Checkmate

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The nature of these was less easy to distinguish. The Duke de Nevers, for example, appeared to have moved out to the frontiers of Champagne, while the Duke de Guise with the rest of the army was hovering between the Spanish fortresses of Ham, Saint-Quentin and le Catelet, intercepting supplies and planning, they said, either to attack them or to advance to protect Doullens.

  The King of France’s war horses travelled to Senlis; and all the young horses from the Duke de Guise’s stud moved suddenly from Champagne to Nanteuil. The Channel ports in Brittany, Normandy and Picardy became unusually busy. In the middle of November the story went about that the Duke de Guise had assembled twenty thousand horse and foot to take and fortify Chauny, between Compiègne and Ham. Having done that, he intended to garrison all his fortresses for the winter and dismiss the rest, reducing the troops beside Lyon from six thousand to two thousand as well.

  Heartened no doubt by these tidings, the lieutenant-general of the Spanish army marched out of Ham, now strongly fortified, and retired briskly to Brussels, burning all he could find as he travelled. The Spanish army, unpaid for several weeks began, as was its habit, to leave for the winter. A rumour spread that the King of France, who still had his troops and an untoward payroll, planned to justify both with a small foray in or near Luxembourg. They said Marshal Strozzi had been there on reconnaissance.

  December came. They said the Duke de Guise was stuck at Compiègne with his men dying off daily. He had, however, sent on his artillery so that if need be, it could be carried to Luxemburg. They said that de Nevers was in marching order for Luxemburg, but would pretend in the first instance to be going to victual Marienbourg.

  They said that the Duke de Guise was really staying close to Compiègne with the intention of retaking Ham, and then Arras.

  They said that the Duke de Nevers and his troops were in Metz, on their way to do battle in Luxembourg, but had been held up where they were by the weather. There was a sardonic joke travelling round, about the Duke de Guise’s real hope being to conquer the English in Calais. Lord Grey, who had gone back to his fortress of Guînes, was not in the way of hearing it. The Duke de Guise finally moved out of Compiègne and towards Guise which, they said, he was going to inspect. The army in Compiègne also showed signs at last of striking camp and marching somewhere.

  A report came that the Duke de Nevers and twenty thousand foot had been seen marching towards Picardy. A further report credited the Duke de Guise with having sent five thousand German troops by water to Pontoise and a further twenty thousand towards Amiens, Abbeville and Montreuil. Four days later, it was known that the whole French army was marching north in two divisions, and that in the vanguard was an immense body of cavalry, led by Piero Strozzi in conjunction with Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny.

  It was the first concrete news for two months of either man, and it reached the young Queen of Scotland just before Christmas. On Christmas Day, Philippa Somerville handed over her duties to Fleming, and attaching herself to a Paris-bound party, took herself unannounced to speak to Francis Crawford’s step-sister in Paris.

  *

  But for its servants, the collection of buildings known as the Séjour du Roi was empty.

  Since Jerott’s single crass visit home, he had not returned to his wife Marthe. And since they had joined him in Compiègne, the rooms allotted to Hislop and Blacklock had been empty.

  Clever; self-sufficient; occupied with her own business of antiques and the merchanting of less ponderable beauty, Marthe did not miss them. Only on Christmas day, when her courtier friends were long gone to Poissy and her poets and painters and writers were, for once, at home with their children did she find time, for a space, hang spitefully dull on her hands. She worked alone on a spinet someone had brought in disorder, and then having set it to rights, put on cloak and pattens and went out through the town gate to walk through the grass by the river.

  The sharp air cleared her mind and settled her emotions. Satisfied, she returned to the Séjour du Roi and found Adam Blacklock waiting for her on the threshold.

  She showed no surprise. She said, ‘When I am out, the door-keeper grows rather deaf. I apologize. Have you come to break news to me about Jerott? Or has someone found Francis too inconvenient?’

  And that took some courage, thought Adam. Or perhaps sheer, bloody, unfeeling arrogance. With Francis, you couldn’t tell, either, to begin with.

  He said, ‘They are both alive and unwounded. I only wanted to talk to you. I have business at the Bureau de l’Epargne and thought I might pass the night in my rooms.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Marthe. And inside, when they were both settled in her parlour: ‘I take it, then, that you are here on Jerott’s behalf. I hope he is sober occasionally?’

  On Adam Blacklock’s lean, observing face were the marks of two months of intensely hard work in the saddle. But although he had ridden a long way that day, with one leg which would never be as strong as the other, he was in better training than Jerott to face the bladed tongue, the language sweet and thick as cinnamon quills of the Crawford family. He said, ‘I did come on your husband’s behalf to see you, and also Philippa. Since your brother came back to Compiègne, Jerott has been wholly abstemious.’

  She surveyed him, the dense blue eyes smiling. ‘He has found another paramour to chastise him? No. I imagine not. Whatever else poor Jerott lacks, he is loyal. Therefore his sense of responsibility has been jolted. He has had a lesson from Francis? Or …’

  She was shrewd. Adam saw the thought strike her; and saw her eyes narrow before she produced it, dressed lightly in mockery. ‘Or has he been forced to rise to the occasion because his commander has dropped below it? Is Francis prostituting his rare endowments again with pipes and satyrs and spears wreathed with ivy?’

  ‘No,’ said Adam. It was childish to feel any anger. He remembered the door closing along the corridor in the Hôtel de Gouvernement, Lyon, and the stories he had heard repeated with envious laughter here in France of the pipes and satyrs and vine leaves of six years ago. He had heard the sound of the Vidame de Chartres’ voice, not so long since, talking to Lymond.

  Adam said, ‘You and Jerott were with Francis at Volos, when his addiction was broken. Do you remember if he had headaches?’

  Her eyes were wide open in the fragile face and for once, he could have sworn there was no artifice. Marthe said sharply, ‘Naturally. He had opium cramps. Why? Have they come back again?’

  ‘According to Archie,’ said Adam. ‘It seems that Francis has been increasingly subject to bouts of intense pain.’

  Marthe got up. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Ill-wished by the idols of Themixtitan, whose cement is the blood of small children.’ She did not explain. ‘It dates back to a chess game. I didn’t know its effects were there still. Has he seen doctors?’

  ‘No. He covers it, when it has to be covered, with alcohol,’ said Adam grimly. ‘He was, however, examined without his knowledge by Nostradamus in Lyon. Archie told us about it.’

  Someone tapped on the door and came in to light the wax candles. Marthe, ignoring him, walked up and down in front of the flickering hearth. ‘So what did he say? Whatever is wrong, I am sure with his sense of the picturesque, Francis will succeed in manifesting a fadeur exquise.’

  The last stand of tapers lit her skin and made it translucent: pure as that of a girl ten years younger. It lit also something else: the fashionable silhouette of a woman standing just inside the open door which led to Marthe’s cabinet. The chamber-groom, catching sight of it first, said, ‘Oh, my lady. Madame returned with a guest. I … We …’

  ‘You forgot to tell her I was here,’ said Philippa Somerville. ‘You will have to make your peace with her about that afterwards. Marthe, I have been eavesdropping. Do you mind entertaining winged virgins with brazen claws? I think divorced wives should appear among the funeral trophies.’

  Jerott said she had changed. It was true, Adam saw. Even since London, Philippa had altered, not so much in face, as in pr
esence. And the spontaneous honesty which had always been there had acquired a disconcerting edge from other, flourishing faculties which seemed to spring up, like dragons’ teeth, to meet each fresh challenge of fortune.

  The servant, released by a sign, fled from the room. Marthe said, ‘Mr Blacklock was coming to see you. You’ve saved him the trouble.’ She held a chair while Philippa sat, her cloak discarded; her furred sleeves folded on the tiled floor. Then Marthe added, seating herself, ‘But you have mentioned something we didn’t know. Is your marriage annulled?’

  Philippa sat very straight but not cross-legged, which would have come to her, as it happened, equally easily. ‘Not yet. But the Queen has made it known privately that if the war goes well, Mr Crawford may, if he wishes, marry Catherine d’Albon before his twelve months of service are finished. The Queen of Scotland is furious and even Mademoiselle d’Albon appears faintly stunned. It should be a rather fine match, if they can find a volunteer to go to bed with her mother. You were speaking of Volos?’

  ‘You heard what we said?’ Marthe said.

  ‘Yes. I can tell you something else,’ Philippa said. ‘The attacks began again when Mr Crawford came back from Russia to London.’

  ‘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 prot
ection. 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?’