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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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slipped into the role of interpreter. ‘His Majesty is welcoming you to France, sir. He would have had you meet their graces the Duke and the Cardinal of Guise, and the Constable Montmorency as well, but they have pressing business to attend to.’
‘Ah, devil take it; and I had made up my mind that wee little one there was the Cardinal,’ said O’LiamRoe agreeably. ‘Will you tell the King’s grace he’s a happy man, surely, with the kingdom running itself while he can lep about after a ball. What’s he saying?’
Speaking through an interpreter imposes its own languors and strains on an encounter, and this one was in any case, with astounding clarity, failing to take the course expected of it. The sieur de Genstan, his face flaming, was trying hard to prolong the interview by censoring his translations. The man in white, at least aware that some of the courtesies were lacking, was still a little at a loss. In a slow, carrying voice he addressed his interpreter. M. de Genstan said to O’LiamRoe, ‘His grace asks you to be seated and take wine with him.’
‘Ah, now,’ said O’LiamRoe comfortably. ‘Thank his grace, will you, and say I’d ten times sooner see him finish his fine game of ball. It’s plain to see he’s as nimble as a pea on a drumhead, andthe nearest I’ve seen to it was a priest fighting-drunk with a censer.’
To this, expurgated, the King replied with a question. ‘Will you play with him?’
The blue eyes twinkled. ‘Dressed like this? God help us, I’d be mince-boiled in my sweat like a deer. At home we have the one dress, suitable for all occasions, and that is all.’
The black-bearded man replied cautiously, through M. de Genstan. ‘You do not have this sport in Ireland?’
Wholly at ease, O’LiamRoe sat down. Round the courtyard a sigh ran like the flight of a shuttlecock. Cheerfully aware of it, he went on ‘Sport, do you say? Pat-ball is not in it; no. But sport we have, surely and many a good man has died on the field of it with his honour bright, bright as the sun. Hurley for instance. Do you know it?’
They did not.
‘It is played with a stick, then; and dress is no matter, for you have to trouble about the one thing only, and that is getting off the sports-field alive. And whatever dress you came on with, there will likely be none on you at the end. It’s a good way of filling in time if there are no wars. I don’t play it myself, being a peaceable man. But go to it; let me see you,’ said O’LiamRoe with unfeigned interest. ‘It is never a fault to see what other folk do.’
Because they were at a loss, because they could not immediately see what had happened, because, finally, anything was better than continuing to talk, they took him at his word. As The O’LiamRoe lounged at ease, one elbow on the velvet table at his side and the speechless courtiers beside him, the bearded leader chose a single partner, without ceremony, and launched into a hard game.
They were both excellent players; and being excellent, they took risks, and sometimes suffered from them. There was no netted ball, no fruitless leap, no dropped racquet, no lonely stance, mouth agape while the ball landed neatly behind, which escaped the soft undertone of O’LiamRoe’s commentary. Excruciating, unforgivable, fluent, unerring, pitched to the trembling octave of Straw Street irony, he noted the clouted thumb, the missed serve, the sweat, the split in the seam and the single, hissing, green-bottomed slide on the turf. He noted the uncurling hair, the throttling dive at the net; he observed and reported, serenely and without mercy until under the pressure of it de Genstan, who was listening and softly translating, laughed aloud, and the infection of it burst the decorum of the rest. There was a bellow of laughter. Already sensitive to the undercurrent of two voices, the players turned, their faces printed with anger; and with a glorious, earsplitting crack, the tennis ball shot through a
‘Ah, devil take it; and I had made up my mind that wee little one there was the Cardinal,’ said O’LiamRoe agreeably. ‘Will you tell the King’s grace he’s a happy man, surely, with the kingdom running itself while he can lep about after a ball. What’s he saying?’
Speaking through an interpreter imposes its own languors and strains on an encounter, and this one was in any case, with astounding clarity, failing to take the course expected of it. The sieur de Genstan, his face flaming, was trying hard to prolong the interview by censoring his translations. The man in white, at least aware that some of the courtesies were lacking, was still a little at a loss. In a slow, carrying voice he addressed his interpreter. M. de Genstan said to O’LiamRoe, ‘His grace asks you to be seated and take wine with him.’
‘Ah, now,’ said O’LiamRoe comfortably. ‘Thank his grace, will you, and say I’d ten times sooner see him finish his fine game of ball. It’s plain to see he’s as nimble as a pea on a drumhead, andthe nearest I’ve seen to it was a priest fighting-drunk with a censer.’
To this, expurgated, the King replied with a question. ‘Will you play with him?’
The blue eyes twinkled. ‘Dressed like this? God help us, I’d be mince-boiled in my sweat like a deer. At home we have the one dress, suitable for all occasions, and that is all.’
The black-bearded man replied cautiously, through M. de Genstan. ‘You do not have this sport in Ireland?’
Wholly at ease, O’LiamRoe sat down. Round the courtyard a sigh ran like the flight of a shuttlecock. Cheerfully aware of it, he went on ‘Sport, do you say? Pat-ball is not in it; no. But sport we have, surely and many a good man has died on the field of it with his honour bright, bright as the sun. Hurley for instance. Do you know it?’
They did not.
‘It is played with a stick, then; and dress is no matter, for you have to trouble about the one thing only, and that is getting off the sports-field alive. And whatever dress you came on with, there will likely be none on you at the end. It’s a good way of filling in time if there are no wars. I don’t play it myself, being a peaceable man. But go to it; let me see you,’ said O’LiamRoe with unfeigned interest. ‘It is never a fault to see what other folk do.’
Because they were at a loss, because they could not immediately see what had happened, because, finally, anything was better than continuing to talk, they took him at his word. As The O’LiamRoe lounged at ease, one elbow on the velvet table at his side and the speechless courtiers beside him, the bearded leader chose a single partner, without ceremony, and launched into a hard game.
They were both excellent players; and being excellent, they took risks, and sometimes suffered from them. There was no netted ball, no fruitless leap, no dropped racquet, no lonely stance, mouth agape while the ball landed neatly behind, which escaped the soft undertone of O’LiamRoe’s commentary. Excruciating, unforgivable, fluent, unerring, pitched to the trembling octave of Straw Street irony, he noted the clouted thumb, the missed serve, the sweat, the split in the seam and the single, hissing, green-bottomed slide on the turf. He noted the uncurling hair, the throttling dive at the net; he observed and reported, serenely and without mercy until under the pressure of it de Genstan, who was listening and softly translating, laughed aloud, and the infection of it burst the decorum of the rest. There was a bellow of laughter. Already sensitive to the undercurrent of two voices, the players turned, their faces printed with anger; and with a glorious, earsplitting crack, the tennis ball shot through a
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