Dorothy Dunnett

by Checkmate

  There was cloth also in the room where they carried him. The mellow, powdery smell of it was the first he knew of his surroundings when he opened his eyes: that, and the fact that there was a feather mattress beneath him, and that his travel-stained outer clothing had been drawn off. Then a voice spoke: that of Martine, the beautiful ageing woman who had once governed the high-bred squadron of the old King’s permanent mistresses, and whose acquaintance with himself over the years had always been one less of commerce than of friendship.

  Martine said, ‘I thought when I saw you, mon fils, that the saddle would not contain you much longer. This is Hélène Bouchard, in whose house you are resting. Your Scottish friends have many times been guests under her roof. You may remain here as long as you wish. Master Abernethy is on his way here from the Castle.’

  He had already closed his eyes. Archie was not here. Who were his ‘Scottish friends’? Memory, fitfully returning, reminded him of Lord James Stewart, who had intercepted him. Then he remembered what had happened before that. There was a movement above him and the firm voice of another woman said, ‘This is not good. I will send for the barber-surgeon.’

  It was the last thing he wanted. He was saved from saying so by the bustle of a new arrival and a hubbub of voices among which could be distinguished the uncompromising cadences of Archie’s. Then, almost immediately, there was no sound in the room but a door closing, and then Archie’s voice again, saying sourly, ‘I gave ye an hour more nor that to stay on your feet: ye must be getting soft as saip-sapples. Ye can open your een.’ Then after a moment he said, ‘Put your hands back, if it helps. You’ve a bit to go yet. I’ll mix ye something.’

  He had, as it turned out, a long way to go yet; but in the end it was over, and all that was left was the familiar tenderness at his brows and his temples, and a little numbness in one hand, which would soon vanish. It was by then, he knew, late at night; and he had insisted already on Archie fetching a truckle bed for himself for just this moment. Then, as always, the pain was replaced by a stupor of drowsiness which deepened and deepened until, at last, he relapsed into slumber.

  He slept until wakened by the rumble of iron wheels and the sharp clap of hooves underscored by the tinkle of harness bells, as the fish wagons set off again under his windows. He lay for a long time watching the amber glare of each passing lantern, and the patterned light traverse the roof-beams.

  Some day, he supposed, the faculties by which he lived would not all return to him. It would put a convenient term on many things, and in the meantime he saw no reason to dwell on it. In two months the royal wedding would be over, and with it, the Commissioners’ stay and his own contracted duties in France.

  Lethargy both mental and physical sent him to sleep again presently, and next time he awoke in broad daylight, with a savoury smell of hot food in the air and Martine seated picturesquely on a stool by the blazing hearth, smiling at him.

  She was wearing the pearls he had once given her. He smiled back, and held out his hand to her; and when she came deftly to his side, gathered her scented hair in his palm during the long interval of her embrace.

  Her lips were warm and flexible, and her skin smelt of lilywater and not of the heavy, dizzying aromatics of the East. He avoided responding, because that was his intention, but he did not disengage first. It was Martine who, withdrawing her knowledgeable, courteous hands, placed them one on each side of his uncovered throat and, studying him, said, ‘What you cannot say to your confessor, you can tell to me. What is it you want?’

  He had not deceived her. But then, he had not expected to. He lifted his own hands and interlaced the fingers smoothly with hers. ‘Nothing you can give me this time,’ he said. ‘Except perhaps your general sympathy. Par temperance ay acquis grand renom; Cyncinnatus Quintus est mon vray nom.’

  She moved away and sat still, her eyes thoughtful, one hand still in his. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘it is a woman. And at last, at last the right woman, mon fils?’

  One might not wish to answer but one did not, with Martine, commit the solecism of avoiding her gaze. He said, ‘It is a good thing to have friends, says the proverb, but they are unfortunate who are compelled to make use of them. It is best, ma belle, if you know nothing about it. Forgive me.’

  Martine said, ‘You may have had temperance once. You do not have it now.’

  She looked at him soberly. ‘I shall not kiss you like that again. And I shall not ask you her name. But tell her, from me, not to make you wait any longer. Last night, you were ill.’

  ‘Honest woman,’ he said, and lifting her hand, kissed the fingers and held them briefly, smiling. ‘There is no need to blame anyone. I had saddled myself, like the callowest law-clerk, with an impossible ride. My blisters will mend with my vanity … Tell me about Hélène Bouchard.’

  ‘What do you wish to know?’ Martine said. ‘She is a draper’s widow who likes to entertain Scotsmen. Her last guest was a writer. You can see, if you look, some of his work on that table. And Lord James and Master Erskine, the Scots Commissioners who had you brought here yesterday, are awaiting politely below to talk to you.’

  ‘Qui maudit soit les pieds d’escot, Et les pieds d’escots qui les suivent … They are friends of yours?’ Lymond said.

  ‘They are; but they need be none of yours unless you want it. I saw you in trouble, and I knew this house was near and they could bring you here. The Governor has been told you are being entertained for a single night privately. Should we have said you were indisposed?’

  ‘Would he have believed you?’ Lymond said.

  She smiled, her handsome eyes watching him. ‘Perhaps not. Your reputation has preceded you. You had perhaps better express an interest in cloth.’

  ‘Perhaps I had. But what cloth?’

  ‘Madame Bouchard stocks every kind. I have told you. You are free to choose,’ Martine said. ‘I am happy to see, mon cher, that you have lost none of your wits on this ride.’

  ‘And Lord James and Master Erskine? Are they devoted to cloth, that they also remained all night at Madame Bouchard’s? Or have they merely paid a second visit to inquire after my health?’

  ‘They came back this morning. You are an emissary of the Most Christian King. Naturally, they wish you to think well of them.’

  ‘While bearing in mind that principibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est. Naturally. I think,’ he said, ‘that I should dress and relieve Madame Bouchard of her unexpected guest … You are too superb today to help me?’

  ‘I am too wise to help you. I shall send Mr Abernethy.’ She rose, and on her way to the door paused by a row of bale-laden shelves, her forefinger touching the velvets. ‘I shall have a dress-length of that for my parting-gift.’

  ‘You shall have two,’ Lymond said. ‘Take them downstairs and make James Stewart jealous. I have a fancy he considers me a sober and well-disposed citizen. I should like to see him lose that impression.’

  ‘I shall tell him the truth,’ Martine said. ‘That you want ghostly strength and are of a light humour that trifles with women’s affections.’

  ‘You have it. Remind him,’ he said, ‘of Julio Rosso. The only way he would hide in the canon’s house was stuffed between two plaster walls, with a stock of hams and a flask and the cooking-wench. You may choose a third length of velvet.’

  ‘I have,’ said Martine, smiling; and closed the door gently behind her.

  He took time, before he left the room, to glance at the table where, as indicated by Martine, the last incumbent had left lying his writings.

  The top page of it, lacking a signature, was headed: THE FIRST BLAST, TO AWAKE WOMEN DEGENERATE. It went on:

  To promote a Woman to beare rule, superioritie, dominion, or empire above any Realme, Nation or Citie, is repugnant to Nature; contumelie to God, a thing most contrarious to his reveled will and approved ordinance; and finallie, it is the subversion of good Order, of all equitie and justice.

  There was little among what followed to flatter Martine an
d still less, one imagined, the writer’s hostess. He read it through to the end before, thoughtfully, he crossed to the shelves and then, collectedly, made his way down the winding oak stairs to where Lord James Stewart and Master John Erskine awaited him.

  *

  ‘Here he is,’ said the Queen’s brother as the fellow de Sevigny’s step sounded coming downstairs, and John Erskine of Dun, seated quietly beside that impatient and brilliant young prince half his age, watched the door for this other young man who promised, they said, to be no less difficult.

  In fifty scholarly years, with wealth and pedigree both to support him, John Erskine, laird of Dun and Constable of Montrose, had laid a wise hand on the reins of many a headstrong sprig of nobility, and by his steady intellect and habit of moderation had soothed their elders and steered the throne itself out of shoals in the early, ebullient days of religious upheaval.

  He was of those who believed Calvin’s teachings, and who wished to hasten the reform of the established Catholic church, but still he enjoyed the Queen Dowager’s confidence, he believed, and while she practised tolerance throughout Scotland, he supported her.

  In this he knew he had James’s agreement—James, who would have been on the throne if his kingly father had not begot him on a married woman, and an Erskine, though not of his family. He was not sure how strong James’s personal ambition would grow. He had been left wealthy by his father, and possessed revenues from church offices in Macon as well as in Scotland: he had no claim to the throne, and his belief in the Reformed faith was without question.

  Also without question was his liking for power and his ability, it must be said, to wield it. Older men, up to the present, had been able to guide him. It remained to be seen how long he would brook guidance, or require it. For example, how he would handle young Crawford, a rising star of his own generation.

  The door opened and in flapped three writhing cloth lengths of loud patterned fabric, loosely furled round a fair, graceful gentleman whose look of simple cogitation gave way, at the sight of Lord James, to a smile of open delight even simpler.

  ‘My dear lord,’ said the Crawford boy heartily. ‘How can I thank you for your charity yesterday? You have brought me to the best draper in Dieppe.’ He lifted his arms, from which cataracts of crude tissues tumbled, and pinched a fold of heliotrope satin between finger and thumb. ‘They have seen nothing like it in Russia. Lord James, you must allow me to express my thanks with a bolt of it. Or …’ He looked doubtfully at the royal robes of black velvet and the black bonnet which barely concealed the royal auburn hair.

  ‘… or perhaps it is not quite your lordship’s tint. They used to say silk degrades a man and reveals an effeminate trait. But’—unwrapping himself with a slither ‘—I don’t think you’ll find any pretty playfellow of mine who couldn’t show you a calendar … no, by God, an hour glass—to disprove it. You know Martine? Of course: she was the means of our meeting here. You were too kind, my lord; and if you prefer a new pair of stockings, I shall see that they are sent to you. I can tell you, I was never so glad to get out of public view. And this is …?’

  ‘The Laird of Dun,’ said Lord James, drawling the words. John Erskine of Dun, who knew him well, was aware by his reticence that he was taken aback, and was beginning to become angry. Erskine said to the yellow-haired, smiling young man who had possessed himself of his hand and was shaking it, ‘We met once when you were a boy, at Midculter.’ He paused. ‘You are not like your brother.’

  ‘No,’ Crawford said. He gave his hand another shake and then loosed it with apparent reluctance. ‘Richard will never be whipped at a cart-arse for bawdry. I don’t know whether you notice, but he wears nothing but mockado and fustian. The graveyard at Culter is full of pauperized mercers.’

  ‘Then all the more credit to you,’ said Erskine, seating himself, ‘for entertaining such strong family feelings. We heard of your ride. I trust you are now quite rested after it.’

  The young man’s mouth opened. ‘The ride!’ He sat down. ‘My dear sir, the ride was nothing but the cathartic. It was the banquet at the Hôtel de Ville that did for me. Abernethy will tell you. I suppose I spewed four gallons of claret in Paris before I took to the road, but it proved there was another hogshead to get rid of yet. Ah!’ The blue eyes turned from Lord James’s expressionless, freckled face to his own. ‘I have disappointed you. But if I hadn’t been drunk, I should have seen that there was really no cause for hurry. Richard’s brats are heir to the title, not I, and they were all safe as it happened, at Midculter. Thank God,’ he added piously.

  ‘Do you?’ said Lord James Stewart sharply.

  In his turn, the Earl of Culter’s younger brother looked startled. ‘It’s a manner of speaking,’ he said. ‘That is, I don’t mind one way or the other. After Easter, I’m going back to Russia. That’s where the money is, and the power. And, of course, the ladies.’

  ‘I thought,’ James Stewart said, ‘that the French crown would offer you an irresistible sum for your talents. Was there not a rumour that the Tsar had found another Voevoda for his army?’

  The young man smiled, and leaning forward, he picked up a length of taffeta and draping it elegantly over his knee, leaned back and admired it. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘shopkeepers listen to rumours. What if Ivan has chosen another favourite? He only exists to be superseded.’

  He released the fabric and leaned back, still smiling. ‘I know what you are afraid of! You imagine I shall set out for Leith with three regiments, all ready to take de Rublay’s place as Vice-Chancellor of Scotland. I shan’t deny that there have been strong hints about it. I did consider it. Do you think I should make a gallant figure, armed like Pallas … Marte, arte et frugibus … to safeguard the Old Faith in Scotland?’ He paused. ‘That is, Pallas, I believe, was a woman. Me suis de ton Ecosse faite la prêtresse, Par ton Père, qui seul me rende Ecossaise?’

  From his great height Lord James, who had not yet sat down, looked at the cloudless, delectable face with its intolerable vivacity. ‘If you do,’ he said, ‘you will have to fight Richard, your brother. He has joined the Calvinist party.’

  The ravishing smile remained, although the answer delayed by a second. ‘Has he?’ said Francis Crawford. ‘Was that wise of him?’

  John Erskine said, quickly, ‘I shall save Lord James the trouble of pointing out that it depends whether you are considering his spiritual or material welfare. With Lord James and the Earl of Rothes and myself, your brother signed the Covenant in December by which all friends of the new religion have undertaken to maintain and establish the Word of God and His congregation. He has been our wise friend in all we have done since, aiding us so that preaching and interpretation of the Scriptures may proceed privately in quiet houses, until God may move the Dowager to grant public preaching by faithful and true ministers.’

  ‘I am sure there is a purpose in all this,’ Crawford said. With airy impudence he had slung round him a length of chamlet, sober side outwards, and cowled and robed in it was reclining, tented hands pointed upwards. He added, staring at them, ‘I shan’t induce him to re-enter the puddle of Papistry, if that’s what you’re afraid of. He hates my guts. In between arranging that the preaching and interpretation of the Scriptures may proceed privately in quiet houses.’

  Lord James said, ‘We have no doubts of Lord Culter’s constancy. We wish to know where your faith stands.’

  ‘Why?’ said Crawford with distinct querulousness. He added, ‘I thought we were discussing pourpoints.’

  Lord James Stewart took a turn to the window and back. He said, ‘If you take a ball through your breastplate tomorrow, a pourpoint will not preserve you from hell.’

  ‘No, but my breastplate would,’ said Crawford irritably. ‘It’s a new kind I had made in Russia. Anyway, who isn’t going to hell?’

  ‘Richard your brother,’ said Lord James ill-advisedly.

  ‘Then that settles it,’ said Lymond, satisfied, and began folding his draperies. ‘Do you fan
cy I might persuade a doublet-maker to cut one of these by tomorrow? There must be five Scottish Commissioners still corrupt enough to admire it.’

  A rawboned hand, closing fast on his arm, caused the cloth to fall and the young man to look up, astonished. ‘You offend me,’ said the Queen’s half-brother. ‘And your memory for favours received seems a short one.’

  ‘There is no argument about the favours received,’ Crawford said. He made a single, smooth movement and his arm, without apparent effort, freed itself. ‘Good God, here am I with stockings in either hand, panting towards restitution. I merely require you to keep my soul out of the general conversation.’

  ‘And your brother’s soul?’ said James Stewart. He was drawling again.

  ‘I understood,’ said Lymond, ‘that you had that in hand.’ He rose, collected his draperies, and moved rustling to deposit them on the window seat. ‘And, of course, he will fulfil all your expectations. Richard is your man for high moral tone and sound values:

  ‘Adieu la Court, adieu les Dames

  Adieu les filles et les femmes

  Adieu le bal, adieu le dance

  Adieu mésure, adieu cadense

  Tabourins, hautboys, violons,

  Puisqu’ a l’église nous allons’

  His smile, full of effervescent charm, was turned on them both. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. My lapse has made me behindhand already. If you mean to stay longer, I shall leave you and find Madame Bouchard.’

  John Erskine stood up. ‘Madame Bouchard is not in the house, M. de Sevigny,’ he said. ‘And the door is locked. I told you I remembered you as a boy. I remember also the face of the Bishop of Orkney when he emerged from a Scottish courtroom ten years ago, and told me of the impassioned plea for nationhood he had heard from a man then judged guilty of treason. I have watched the same man today degrading his dignity and ours in an effort to deny his own nature. Why?’