Checkmate (81 page)

The pretty house in the rue de la Cerisaye, now quite gone. The empty, ruined old house in Lyon. The graves of two old women; and a strong and vigorous man; and an old and vicious one. A sister lost, a lover lost, an escutcheon taken from him, and two nations he had made temporarily his own. And Philippa.

At Dieppe, the captain at the gate greeted them, and Richard, his attention attracted at last by the sheer exhaustion in his brother’s face, was reminded of the last time Francis must have made this identical journey, and wondered if he remembered it.

M. de Fors was still in Scotland, so they were received in his absence by one of his lieutenants, who gave them a bed for the night, and next day saw that their luggage, their servants and their horses were safely loaded on the
Réal
. Richard stayed on deck to watch the steep white-pleated cliffs sink into the sea, but Francis had gone below, and did not return.

Richard left him alone. By her own curious alchemy Sybilla had obtained what all these years he had desired of his brother. He was on his way home, to fulfil the duties of rank and family; to bring his talents at last back to Scotland. Whatever had caused the quarrel with Sybilla, it seemed to be over. Whatever had made him long to leave Europe and return to Russia had vanished also. He was still married to Philippa, and Philippa was only a ride away, on the English side of the Border. Perhaps that would mend itself also.

It was hard to say therefore why he did not go below, and rally his brother, and encourage him to let the past fade, and look forward to what lay before him. Unless, in his heart of hearts he recognized as Lymond did that what lay around him were shut gates; and what lay before him was nothing.

Up the twisting stairs of the house called Doubtance in the rue des Papegaults, Blois, the dusty rooms were little more habitable than they had been a year before when Philippa, helped by Nicholas Applegarth, had searched them.

The sparse furniture Marthe had brought stood untended against the peeled stucco, and the clocks, the instruments, the ancient artefacts of her business lay unopened still in their cases. So it was a simple matter, watched by the short, bearded figure of Nostradamus, for Marthe to push aside the single chair in the room once occupied by her grandmother, and probing with her long fingers along the wainscoting, to press the boss Archie Abernethy had told her of, which opened the way to the treasure house.

At first, it stuck. Marthe had to push with both hands, disregarding the smears on her gown, to force back the thick sliding door in the panelling, and then to stop and take time to light a lamp, before she could step into the small hidden room in which the Dame de Doubtance had kept the cream of her collection and once, Francis Crawford.

So finely had the wood fitted that only a light film of dust dimmed the objects which lay stacked on the shelves, or spilled from the caskets stored in the little dark cabinet. The yellow of ivory smiled at her, delicately wrought on its plinth, and the glint of thick, opaque jewellery, and the gleam of rich tissue, a trifle disturbed from its wrappings. A marble cupid gazed at her over his shoulder, and a visage much older, with arched, spidery brows and bent finger.

It was that face she moved towards, her neck bent and her yellow hair brushing the ceiling; and for a moment knelt before, looking. From the doorway the sonorous Jewish voice said, ‘Was she like that?’

‘Yes,’ said Marthe. ‘She was more beautiful.’ And then, turning, followed the slender, bent finger to its destination.

And there on the floor was a little casket, as old as the ikon and painted like it in deep, vibrant colours in which the blue-shadowed angled heads and long faces followed each other in silence from panel to panel.

The heavy lid was not locked. Inside it, as she had expected, was a thin roll of parchment, bound in blue silk and sealed with the pheon and phoenix of Culter. She lifted it out, and a voice from the doorway
said, ‘I doubt, Mistress Marthe, if birth or any other sanction gives you authority to read that particular document. Why not let me have it? I’m a very good friend of the owner.’

It was the little sandy-haired Scotsman who had followed her to the rue de Marie-Egyptienne, and had then brought Lady Culter to plague her. Handing his way courteously past the astrologer, Danny Hislop stood by the door to the treasure chamber.

The parchment cracked in her clenched hand. She could not even stand fully upright. Marthe said, ‘This is no business of yours. Get out of my house.’

‘I’m sorry. A wholly vulgar reaction,’ said Danny Hislop. ‘I’ll give you another, in two syllables, if you press me. It isn’t your house, nor are any of the objects within it. They belong to Lymond.’

‘Then bring him in,’ Marthe said. ‘And I will give them to him.’

The pale, clever eyes turned up. Their owner quoted Surrey at her.
‘And of ech thought a dout doth growe/Now he comes, will he come? alas, no, no!…

‘On the other hand,’ said Danny Hislop, ‘I can take it to him.’

He moved backwards as she advanced and stepped into the daylight, leaving the lamp set behind her. ‘Do you know what it is?’ said Marthe softly. Master Nostradamus, his back to the window, had said nothing.

‘Lyk an aspen leef he quook,’ said Danny defensively. ‘Don’t tell me! A little knock with a wakener? A knife for the shoulderblades?’

‘Oh come, Mr Hislop,’ said Marthe. ‘You knew from the beginning at Lyon that Philippa was hunting for some papers exposing the Crawford family. They came to light in Paris and she and Francis suppressed them. Lord Allendale told me he thought there was another copy, and here it is.’

‘Forgive my lack of surprise,’ Danny said. ‘It is, I assume, a document certifying the poor bastard’s bastardy, if I may so refer to your brother. Since he’s on his way home, there seems little point in flourishing it now. I can either take it to him, or help you burn it.’

‘I am sure,’ said Michel Nostradamus, ‘that Mistress Marthe does not mean to dismiss any course of action that seems reasonable. But it might be sensible to discover first what you are burning.’

The silk had already been slipped from the scroll and Marthe, her long fingers parting the fold, was about to break open the seal. She was smiling at Danny as she did so. ‘At least,’ she said, ‘my authority is greater than yours. What did your Scottish king say? Marry never a priest’s get?’

‘I never heard of anyone worth the name who got the chance,’ Danny said. ‘I give you instead Daniel Hislop, who said that bastards should only marry each other. Can you make it out, or do you want me to read it to you?’

‘I can make it out,’ Marthe said. She was looking at the astrologer.

‘And what are you going to do with it?’ said Danny Hislop.

‘Publish it where it will hurt most,’ said Lymond’s sister. ‘I am going to
show it to Richard Crawford, and watch him thrust it in front of his mother. Did you not know that the stately Sybilla has committed incest?’

‘No,’ said Danny.

‘Or that our eminent Marshal is the child, as I am, of the first Lord Culter, Richard’s grandfather? Perhaps,’ said Marthe, ‘if I hold the paper like this, both you and Master Nostradamus may read it and satisfy yourselves about the true nature of this little family. Don’t you think, Master Hislop, that I shall enjoy Lord Culter’s next visit to Paris? I don’t think on that occasion I shall be expected to skulk in an attic.’

Danny had reached the bottom of the parchment. He said,
‘Christ in heaven,’
and then started again from the top. At the end he looked up and met the chilly blue eyes of Marthe. He was not smiling.

‘And this is your revenge for bastardy?’ said Danny Hislop. ‘How long, in this world, can a woman remain a bloody juvenile? You’ve knelt in the dirt, and so have I before the Bastard of France and the Bastard of Scotland … my God, we all watched Jenny Fleming produce one. You and I can’t hand on our money—openly; we can’t hold some kinds of high office—openly; but the rest of it doesn’t matter a damn, least of all to you. You’re as hard as cooled steel, Madame Marthe, except in one direction. You resent what Lymond’s family did to him, and you want to watch them suffer for it. What you don’t see, you stupid bitch, is that what hurts Culter and his mother hurts Francis.’

‘Even after your spirited dismissal of the stigma of bastardy?’ Marthe said. She had rolled the parchment and replaced the silk on it. Nostradamus, who had not accepted her invitation to read, remained standing where he was by the window.

Danny said, ‘I didn’t tell you the other side, because you know it. You and I don’t have a family. They have. They were brought up together. They need each other, and support each other. It’s too late to change any of that. Whether he ever marries again or not, Francis has that; and if anything happens to him, the rest of the family have each other. You won’t get him now, Marthe,’ said Danny Hislop. ‘Now that you want him. He belongs to them. It’s too late. And I don’t think you would be allowed to try it.’

The eyes of Marthe, looking past him, had met the steady look of the silent astrologer, and stayed on him. ‘Allowed?’ said Marthe. ‘I have finished with asking permission for what I do and what I think. I have finished with being dispatched scurrying from errand to errand. I am my own mistress now. I am going to move the pieces. I am going to direct the end of the game.’

Her voice was raised, as if in anger, but the voice of Nostradamus, answering her, was perfectly calm. ‘If you wish to carry this paper from France and deliver it into Lord Culter’s hands,’ he said, ‘I know of no power which would stop you, unless an earthly one.’

‘And that,’ said Daniel Hislop, ‘is the first totally accurate prediction I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. Give me that.’

‘No,’ said Marthe. ‘No. You will get hurt. It is none of your business. You fool, if I can deal with Jerott, don’t you imagine I can defend my own …’

He nearly had the paper then; his finger and thumb on her outflung wrist; his other hand hard on her neck. Then she brought out her left hand, with the dagger in it, and struck him once, and twice, and three times, until he fell.

She stood gasping, while in a flutter of black, Nostradamus knelt quickly and touched him. The blood, silvered with dust, jumped and slid over the floorboards. Marthe said, ‘I had to.’

‘A knife for the bloody shoulder-blades,’ said Danny’s voice thinly from beside the astrologer’s knees. ‘You and your brother. You don’t have to be so God-damned thorough.’

Marthe looked down, the hilt gripped hard in her fist. Beneath the floss of fine hair, the freckles overcast Danny’s white face like flotsam; but it was not the face of a man who was dying.

‘He was wearing steel under his shirt,’ said Nostradamus. ‘But he won’t walk for a while, or use his shoulder.’

‘I never trust bastards either,’ Danny said hoarsely. ‘Marthe. You owe me something. Take the advice of a well-wisher. Leave that paper alone.’

‘I had to,’ said Marthe again. She looked at Nostradamus. ‘You could look after him? That is … You are staying?’

‘I am not leaving France,’ said Nostradamus. ‘My part in the prophecy is fulfilled. Yours has still to come. Whatever made you think you were free?’

‘And the end?’ Marthe said. ‘Do you know it?’

‘We all die,’ said Nostradamus. ‘The man you love. The man who loves you. The man you married. But because of you there will be something, I promise you, by which men will know Francis Crawford has been.’

*

She left in an hour, alone, in the plain clothes of a merchant, with a merchant’s safe-conduct in her saddlebags. And in the breast of her shirt was the scroll from the house of Doubtance, freshly packeted, and sealed, in bitter whimsy, with the crest of her husband’s ring.

On the week-long ride to Dieppe no one followed her, and no power of heaven or of earth prevented her sailing, although storms delayed her departure and drove her ship finally from port after port, before stranding her in the roads outside Dover. There her patience ran out, and when they sent a boat to the town for fresh water, she had herself and her bags put ashore by it. She was engaged in buying a horse when two customars, strolling up, asked her to come with them into their office.

Searchers and customars are not always honest men, and she took thought for her saddlebags, but not for the paper she carried. Nor could
she have known, unless the Lennoxes had told her, that wherever she had made landfall, one man or two would have stopped her, and thrust her, as now, into an empty cell, and turning the key, made her their prisoner.

*

The storms which delayed the
Réal
on her journey north were more erratic. After the fourth unexplained sojourn in harbour, Richard Crawford sought out the master and demanded an accounting. He had not known his brother was on deck until halfway through the seaman’s obliging explanations, when Francis said agreeably, ‘When did the wind change?’

The more uncommunicative gentleman, who looked fragile, had not so far engaged the master’s attention. ‘Eh?’ he said.

‘When did the wind change? It’s been south-south-west for thirty-six hours, but you’ve adjusted the foremast and the staysail twice already this morning. Are we a training ship?’

‘No,’ said the master.

‘… my lord,’ said Lymond.

‘No, my lord,’ said the master. ‘Only honest seamen who serve their trade faithfully. She’s an old vessel, and seen a few fights. You have to gentle her.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lymond. ‘I should prefer sailing her. Do I have your permission?’

The master gazed at him. ‘I can’t see my owners liking that, my lord. I’m sorry. But perhaps you or the other gentleman would like to take the helm for a little?’

‘Would you like to take the helm for a little, Richard?’ Lymond said. It was as inconsequential as any of his conversation had been, on the rare occasions during the voyage when he had sought company. Once, in his sleep, he had spoken Philippa’s name, but never at any other time.

‘Not unless you want to swim to Leith,’ Richard said.

‘Or, like the Turks’ diabolical iron galley, ride under the water for ever. It would pose, one should say, certain problems of steering.’ He raised his voice just a little, and threw it aft,
‘M. le timonier? Pouge un peu, s’il vous plaît. Et puis il faut larguer les voiles
. Master?’

The master had gone very red. ‘My lord, there can only be one who commands on a ship.’

‘That is correct. And you have kindly handed me your authority for a day,’ Lymond said. ‘Go and sleep. I shall give you your ship back at nightfall.’

His jaw jutting, the master turned on Lord Culter. ‘I will stand security for him,’ said Richard gravely. ‘If he chips the shaft of an oar, I shall pay for it.’

He was not at all sure that it was wise, but it seemed to be what Francis wanted, and that he should want anything was of moment. He
was aware that the master, although overborne, was still there, on the long rambade, watching. Then Lymond walked to the poop, and, turning, his hands clasped lightly behind him, said,
‘Ecoutez, tout le monde
and talked on in short, carrying phrases, while the stern post arched to the sky and plunged again into the sea just behind him.

The men near Richard were grinning, but he did not know the common language of galleys, and so missed the cause of it. He could tell the orders, however, from the pitch of his brother’s voice and watched, holding hard to the rail as lines of men came and went, in a rush of bare feet. Above his head, soles dangling, they were doing something to the brails on a yardarm. The sea hissed and the coast, grey in the drizzle, began, quickening, to unroll towards them.

The ship was trim in an hour, and then there was nothing to do. Richard said, ‘Chancellor. I had forgotten the voyage from Russia.’