by Checkmate
When the sun was at its zenith, however, most leaders lay under their stifling canvas and slept, while the heat haze veiled the blackened Picardy plains and only the great infrastructure of the two vast concourses of men continued to throb with activity.
There was nothing wrong, all the same, with the defence system. Archie counted four challenges before he found himself ranging the tents, identifying them as he passed from the standards and escutcheons, and the livery of those busy about them.
The pavilion of the Duke de Guise and that of his brother d’Aumale were empty, the sides looped up to allow air to enter. Inside both there were carpets and furnishings which would not have disgraced any palace.
Each of the cluster of tents about the flowered chaplet of Sevigny was closed and quiet, evidence of a dawn foray or a night expedition. Archie, dismounting, saw around him grooms and bodyservants he knew belonging to Jerott Blyth and Hislop, and then a patched saddle he recognized from a great deal further back, owned by Alec Guthrie.
His grooved face softened for the first time since he had left the Loire, and he hesitated. Then someone said, ‘Monsieur?’ and it was a page in Lymond’s livery scrambling up from a patch of shadow. Beside him was the silent central pavilion, its silken fringes and swags hanging heavy and still in the noon-heat.
Archie said, ‘I have personal business with the Marshal. Will you tell him Abernethy is here to see him, from Sevigny?’
They were refusing him in whispers when Francis Crawford’s voice from within said sharply, ‘Amiel! Let him in, please!’ And Archie, passing inside, found himself in the suffocating dusk of the master-tent.
Lymond’s voice, close to him, said, ‘Why are you here?’ and Archie, sun-dazzled, looked round for him.
He had been resting, his shirt open to the waist, on the high-backed campaign bed, and was just swinging his feet to the ground when Archie saw him. Between the points of the lawn, Lymond’s throat and body were burnished with sweat; his hair was bronzed with it, and his brow and cheekbones showed, bright as oil in the twilight. Archie said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with Mistress Philippa. I’ve brought you a letter.’
There was a little pause. Lymond said, ‘Why? Why do you bring it?’
So Archie said quietly, ‘I am holding it out to you.’
‘Then you can probably guess,’ Francis Crawford said, ‘why I am not taking it. Put it into my hands. Sit down. Tell me why it should be you who carries the letter. And, if you know, what is in it.’
Archie put the letter in his open hand, but did not sit down. ‘We heard of the headaches from Mistress Marthe,’ he said. ‘But not about this. Is it happening all the …?’
‘It is not continuous. So Marthe called at Sevigny? Why?’
Archie said, ‘You could buff the bristles off a sow’s erse wi’ my gullet. Have you no drink in the place?’
‘Not within reach,’ Lymond said. He raised his voice. ‘Amiel! A flask of wine and a cup for Mr Abernethy.’
‘That is, two cups,’ amended Archie.
Lymond placed his elbows on his knees and rested his brow on the heels of his hands. Footsteps passed and repassed on the dry grass accompanied by subdued voices and eventually, the clink of pewter. Archie, standing at the tent door, intercepted a curious Amiel with a laden tray and bringing it in, poured two cups of wine and placed them both by the bed. Lymond said, ‘It is worse having to wait, Archie, than being told at once. What has happened?’
And Archie said, ‘Mistress Philippa has gone home to England.’
The hands protecting Lymond’s face hardened. Archie, with all his senses concentrated on the other man, saw that he was breathing with strict punctuality: short, hard breaths due as much, probably, to the pressures of pain as anything more. Then Lymond said, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’ll be in the letter,’ Archie said.
‘But I can’t read the letter,’ said Francis Crawford.
In a little while he said, ‘You were right to bring the wine,’ and when Archie touched his hands with the cup, took it in both palms and raised it to his lips.
His hands were streaming with sweat. Archie said, ‘Can you not get some air into the place? It would give a pain in the heid to a penny-loaf. Or d’you mean to tell me no one knows about this yet?’
The cup was empty. ‘Not yet,’ said Lymond. ‘It hasn’t happened in public. But I take someone with me … Amiel … someone … whenever I do go out. What did Marthe say to Philippa? Do you know that?’
‘No … They spoke in the gardens. For only half an hour, Mr Applegarth said. Mistress Marthe was staying in the old House de Doubtance in Blois. It seems she means to reopen it for business. Mr Applegarth said she spoke of bringing her stock there from Lyon and Paris.’
‘If she knew of the headaches … Of course,’ Lymond said. ‘Jerott called on Marthe when he was in Paris.’
Archie did not know what that implied, but the silence that followed spoke loud enough. The little man said, ‘You’ll be able to read it in a couple of hours. Or even one, surely.’
‘I know … I think I know what will be in it,’ Lymond said. ‘How … was she going home? Did Mr Applegarth say?’
‘By way of Paris. She was to ask Lord Allendale to take her,’ Archie said. And added harshly, while Lymond was still looking at him with open, unseeing eyes, ‘I didn’t think it altogether suitable. I took the liberty on my way here of asking Mr Blacklock to intercept her and go with them. That was two days ago.’
‘So that they will have left the country by now? I see. You came very slowly, Archie. I suppose she asked you to.… I’m glad you sent Adam.’ He stopped, and said, ‘You must be hot and tired. God knows it isn’t your problem, or shouldn’t be. Go and call on Alec and Jerott. If I lie flat, I shall be functional presently.’
It was obvious now that he didn’t want company. Archie left, silent-footed, and crossed the grass to parry Jerott’s questions, and to tell him what news of his wife was worth mentioning.
*
Alone then, Francis Crawford opened his letter, and lay with it in his hands through the long hours so that its grey lines, its indistinct phrases, its capital letters were staging-posts in the slow return to him of his vision.
By the time you read this, because they were expected, were the first words he found he could guess at. Then I wrote to you once before; and peace for you. And then, later, a single sentence, clearer written than all the others: All I wrote then is true still.
The words of love with which she ended were badly written and blurred, so that he had to wait a long time to read them. But by then he knew why she had gone, and what she meant by her message, for he recalled very well the letter of which she reminded him, and all the things she had said in it.
There is nothing of me that does not belong to you.
More than your death I fear mine, because you would be left here to mourn for me. More than your love I want peace for you, so better your need of me died than that it should become unendurable.
One of them had to make the sacrifice. One of them had to suffer the guilt of it.
The first she had done. The return to Sevigny, now so far beyond his powers, did not need to be faced, nor need he inflict the wound of absenting himself. She had made the sacrifice, and even the guilt, if he wished, need not burden him.
With a valour beyond words Philippa had restored to him the free will he had lost, that evening in Paris. She had left him the gift of his life, to keep or cut off as he wanted.
*
The wind changed, and the chronic fever of Queen Mary of England showed signs of worsening. Both events seemed to the English fleet to constitute an excellent reason for lifting their blockade of the north coast of France for the present, particularly as of recent weeks they had had mixed successes. The climate seemed favourable, at last, for the Commissioners of the Three Estates of Scotland to start for home on their long-delayed passage.
They had already taken their leave of the monarc
h before his departure to Reims. Since then, with no court to attend but that of their own Queen-Dauphine in Paris, their stay had seemed even more purposeless. The hint of restriction which had crept into their treatment had vanished with the departure of the Cardinal of Lorraine also for the frontier, thereby further depriving of credence the curious letter sent by the new Marshal of France to his brother.
Despite Lymond’s warning, there had been no sign during all these weeks that anyone at the French court was aware of a leakage of state information about the future of Scotland. France, having recovered from celebrating its royal wedding, appeared to have dismissed the Scottish question with the greatest facility from its communal mind, and to be concentrating all its money and energies on concluding the present war with as much prestige and property as possible.
Whatever influence the Commissioners might possess, it would be better wielded in Scotland than in France, it was now apparent. So, at last, the gathering together of gifts and gear and coffers began, and of all the party which had left Scotland with such high hopes seven months before, the only one who lingered, and would fain have stayed, was the Dowager Lady Culter.
Until, that is, one day she returned from an outing to the Hôtel de l’Ange to find Austin Grey gone with all his possessions, and a sealed note awaiting her in her room, closed with the signet of Sevigny.
Inside, Philippa had scrawled: It is over. The blame belongs to me, not to Francis. I have asked Austin to take me to Flaw Valleys.
Perhaps you would find it possible to leave France soon, with Richard. It may be that we shall need one another.
Lady Culter told her son Richard, since the news was bound to be bandied about, but could not begin to answer his questions. Only, after that, she found she longed very much to go home again.
Just before the Commissioners left, they were given a gracious reception by the Queen-Dauphine at the Tourelles, followed by a final convocation by the Council. They were there subjected to a long harangue by the Chancellor, in which he invited them yet again to deliver the Crown, the Sceptre and the Sword of Scotland to the Dauphin their monarch.
When they replied, yet again, that such a matter was not entertained within their commission the Chancellor required them to give under their hands their personal consent to the demand, and an undertaking to present it to the Scots Parliament.
This request they refused, as being neither reasonable to desire nor lawful for them to grant. Then, with a smiling hauteur on both sides, the Commissioners for Scotland parted at last from their hosts, and setting out for Dieppe, took ship for the country which was their own, and had some honesty in it.
*
On the Picardy plain, the army of King Philip decided to move to better foraging territory, and the Duke of Alva with six hundred cavalry issued at dawn to reconnoitre a possible site.
While there, he had a sharp encounter with a French force of pistoliers and hackbutters under the Marshal de Sevigny, at the end of which both forces disengaged to return to camp, with the damage heavily on the Spanish side.
It followed a cavalry sweep of Lymond’s own which had lasted half the night, and which was only one of the succession of small expert forays he had conducted ever since the work of settling the great camp had been completed. The only difference now was that he had no need to observe the other half of his self-imposed régime which dictated that, by taking proper sleep, food and medical help where it would be beneficial, he could display what self-respect and maturity he had left, and cause no one to grieve over his negligence.
Habit on that score died hard, even though he was now alone. Also, even a little thought showed that to take what Philippa had given him and turn it instantly to his own private relief would be a paltry way to repay her. And besides, there was the duty he owed the men under him.
So he continued, through all the degradation and pain, with his routine. He reposed without sleep in his bed for the proper number of hours and ate food patiently which his body would not accept, and at first would take nothing, either of drink or of drugs, which would break the invisible pact he had made with himself.
Only when, with lack of food and sleep, he found his skill in the field less than constant did he let Archie bring him an opiate, and some stronger relief for the headaches.
It was known now that, as de Thermes his gout and St André the pox, the Marshal had his weakness, and when he returned to his tent at the end of his tour, he wished privacy. The Duke de Guise sent his own physician, expressing the deepest solicitude, and Lymond admitted him, smiling, and was examined and given a powder, which he delivered to Archie. About the blindness no one else knew except, now, his four officers, and so far it had only struck on his return, in times of exhaustion.
Only, as his strength grew less predictable, the spells of prostration were lengthening. Now, he could rest between actions. But on the day that one of these two great armies finally lost patience and launched a general attack on the other, he would be committed to a command he could no longer justify.
He had said nothing to anyone of that, but he knew it must be in the minds of Jerott and Alec, Danny and Fergie, who had come from their outposts to join him.
News from beyond Amiens still reached him. Applegarth had taken over the bureau of correspondence left by Philippa, and he knew that peace was likely unless something went seriously wrong: that these two armies were here as holding-posts: dog eyeing dog while the statesmen discussed terms elsewhere.
He knew, from a scribbled note sent from Gravelines, that Adam had reached Philippa and Austin in time, and had sailed for England with them; but not, as yet, if they had landed.
He knew that Marthe was still in Blois, and that the Scottish Commissioners had left France, taking ship from Dieppe harbour.
So Sybilla was out of the country and Richard with her. The two village girls who had looked after her all those years ago, Renée and Isabelle, were dead because of her, and because of him; and the house was destroyed with the lines of silver over the mantelpiece.
I shall harness thee a chariot of lapis-lazuli and gold
Come into our dwelling, in the perfume of the cedars.
A love of sorts, he supposed, had prompted that once. It mattered not at all now, obliterated by what had happened in that dusty upstairs bedroom, with the candle guttering.
On the day he returned from the encounter with Alva’s forces, he found Lancelot Plummer waiting for him in his tent, with Archie and the other four of his own men with him.
It was a moment before he recognized, behind the elegant beard, the officer he had left behind in Russia; and he saw from Plummer’s face that his own looks clearly had shocked him. He said, ‘I’ll only believe it if you tell me the Russian for I can get sandstone from Kama at quarter the cost. Lancelot! What does this mean?’
Never a boisterous man, Lancelot Plummer, engineer, architect and former member of the Scots mercenary force called St Mary’s, stepped forward and shook his hand firmly. ‘It means I’ve left Russia,’ he said. ‘And you’re well out of it. My God, you’ve got to the rank of Voevoda all over again, they tell me. I hope you can think of someone who’s made a lot of money out of this war and is looking for an architect.’
Lymond said, ‘I’m sure I can. Faux conseils et mauvaises testes, M’ont fait bastir ces fenestres? Or no. That was a lawyer’s house. In any case, come and tell us your news. Le corps sauvé, les branches se reconquesteront tousjours.’
Archie and Jerott, who had not been in Russia, fetched the wine and put the pots on the board. The others listened to the story of Lancelot’s misery: the houses the Tsar had had built but had not paid for; the houses he had half built and knocked down in a rage. His violence in council. His brutal punishments. The crazy scheme to attack Lithuania that year, against the advice of his ministers.
‘He’s going mad,’ Lancelot Plummer said. ‘I’m sure of it. You couldn’t hold him now, Voevoda. No one could.’
‘Not even Prince Vishnevetsky,�
�� said Guthrie dryly.
‘Ah,’ said Plummer uneasily.
Lymond glanced at him. ‘What? We have been placarded as abominable persons on the chancel-rail? We can bear it. We are a long way from Russia now.’
Lancelot Plummer said, ‘Güzel is dead.’
No one spoke. Then Lymond said, ‘How? How did it happen?’
‘She was killed. In April. By Vishnevetsky,’ Plummer said. ‘You knew
‘I knew they were together. Yes,’ said Francis Crawford. For two years, before he had left Russia, he and she had lived together, a Queen and her consort. It had been Güzel who had enabled Philippa and himself and the child to escape from Turkey safely. It had been Güzel who had sent him on the visit to England from which he had never returned.
‘They quarrelled,’ Plummer was saying, conscious of awkwardness. ‘They were not really suited to one another. No one even knows where she is buried.’
‘That seems a pity,’ Lymond said.
One of the things he liked least about his present situation was that the others always seemed to know when he was dealing with an attack, and also when he was nearing the limits of his endurance. His later recollection of the next five minutes was somewhat dim, but he knew that at the end of that time his tent was empty, Plummer having been thoughtfully taken off to dine on some special delicacy of Jerott’s. Then Alec Guthrie, reappearing like a sentinel in the doorway said, ‘Archie is coming in a moment. I’m sorry about the Mistress. She was foolish to trust Baida.’
‘She didn’t,’ said Lymond. He was still sitting, his hand shading his eyes. ‘She thought she was following a course laid down long before, with each of us under some sort of injunction. I think she was convinced all along that her life and mine were going to lie apart. I think when she took Vishnevetsky, she knew he was going to kill her.’