Checkmate (31 page)

‘They began at Berwick,’ said Adam dryly, ‘when his older brother took an enviable opportunity to knock him senseless. Then between us we made it impossible for him to go to Russia. After that, we weren’t in the running as confidants.’

‘Do you mean that anyone is?’ said Marthe coolly. ‘Perhaps he’ll take all his difficulties to Catherine d’Albon, but I shouldn’t count on it. How did Archie find out?’

There were some facts about Lymond that Adam was not prepared to betray to his sister.

‘By accident,’ said the artist briefly. ‘We know the kind of life Francis has led. Concussion also does curious things.’

‘These are the reasons a layman would give,’ Marthe said. ‘I think you should tell us what the prophet of Salon-de-Crau has diagnosed.’

Adam looked at Philippa, who had said nothing. ‘I can’t tell you Archie’s commentary,’ he said, ‘because it was frankly unrepeatable. But Nostradamus said, according to Archie, that the Gods sell the goods that they give us. We had been shown a fine instrument. But the bow could be overlong bent; the harp lose its voice if its strings were not loosened.’

‘I hope he said so in Francis’s hearing. Poor Archie,’ said Marthe. ‘Did he say what should be loosened? His morals?’

‘His further pronouncements,’ said Adam, his colour a little heightened, ‘were confined to lofty admonitions. Francis was to be encouraged to identify the source of his anxiety and assisted to deal with it. Archie, naturally enough, has not brought himself to ask the comte of Lymond and Sevigny what his worries are. He wouldn’t do it if God sent him his pardon. Nor would any of us.’

‘But of course, we know them, don’t we?’ said Marthe. ‘His family. His thwarted ambition in Russia. His frustration over his divorce. But you say that is to be settled.’

‘At Easter,’ said Philippa. ‘If … the war goes well.’ She sat flat-backed, her hair laced in a caul, and considered the matter, Adam thought, as if it had to do with the fate of a stud groom. ‘And once he has his freedom, of course, he will be able to leave for Russia if he wishes,
singing the Hosanna. If he doesn’t wish, he will presumably marry Catherine d’Albon, which should have the effect of loosening somebody’s tension, if only Catherine d’Albon’s. The only remaining problem is the family one, which is precisely what I came to see Marthe about.’

Adam stood up. The fire had burnt low. The brilliant light in the uncomfortable room revealed traces of dust and of disrepair, eloquent of the crown’s somewhat niggardly hospitality as well as Marthe’s careless keeping. He said, ‘This is private to you and to Francis, but I agree with Jerott. He asked me to come here and put it to you. If you know anything that will help the rift between Sybilla and Francis, you must act on it.’

‘Do we?’ said Marthe to Philippa, her blue eyes shining, her hair a bright nimbus in the candlelight.

‘No,’ said Philippa flatly.

‘Then there is no need for Mr Blacklock, surely, to dine alone while we discuss it. You know my happy estate I take it, Mr Blacklock? The tactful term is
cloud-fallen
. It means begotten in unlawful bed, of free parents. How free is a matter to which Philippa has been devoting her spare time unstintedly. Stay and listen.’

Philippa said, ‘Adam has done enough for the Crawfords without supping off their dirty linen. I am going. I only want to pose you one question. Marthe, do you know, or does Adam, if an old lady from Flavy-le-Martel has been brought to see Mr Crawford?’

Marthe, her eyes narrowed, stared back at Philippa. But Adam answered at once. ‘Of course. You knew he was going there. You didn’t hear then, that he arrived and walked into an ambush? Someone had told the Spaniards he was coming. They took him to Ham, and he escaped shortly afterwards. The old lady, I’m afraid, died in the fighting. He has written you a note about it.’

The sealed paper was inside his pourpoint. He brought it out and laid it on the lap of Francis’s titular wife. She made no effort to open it. She said instead, ‘I didn’t know he was going there. He told me he was going to send for her.’

‘He did?’ said Adam incredulously. Then he paused and said, ‘Well, his letter may tell you more about it. He hopes, by the way, that Queen Mary will now agree to release you. If she does, I’m to take you to England.’

‘Now?’ said Marthe, her voice silvery with amusement. ‘Is it good for Francis to be without you, Mr Blacklock? Should we not ask him to escort his own wife to England? It would provide a respite for his weakening fibre. And if he succumbs, she can nurse him.’

It was getting late. Adam said. ‘He may need us after the campaign, but not during it. He has promised Strozzi nothing less than total success whatever happens.’

‘Success in what?’ said Marthe sharply.

It clashed with Philippa’s voice, repeating his words. ‘Whatever happens?’

Adam Blacklock looked at the indigo darkness outside the casements,
and then at the hour glass. ‘You’ll hear of it, I expect by tomorrow. This morning he took the cavalry with Strozzi into enemy territory. Two hours ago he should have made his rendezvous. And by dawn, he will be with the whole French army inside the Pale, advancing on Calais.’

‘Calais!’
Philippa said. Her skin had turned very pink; her eyes brilliant.

‘Yes. The rest of the counter-marching was simply to draw the Spanish troops south to defend Luxembourg. If it succeeded, we shall be into Calais and Guînes before any major force can prevent us. If it didn’t, he’s led twenty-one thousand men into an ambush a deal bigger than the one he was caught in at Ham. You needn’t fear,’ said Adam Blacklock, ‘for his weakening fibre. If you’d ever seen Lymond on the battle-field you would know that his private life fades like froth in a furnace-pan. Until Calais is won there won’t be any headaches. And if it’s lost, more than Francis will suffer.’

He left presently for his apartments, and Marthe went with him, to arrange food and service. While she was gone, Philippa lifted Lymond’s letter and carrying it to a small desk, studied the seal and then, slowly, pressed it apart with a paper knife.

She knew the writing well now, with its straight lines and small, balanced characters. There was no preamble.

I have seen Renée Jourda, now dead. She has confirmed all we know. You may tell Marthe, if you wish, that she and I were born to Gavin and Béatris, the Dame de Doubtance’s daughter, after Gavin married Sybilla. There is therefore no more information to be sought, and you may go home to Kate as soon as the Queen will allow it. Adam will take you. Adam will also tell you how I was ambushed at Flavy. I have seen the letter sent to Ham by the informer. The writing was Leonard Bailey’s
.

Until you leave, you must therefore be careful. If Bailey is vindictive enough to have followed me, he may try to find some means of harming you. Adam will arrange your protection. Meanwhile, never travel alone. And leave France as quickly as possible. For Kate’s sake, I beg you to do this
.

And he signed, as he always did, with his initials.

There seemed no harm in showing Marthe the letter. She read it through on her return, quite unmoved by it. Probably, Philippa thought, she had assumed all her life that Camille de Doubtance was a kinswoman. She might have thought Gaultier to be her father. If it pleased her to discover herself the love-child of a loud-mouthed, lusty, profligate Scottish nobleman, no one would have known it. At the end, she said only, ‘Who is Leonard Bailey?’

‘A nasty gentleman,’ Philippa said. ‘The uncle by marriage of Gavin Crawford, the second baron, your father. He was staying as a boy at the Crawfords’ castle in Scotland when his married sister gave birth to Gavin. After she died, he and Gavin were brought up together, but he resented living on charity and hated his sister’s husband, the first baron Crawford of Culter.

‘In the end, he made himself such a nuisance that after Gavin’s wedding to Sybilla, Gavin’s father booted him out of the castle. He took himself yelping to England and made a living, so far as we can make out, selling state secrets. Mr Crawford discovered only this spring that he had been blackmailing Sybilla for years over the fact that two of her offspring weren’t Gavin’s. Mr Crawford got hold of the evidence and has paid him regularly ever since for his silence.’

‘And now it appears that Bailey is pursuing him,’ Marthe said. ‘But with Francis dead or in prison, would Bailey’s pension not cease?’

‘No,’ Philippa said. ‘It will be paid by Mr Crawford’s bankers, whether he is alive or not, all through Sybilla’s lifetime. But that may not be long.’

‘Then I wonder,’ said Marthe, ‘why your Mr Bailey doesn’t wait for Sybilla’s death before risking Francis’s possibly lethal displeasure? Or has Francis never considered that—what, great-uncle?—Bailey should have an accident?’

‘He decided against it,’ said Philippa smoothly. ‘Clearly an error.’

‘I stand humbled,’ said Marthe. ‘And Renée Jourda?’

‘She was a maid at the Abbey of Notre-Dame de la Guiche. She left before you were born,’ Phillipa said. ‘When Sybilla abandoned the Poor Clares, Renée followed her. Leonard Bailey knew I would probably visit the convent. He must have known about Renée Jourda. It was a safe guess that once I had been to la Guiche, I would tell Mr Crawford. And that when he heard, Mr Crawford would want to visit Flavy.’

There was a little silence. Then Marthe dropped the letter back in Philippa’s lap. ‘I doubt,’ she said, ‘if Francis is going to be cured by the heady knowledge that he was sired by the rude Gavin upon the Dame de Doubtance’s bastard. It was a romantic idea of Mr Blacklock’s, but I know nothing that will help matters, and it is a long time since Volos. What do you suggest? Have you not laid bare some genial morsel of genealogy that will make him whole as Kentigern’s robin?’

‘No. I remain receptive to ideas,’ said Philippa. ‘The bladder may be dipped, but never drowned. We have been a sad disappointment to Adam.’

‘Ah yes. Mr Blacklock,’ said Marthe. ‘I have always held that sentimentality is the ruin of the amateur artist. I know a good deal about Mr Blacklock: Jerott and he spent a crapulous evening together. Are you aware, for example, that the scar on his face was caused by a whiplash from Francis?’

‘No,’ said Philippa. The closed paper between her fingers, she rested in the depths of her chair looking up at the curling smile and the yellow silk hair of her interlocutor. Where Marthe moved, soft as vapour in webs of antique, intangible richness, Philippa sat, still and burnished and clear-eyed, and studied her.

Marthe said, ‘Is that what repels you? All men on occasion revert to the animal. The Schiatti; the poets; the seigneurs who pay court to you
would be no better. What strange Northumberland prudery barred Francis from your bed?’

(Why ask me?
someone said.
So that you may ask yourself
, someone replied.
What a silly question.)

The brown gaze did not shift, or veil itself. ‘To be accurate,’ Philippa said, ‘it was a strange, Celtic prudery. You forget. He did share my bed.’

‘Under duress. You were a child. But now you are a grown woman. Would it not amuse you to make him think of you as one? You are his wife, and it is four months to Easter.’

‘… And look at the effect a whipping had on Adam?’ said Philippa. ‘Of course, I am tempted. But, my friends, this is blood, and not the ichor which blest immortals shed. I mentioned before. I am not made for martyrdom. I want to be free to make my choice of husband. And if I share my favours, I forfeit my annulment.’

Marthe stood looking at her, arrested in puzzlement. ‘He is only ten years older than you are. I was younger by a generation than Gaultier.’

Philippa played the only card she had left; and the cruellest. ‘He is in love with someone else,’ she said quietly.

Pride made the next pause a long one; but even pride broke in the end.

‘Who is she?’ said Marthe.

‘He wouldn’t say,’ Philippa answered. Her gaze unwavering, she drove home her advantage. ‘But when he is freed, you are anxious he should not go back to Russia?’

Marthe moved. ‘I am averse to waste,’ she said lightly. Smiling again, that perverse, slanting smile, she lifted her hand and stroked the quilled porcupine on the chimney-piece. ‘Perhaps even frustration is better than being split by four horses in Muscovy. If you don’t think so, I am sure Mademoiselle Catherine d’Albon does.’

Reflectively, Philippa studied Marthe. Jerott had said that on Volos, only Marthe had understood her brother well enough to save him. Philippa suspected it had been achieved through competence, but from no natural sense of affection. ‘Of course, Mr Crawford has made an impression on her but she is, I think, cool. At least,’ said Philippa, considering with equal thoroughness both extra-marital seduction and rapine, ‘she guards her feelings.’

‘So should I, if the Maréchale were my mother,’ said Marthe. ‘But he is not cool.’

Philippa looked at her. Was she meant to smile, remembering all the dissolute hosts of his lovers? And yet she was prepared to swear, if Marthe was not, that he had never embarked yet upon a debauch save deliberately, and with coldness.

Elegans est animal
. In some men the intellect governed the body, but the spirit escaped from its censorship. In the bedchamber, Marthe was wrong. In every other way, her careless assumption was all too accurate. It was because he was not cool that Sybilla’s betrayal had harmed him so vilely.

Marthe was talking again. ‘Will you stay in France and help to encourage the girl? Or do the machinations of the nasty Mr Bailey deter you?’

Her eyes on the fire, Philippa sat still and thought about it.

She was free to go if she wished. Whatever had impelled Mary of Scotland to throw herself and Lymond together, it could not apply now, when the Queen of France had taken so forceful a hand in the game. And Catherine d’Albon her protégée was more than a possible bedfellow. She was also a possible instrument to turn Mr Crawford from Russia.

She was free to go. But if, by staying, she could steer these two towards one another; if there still existed any fragment of history which would reconcile him to his family then nothing, Philippa thought, would make her go home but the demand he had made in his letter.