Pawn in Frankincense (5 page)

It was dark on the stairs when they left, and the taper Jerott’s manservant carried hardly lit the bare steps outside Lymond’s closed door. Moreover, the woman waiting at the first bend who slipped past them, averting her face, and ran up those same stairs was cloaked and heavily veiled. But Philippa recognized her, none the less, in a puff of bean-powder and chypre, as the soap-merchant’s wife.

Jerott’s hand increased its grip on her arm. ‘He is an island with all its bridges wantonly severed. What hostage to evil,’ said Jerott, poetic in his thumping displeasure, ‘will
this
night’s business conceive?’

‘I don’t know. But they’re both nice and clean, if that’s anything,’ said Philippa. And led the way philosophically down.

The lady from Munich left, with equal discretion, just after two o’clock in the morning. Some time after that, after listening outside Lymond’s door for a moment, Salablanca, his personal aide and his friend, laid down a candle and, entering noiselessly, crossed in near-dark to the bed.

Lymond was asleep, his hands outflung on the pillow-mattress; the sheets twisted about him. Satisfied, Salablanca moved from his side and in a few moments, soundlessly, had set the disordered room to rights and was repairing, softly as a hospitaller, the wreck of the bed.

Just as he finished Lymond half woke; and with a faint smile for Salablanca, turned his head fully away.

‘
Lo siento, señor.
’ The words were no more than a breath; and already, having said them, Salablanca had retreated without sound to the door, when Lymond spoke. ‘
¿ No duermes?
’

‘
Duermo y guardo.
’

‘There is no need,’ said Lymond in Spanish and lay, looking, as Salablanca bowed his head and withdrew, closing the door on the dark.

It was raining in Lyons when they got there. The journey, a remorselessly eventful one, took just under three weeks; and after three weeks in Lymond’s company—longer than she had ever spent in the whole of her life—even Philippa’s iron nerves were vibrating.

They were attacked three times in the course of it: once in the forest of Jurthen by the local brigand Long Peter, which they expected; and once crossing the gorge bridge near Nantua, which it appeared only Lymond expected. Because of the size of their cavalcade and its quality, the fighting in both these cases was brief, and they suffered no damage.

Philippa, used to thief-infested journeys at home and to trees with strange burdens, was not unduly disturbed. What shook her, lying under the lee of a waterfall, behind a thornbush and once, by mistake, on an anthill, was Lymond’s articulate and nauseating power to command. To form an escort of even minimal size for Ambassadorial dignity he had hired men-at-arms, swiftly and rigorously chosen, on leaving the French Court. From St Mary’s, his company now lent to the King, he had taken only three men: two grooms and general servants from Midculter, and the Moor Salablanca whom the year before he had freed from slavery at the castle of Tripoli. Now, in addition, he had Jerott with his two or three men, Philippa with her elderly Fogge, and Master Zitwitz with his small staff as well.

Through Onophrion Zitwitz’s eyes, and through those of Jerott, Philippa witnessed the reduction of this multilingual mob, smoking, to a compact troop of precisely drilled servants. As Solothurn gave place to Berne, and Berne to Fribourg; as they passed Romont and Lausanne and skirted the Lake of Geneva to the Weisses Kreuz at Rolle; as they passed from the bearpit and the German cooking at the Falken to the Croix Blanche and the Bois de Cerf where Onophrion made them burn all the sheets, she commented, blithely, on what she saw and shared, frequently, in the scourge of Francis Crawford’s disparaging tongue.

On other matters no one spoke. It was accepted, it seemed, that possessing this talent, Lymond should be exercising it on a parcel of peasants while his own massive command operated without him at Hesdin, and for no better reason than that he wished to travel in state as a Special Envoy to Turkey. It was accepted that Graham Malett, whose hunger for power was greater, perhaps, than that of any other man then living, was to remain undisturbed by Lymond to do what harm he might please on Malta. It was accepted that
the mistress, alive or dead, and the son, alive or dead, whom Graham Malett claimed to have hidden as hostages when, three months before, he had bartered his life, were to continue in life or in death, untroubled by Francis Crawford; who balked at publicly beating up Europe in pursuit of a one-year-old byblow.

At the beginning, belligerent, Philippa had tried to discuss it with Jerott. ‘He could at least find out if the baby’s alive. He could at least hurry. If he’d left Scotland when Gabriel did and got to Malta first, he might even have rescued it.’

‘Good God,’ said Jerott. ‘You don’t suppose Gabriel’s keeping them on Malta?’ They were at Coppet at the time and leaving early, by Lymond’s unalterable edict, because Calvin was preaching. Jerott had wished to hear Calvin. ‘The bloody child’s not on Malta; it’s in the corsair Dragut’s harem with its mother, if she’s still alive. If Gabriel’s issued orders to kill it, then it’s dead, and Francis couldn’t have stopped it. How could he? He couldn’t sail for a week after Gabriel had gone, and even if he’d known where to look, Graham Malett would have got there before him.’

‘But if it is dead, then Mr Crawford is free to kill Gabriel,’ remarked Philippa, her mud-coloured eyes ingenuous in her very plain face.

‘Quite,’ said Jerott. ‘Which makes it seem very possible, doesn’t it, that it is in Gabriel’s own best interests to keep the baby alive?’

‘But inaccessible,’ said Philippa thoughtfully. ‘But inaccessible.’

‘So why are you going to Lyons?’ said Philippa. ‘It’s not on the way back to England.’

Jerott eyed her austerely. ‘For protection.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Philippa prosaically, ‘that on the whole we run more risks
with
Mr Crawford’s protection than
without
it.’

The following week, within sight of Lyons and its frieze of occupied gibbet and wheel, they became involved, not accidentally, in a Protestant-baiting, despite all Lymond could and did do. The crowd came upon them suddenly, and with them a masked dummy, borne on a hurdle with its limbs dangling, broken in ritual to represent a heretic condemned but so far uncaught.

In a narrow faubourg, without possibility of retreat, Lymond’s party reined in single file and stopped on command: no one spoke. No one knew how, in passing, the rag-filled dummy was freed from its hurdle and slung over the saddle of one of Master Zitwitz’s servants whose horse, taking fright, bolted off through the throng, maiming with its hoofs as it went.

In a climate sulphurous with religious dissent, it was more than enough. The crowd, a rabble of four or five hundred, turned on the cavalcade in their midst. Philippa had time to see the reddened faces, the open mouths, the upflung hatchets and pikes; and then her horse,
hauled round by Lymond’s hand on the bit, turned and raced off by the way they had come, a detachment of Lymond’s armed men surrounding her and her maid. From the shouting behind, she knew that Lymond himself, with Jerott and the rest, was momentarily holding the road.

She shouted then, but the men-at-arms round her wouldn’t let her stop. Instead, they brought her in a broad sweep to the river they had been about to cross over, bargained swiftly, and when, a moment later, Lymond and the rest of the company appeared, riding hard, she was already in the ferryboat and half-way across, her horse swimming alongside. Kneeling in the boat, screaming encouragement, she saw them one by one launch into the water, stones splashing about them, until finally they were out of reach of the bank and the crowd, still yelling, began to disperse.

Standing safely on the opposite bank with her dry maid, her dry escort, and a company of streaming horsemen, Philippa said scathingly, ‘That’s men for you. Cover the lady’s retreat, the book says. A hundred years ago, maybe. And what stopped you from coming with me just now? I can swim, you know.’

Onophrion Zitwitz, as so often, materialized at her side. ‘M. le Comte,’ he said, his face less than rosy under the sad strands of his hair, ‘hoped, without success, I fear, to save that poor ill-advised servant of mine.’

‘Oh, Christ, it wasn’t his fault,’ said Lymond. Unclasping the dead weight of his long cloak, he slung it to Salablanca and remounted as he was, his bare head darkened and rivulets from his chain mail drenching leathers and saddlecloth.

‘Was it staged, then?’ Jerott, also remounted, rode alongside. Lymond said, ‘Don’t be a fool, Jerott,’ and turning, continued with the string of orders he had begun when interrupted. Philippa said patiently to Jerott, ‘All right. So you were gallant. And how did you persuade four hundred people to let you ride after me in the end?’

‘It’s easy if you know how,’ said Jerott. ‘Francis emptied his purse on the street as we went.’

‘Oh,’ said Philippa. ‘Tonight we sing in the streets?’ She waited, and then said, ‘What’s wrong? It’s not just Master Zitwitz’s servant? You know I’m sorry about that.’

‘You perhaps didn’t notice my crack over the knuckles just now,’ Jerott said. ‘That was because three men were picked off and killed altogether back there in the street. One was the servant. The other two were the men Lymond himself brought from Midculter. Quite a coincidence, yes?’

Philippa drew a deep breath, and found relief in expelling it. ‘Do you think,’ she said carefully, ‘that someone is going to be goaded into doing something soon?’

There was a long pause. ‘I think,’ said Jerott at length, equally carefully, ‘that someone is going to the court of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, and someone else is going to Flaw Valleys, England, to Mother.’

Which summed it up, Philippa supposed, with regret.

For their stay in Lyons, Onophrion had hired a house, on Lymond’s instructions. As with every domestic arrangement on the entire journey, the controller’s dispositions were perfect. The house, in three chic carved wooden storeys with its own courtyard, was well staffed and admirable. Even more admirable was the discovery that the clothes, the household linen and even the mattresses packed under Onophrion’s direction for the sumpter-mules had survived their swim in the Rhône quite intact.

The food, it became obvious, was Onophrion’s dearest care; but his search for the finest tailors and cloth-makers was meticulous, and soon his special task, that of suitably dressing the men-at-arms and attendants of a Special Envoy of France, was on its rich and orderly way. Only just in time did the Special Envoy, leaving the house with Jerott, catch and stop Onophrion on the verge of purchasing ells of cramoisy velvet, violet satin and cascades of gold bullion to be made into clothing for the Special Envoy himself. ‘No! No. The prayer of Job upon the dunghill was as good as Paul’s in the temple. I shall choose what I want for myself.’

Master Zitwitz inclined his head. ‘I have gone too far. Forgive me. I wished only to save time. If I have the best—only the best—cloths and laces set out for you, would you give yourself the trouble of choosing? I shall appoint the tailors to come as you wish. Also, M. le Comte may require jewels?’ It was a sore point that, whatever Lymond’s possessions might be, Salablanca had charge of them.

‘Do I require jewels?’ asked Francis Crawford, of the air. ‘Let us ask M. Gaultier.’ His eyes wide, he turned, catching Jerott’s sour grin. ‘Think!’ said Lymond. ‘Breeches! Bangles! A Hairy Alpenrose in dimity ruffles! … Don’t you wish you were going as well?’

‘I wish we were going to Gaultier’s,’ Jerott said evenly. ‘We’ll be late.’ And waited while, smiling, Lymond finished buckling his sword, flung a cloak over his right shoulder and slithering downstairs, crossed the courtyard to join him.

The rue Mercière, Lyons, where rested the unique horological spinet, the King of France’s gift to the Sultan Suleiman, was not far away. With the spinet was its maker, Georges Gaultier, usurer, clockmaker and dealer in antiquities, who in pursuit of his fortunes had several establishments the length and breadth of France, in two of which he had had the doubtful pleasure of entertaining Francis Crawford before.

Jerott knew this. He also knew, from sources in Scotland, a little more than Lymond would expect about Georges Gaultier’s permanent
house-guest. Crossing the narrow threshold in the rue Mercière he viewed without enthusiasm Maître Gaultier’s fleshless frame, sallow skin and general air of liberal neglect, not helped by his attitude of qualified interest. Egypt, Syria, Armenia, Arabia Felix or otherwise, were to him as familiar, Jerott gathered, as the castle at Blois. He made only cursory mention of his previous meetings with M. le Comte de Sevigny, and betrayed no excitement over the present one. He settled a date for crating the spinet, now finished, and a further date on which the crate, accompanied by himself and assistant, would join M. de Sevigny—or did he wish to be called M. de Lymond?—to sail by river from Lyons to Marseilles.

Lymond said pleasantly, ‘Let’s keep the title until we have to impress somebody. I should also like you and your assistant to call on me at least a week before we embark. We shall be together for a long time. You should meet the rest of my household. And there may be purely domestic matters to settle.’

It was agreed but not, Jerott noted, with any great readiness. Why? Great sums of money—prodigal sums—had passed hands over this spinet. As the maker, Gaultier’s name, already familiar, would be famous. Surely the journey alone, all expenses paid, was an inducement, no matter how often the dealer had travelled before. Or had the old creature upstairs objected?

Alert to every pulse in the air, Jerott heard Lymond say, ‘And may we have the pleasure now of inspecting the instrument?’ But to his surprise, this time the old man made no demur. There were two doors to pass and enough in the way of bars, bolts and keys to inhibit a woodworm. But finally the inner workshop was there, and a smallish freestanding object from which Georges Gaultier smoothed off an ancient striped bedgown masquerading as dust-sheet.

Jerott gasped.