a prodigious fumbling, a scrape, and the door shook.
‘The reason I love Derry is for its quietness, for its purity and for its crowds of white angels. Still up?’ Thady Boy Ballagh strolled in, locked the door, slung a spattered cloak on a chair and stuck out his tongue at a mirror. ‘God, I’m full of sour wine and cows’ feet and you could make scones from my underwear.’ His voice was pleasant, without accent, and clear as a bell.
O’LiamRoe, while philosophic enough about a reverse of his own, did have a conscience, and had been out of temper ever since Lymond’s summons from his Dowager Queen. Addressing his prodigal ollave, his voice had an edge to it. ‘The Queen Mother of Scotland surely has a queer style of entertaining?’
‘Oh Lord, no. I spent the evening elsewhere. Playing at paper games. With your admirer Robin Stewart.’
‘In Ireland,’ said The O’LiamRoe shortly, ‘that man would be put into petticoats and set to milking the goats. He’s a terrible let-down to his sex.… So the royal audience was brief? Fruitless her corn, fruitless her rivers, milkless her cattle, plentiless her fruit, for there was but one acorn upon the stalk, and it failed her?’
Quickly, methodically, Lymond was stripping. Under his soaked shirt the false stomach sagged in its leather covers. He unbuckled it,his face unruffled, and examined it before laying it by the hearth. ‘She has her worries. No need to concern yourself.’
‘What did she say?’ asked O’LiamRoe, driven to being explicit.
Lymond paused. His black hair, damply curling, showed a tinge of gold at the roots; and only the dye ingrained in his skin disguised the gold stubble of his beard. In the slack-lidded eyes lived an echo of something hilarious and vital. O’LiamRoe felt a sudden obscure drag at his entrails. If he could, he would have withdrawn the question.
‘What did she say? “I have brought you to the ring—hop it if you can.” Quotation,’ said Lymond.
O’LiamRoe stood up. ‘My life for you, it’s another master you’re needing. Is there not a smart, orthodox rebel of an Irishman that would do? There’s young Gerald of Kildare now; but he’s in Rome and maybe a thought too small for the hire of an ollave. Or Cormac O’Connor, then. His father’s between four walls in the Tower of London and Cormac is wild, wild to kick the English out of Ireland; Henri would see that he came to Court and sat soft in the crook of his arm, and his ollave too. You would need only another name, and pink hair maybe.’
Lymond glanced at him, and picked up a towel. ‘What’ll you wager I can’t enter the royal circle as Thady Boy Ballagh?’
‘Before Wednesday?’ O’LiamRoe spoke sarcastically, the exaggerated ease out of his manner.
‘Or Thursday.’ Below the collarbone, Lymond’s skin was surprisingly brown, and the contouring was neat-muscled and shapely, despite the flawing of scars. He added, glancing up from his towelling, ‘If I achieved a foothold at Court, would you stay?’
O’LiamRoe’s freckled face gleamed as he enjoyed the idea. ‘As your ollave? Let you not be tempting me.’
Lymond flung a bedsheet round his shoulders and hugged his knees, his gaze on the hot charcoal, and this time
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