Checkmate

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Catherine saw her mother, mildly tipsy, produce that assured and brilliant smile; and saw Lymond return it charmingly, with all the easy deference of which, up to now, she had been so scornful. He took her mother’s free hand and spoke to her.

  ‘Will you forgive me? It cannot be comfortable. But we must cross the river, and the College has a boat beside the Augustins. Joseph has found us a guide. We are four humble workers who had leave from our bakehouse to cross the bridge and bait the Huguenots, but the bridge is closed, and we have had a little too much cheap wine, and unless we return to our master before the morning batch is put in the ovens, we shall be beaten and turned out to starve in the gutter. Can you act in such a way, when we meet people?’

  The Maréchale was pleased to say that she could and Catherine her daughter thought that with the aid of the spiced wine so thoughtfully provided she was probably right. Then they were at the postern by which they had entered and the grey-haired porter was unlocking it for them, and grinning, and wishing them good fortune as they passed through. Catherine wondered how much M. de Sevigny had paid him. Then she saw that they had been joined by a big-handed young man in sweaty clothes, also grinning, whose likeness to Joseph told all that was necessary. His name, said M. de Sevigny, was Moses, cum duplicantur lateres qui venit.

  Whether or not his name was Moses, it described his function exactly. Since they had entered the rue St Jean de Beauvais an hour previously the barriers had been put up, which in college time prevented the carts and wagons of the millers and the vinegar-merchants from rumbling through and spoiling the lessons.

  Moses had a key to the barrier. He also knew just where the corps de garde were working in the roads leading back to the rue St Jacques: with the Maréchale de St André’s elbow tucked under his arm he led them from one safe alleyway to another, pausing from time to time to hail groups of homecoming artisans as the crowds, having seen the Calvinists safely in prison, began coming away from the Petit Châtelet.

  Everyone seemed in cheerful mood. Justice had been done, which was satisfactory; and a good many personal blows had been struck, which was more satisfactory still. In the main street, the shutters were still open and a tavern had lit its serving-window and was handing out pots of liquor, to the trill of a flute in the background. Half a dozen customers, with drunken gravity, were measuring a dance among the litter of bloodstained paving stones.

  They were singing in the rue Coupe-gorge cul de sac and for through-way to the rue des Maçons demanded a wayfarer’s fee of a ditty. Surprisingly, Madame la Maréchale’s valet, opening his mouth for virtually the first time that evening, produced a magnificent tenor and a sentimental vaudeville which made a group of ancient filles publiques in a condemned cellar burst into weeping: invitations followed them into the top of the rue de la Harpe where there was another party in active sport round the fountain. Someone tried to duck M. de Sevigny, who retaliated with the abandon of a man who has been throwing other men into water for the greater part of his life. He then intoned a brief duet with Madame la Maréchale’s valet, and catching Madame de St André and Moses round the waist, surged with them down into the rue de la Hachette, where the sign of the hunting-horn blazed in the light of twenty roasting spits turning. There he bought a little capon from Mans fresh off the charcoal, and they tore it to pieces and ate it between them, all five of them quoting Italian: Veramente, queste Rotisserie sono cosa stupenda!—while the Corps de Garde moved off down the rue du Chat qui Pesche and along the quayside.

  An argument developed between a rôtisseur and a man in an apron over which purveyor was losing most through the adjectival decree that food prices had to stay where they were, on pain of whipping; not to mention the order that wine for the bastion workmen was to cost no more than two liards—two liards!—a pint. The man in the apron pointed out, thickly, that bloody cook-shops supplying bloody food to bloody pioneers at their workings could claim exemption from their whole bloody tribute, while the scare lasted.

  The rôtisseur drew to his attention, coldly, the fact that some bloody crocheteurs didn’t ever pay tribute anyway.

  Words passed. M. de Sevigny supported the rôtisseur and won the argument, since he turned out to have a better acquaintance than anybody with the chapter and verse of the regulations. Which was not surprising, since he had devised them himself, with the penalties.

  After cordial leave-taking the party moved on, but not very quickly. There were men-at-arms still by the river. Dazed, half drunk with spiced wine and fatigue and tension at four o’clock on a September morning, Catherine d’Albon found herself and her mother seated on stools in a bakehouse, watching three arguing men compare methods of kneading. With drunken indignation, M. de Sevigny had refused to produce loaves for a rival. On the block, however, stood three wrought lumps of dough in the happy likeness of M. le Prévôt des Marchands, M. le Prévôt-Général de la Connétablie, and Monseigneur the Cardinal of Lorraine, with his hat on. M. de Sevigny supervised their consignment to the ovens, was embraced by all present and drifted off after Moses, who was making discreet signs from the doorway.

  The quay was empty, and at the foot of the steps was the Collège de St Barbe’s green and white boat, with the oars mysteriously already in situ. Moses said, ‘Can you manage, sir?’

  ‘This night,’ said Lymond, ‘how can we fail? Wonderfully enriched with shining miracles in confusion of heresy and error. It seems difficult to thank you adequately. I can only say that you have done more than you know. Your father has something to give you. And I want you to take this. If on account of what you have done tonight you or your father are troubled by the authorities, show them the ring and ask them to find me. My name is Francis Crawford, and my brother and I studied at St Barbe.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Moses. He took the ring, and stood, the broad grin stamped on his features. ‘It is true what you did to all the Professors’ boots?’

  Lymond stared at him. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘Is it true about the mathematical proposition you placed before Orontius Finnaeus that spelt …’

  ‘I don’t know how you heard about it,’ said M. de Sevigny. ‘Perhaps you had better not tell me what else you know about my misspent youth.’

  Moses said, ‘When the ladies of the rue Glatigny were invited …?’

  ‘That,’ said M. de Sevigny, ‘is what I meant. We have to go. A thousand thanks, Moses.’

  They had rowed half-way over the Seine before Moses stopped waving from behind the flood wall and went off, presumably home. Lymond steered them past the Mint watermill and up to the steps at the Tour du Coin, where they had to face an interrogation from the special guard Lymond himself had put on the waterway. The Maréchale’s valet de chambre, primed on the way over, told the tale about returning late to the bakehouse, and they were allowed to land and tie the boat to a bollard. Then, without event, they traversed the emptying streets to the Hôtel St André.

  By then the Maréchale de St André was almost sober. Standing in her own hall, she spoke to her valet de chambre: a word of commendation, a word of future rewards. Then, with her daughter, she entered the warmth and the light of her parlour.

  Francis Crawford, his hat pulled off, and one hand easing over his brow, was listening to one of his own men reporting. There was an exchange of words, and then he turned and crossed to his hostess. ‘There have been no alarms. Someone called, but went away when told we were sleeping. And there is good news from the battlefront. King Philip is staying in Saint-Quentin. It looks, mesdames, as if you will not have to learn either Spanish or English.’

  ‘I know English,’ said Catherine. Her mother, on first entering the light, had whipped off the tight cap and patting her hair, had begun to loosen the strings of her apron. Catherine stood as she was, face to face with François, comte de Sevigny, and looked at him.

  His hat loose in his hand, Lymond returned the look pensively. ‘I rather thought that you did,’ he said. ‘But tonight I
think that French would capture it better:

  ‘Ce Christ empistolé, tout noircy de fumèe

  Qui comme un Mahomet va tenant en la main

  Un large coutelas, rouge du sang humain.

  ‘It was written by a Catholic against Lutherans, but it applies very well the other way also.’ He looked from one to the other of his protégées. ‘The City is armed: it is nervous after Saint-Quentin; and any country which has suffered a reverse of fortune instantly turns on its nonconformists. Don’t attend such gatherings again, madame, mademoiselle, until the climate is safer.’

  The Maréchale said, ‘How can we thank you?’ with a throb in her voice. ‘You too.… You too, M. de Sevigny, are a Calvinist?’

  ‘Don’t answer,’ said Catherine.

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Lymond mildly. ‘I happen to agree with More, that no man shall be blamed for reasoning in the maintenance of his own religion. But that has little bearing on tonight’s episode. Half the violence was caused by crowd-madness, and half, as I have said, by fear of the enemy.’

  ‘Who are of the same religion as themselves,’ Catherine said. ‘Is it true that the Christian King is making a new alliance with the Ottoman Turks, who are Mohammedans?’

  ‘He is hoping for one,’ Lymond said. ‘Of course, to be cynical is the natural state of a courtier. For the other thing, you would have to look at the Hôtel Bétourné tonight, for example.’

  ‘You find that gratifying? But then,’ said Catherine, ‘should such meetings not continue? And should women of rank not attend them, to affirm their faith in public if necessary; and if necessary die for it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lymond placidly, ‘there is no missionary as persuasive as death. The Church knows that already. The Church would meet martyrdom by inviting the Inquisition to Paris. The Crown and the people might very well meet it by massacre. Bloodless reformation requires a very delicate sense of statesmanship and timing, and rarely receives it. Praying, on the other hand, can be done at any time.’

  He smiled suddenly; and Madame la Maréchale, her eyes half-closed with fatigue, smiled vaguely back. Catherine d’Albon said, ‘What prayers do you suggest?’

  ‘In English?’ Lymond said. ‘I don’t know. What about one from Geneva?’

  She wondered for a moment whether he would break into song, as he had on the wild journey home, with her mother’s chamber valet. But he merely put his hand on the doorlatch and spoke the words gently, and without the cynicism he had spoken of:

  ‘And from the sword (Lord) save my soule

  By thy myght and power;

  And keepe my soule, thy darling deare,

  From dogs that would devour.

  And from the Lion’s mouth that would

  Me all in sunder shiver

  And from the homes of Unicornes

  Lord safely me deliver.’

  She had followed it all, her lips moving. ‘And from the horns …’

  ‘… of Unicorns, Lord safely you deliver. Sleep well. Good night,’ he said; and left, without sound, for the stairs to his apartments.

  ‘Good night,’ said Catherine d’Albon. A single tear, bright in the candlelight, slid down her face and caught her mother’s startled attention. It was followed by another; and then by a stream which bathed her face as she stood there in silence.

  The Maréchale said nothing whatever. Only she looked at her weeping daughter and saw her long, glossy hair and pure profile and slender waist, set off by the incongruous garments. Then, retreating silently, Marguerite de St André reached her room and steadily walked to her looking glass.

  She was too proud to weep. Instead, she called her daughter’s maid and told her to see to her mistress, for she wanted her in her best looks by morning.

  Chapter 3

  Jour qui sera par Reyne saluée

  Le jour apres le salut, la priere

  Le compte fait raison et valuée

  Paravant humble oncques ne fut si fiere.

  Of the four hundred Calvinists who met to worship that night in the Hôtel Bétourné, half escaped, including the comtesse de Laval and the pastor. Of the rest, five were chosen as an example and condemned to death by burning. Those who remained prisoner, preserved from severe injury by the arrival of M. Martine and his escort, were eventually released, upon the intercession of the Protestant Churches in Switzerland and the Protestant Princes in Germany.

  The name of Madame la Maréchale de St André was not connected with the episode, especially as it became known about Paris that the lady was confined to her room with an illness. The comtesse de Laval did not take to her bed but on the contrary entered the public eye for quite another reason: her husband the Seigneur d’Andelot, captain-general of the French infantry, contrived to escape from his captors after Saint-Quentin, and a few days after the Bétourné incident he and his wife were reunited.

  In Paris, having been refused permission for the third time to join the army in the field, the comte de Sevigny completed the task of enrolling and conveying to Laon the largest company of troops the crown of France had ever raised since the present reign started. He also devised ways of supplying, regulating and supporting the French-occupied fortresses still scattered round the disaster area of Saint-Quentin. Two of these, Le Catelet and the citadel of Ham, fell to the enemy.

  By the time they were taken, it was clear even to the victorious Spanish and English that by choosing to stay in the area, they had forfeited wholly and for ever their chances of attacking Paris. Their infantry, unpaid for months, was deserting, most of it to the French army. Their English components, restive over news of Scottish attacks on their homeland, might well find good reason to leave also. And among the troops who remained, lethal quarrels were breaking out daily.

  Against which the French army, already large, was swelling hourly. The Duke de Nevers at Compiègne had ten thousand French infantry gathered, and five thousand cavalry and six thousand Switzers, with a regiment of Germans expected presently. M. de Thermes had come with four thousand more Switzers from Piedmont, leaving eight thousand in Lyon as he marched north, to reinforce the defence M. de Sevigny had already left there. Danny Hislop, released from his watching brief, came north and joined Jerott and his wife in the Hôtel de Séjour.

  The Duke de Guise left Rome with d’Aumale his brother and Marshal Strozzi and set sail for France with seven ensigns and all those gentlemen who had been fighting with him in Italy. Behind him the Pope, bereft, drew to a hurried conclusion this war waged, he let it be known, owing to misinformation received by him about King Philip and the Duke of Alva his commander, both of whom he now knew to be his obedient sons and excellently disposed towards him.

  He received, with gratitude, the return by King Philip of all the states of the Church seized during the campaign, and the Duke of Alva rode into Rome amid celebrations which only ceased when, through an oversight, possibly, of the Pope’s immediate superior, the river Tiber flooded, and Rome was inundated to a depth of six feet, including the wine cellars.

  The Duke de Guise was indisposed on his voyage to France, and wrote that he would come north to Paris by litter as soon as he was able to travel.

  The King of France replied that the Duke was on no account to make himself unwell by hurrying, adding that never was master so pleased with his servant as he with the Duke. He then resumed hunting with his new and charming companion, pursued by couriers from Compiègne, Laon, Amiens, Abbeville and Lyon and accompanied by M. de Vigne, the French Ambassador to Turkey, newly back with advice from the Sultan Suleiman.

  The Ambassador, in common with all ambassadors in France, was accustomed to transacting his business on horseback, but not to obtaining decisions with what turned out to be the present velocity. The situation in Turkey was complex. The powerful Suleiman, whose pirate raids in the Mediterranean had been of such assistance in harassing the Spaniards in Italy, was disgruntled. The French, for instance, kept making peace with the Pope without consulting him. He was considering,
the Sultan said, invading Hungary and Germany himself in the summer, and if the most Christian King would kindly refrain from concluding his campaign in Italy, the Sultan might be able to spare the Ottoman fleet to support him. He sent a gold cup and a small vase of balsam as, one might say, drink money.

  With Spain on her doorstep, it was understood, France had no desire to reopen the Italian war, which had been a crazy venture of the de Guise family in the first place. In the event, no one had to lose face by saying so, for the King’s new fair-haired commander merely said, ‘You’ll get the fleet in any case. My information is that Suleiman is not in good health, and the sons have begun fighting over the succession again. Hungary is in no danger. He won’t risk leaving Topkapi.’

  ‘The Knights of Malta will not be pleased,’ M. de Vigne had ventured. The Knights of St John, sworn to slaughter the infidel, owed the very island they possessed to the King of Spain. He added, ‘Your grace will remember the sad tidings. The Grand Master Claude de la Sengle has departed this world.’

  The new fair-haired general, a good seven years younger than Henri, for God’s sake, had answered courteously. ‘His grace, as you know, is profoundly moved by the news. But the Knights of St John will require a permit for grain. And if Parisot de la Valette succeeds as Grand Master, France has nothing to fear.’

  They were in the middle of a close run, and the Ambassador to Turkey could only gasp obsequiously in reply, and observe the King smiling at his commander. The man, he now recalled, had been for a brief period a French envoy to Turkey, and had fought on Malta. There was a Knight of St John, they said, presently on his staff.