John Erskine walked quietly to the door, unlocked it, and returning, took his place, standing, on the other side of the embrasure from Lymond. He did not look at James who had been within an ace, he was aware, of preventing him. He said, ‘Our motive in locking it, if it matters, was to spare you the embarrassment of an interruption. Unless the comte de Sevigny of today is really so different from the Master of Culter of ten years ago?’
Perfectly at his ease, the decorative young man he was addressing leaned back on the shutters and studied him. ‘I hope so,’ Lymond said. ‘When you were twenty, Mr Erskine, you killed a priest in the belltower at Montrose. Would you do so again?’
It made him gasp, a ludicrous thing: he must be failing. He heard Lord James’s harsh voice cutting in: ‘You will refrain, Mr Crawford, from pointless—and actionable—accusations. Father Froster’s death was an accident.’
Lymond did not even look at him. ‘I am sure of it,’ he said directly to Erskine. ‘But would you have such an accident now? At twenty you looked back on Flodden, and on the deaths of father, grandfather, granduncle and uncle at the hands of the English. If Catholic Mary dies, and Protestant Elizabeth comes to the throne, will you feel the same about the English now?’
Erskine returned the blue stare with a look in which there was no atom of cynicism. He said, ‘If my cause requires it, I shall court them. From which you may draw two conclusions. I have shed the brashness of twenty, and I have learned to subjugate the lesser good to the greater. But I still serve my country.’
‘Mr Crawford also perhaps has learned to subjugate the lesser good to the greater,’ said Lord James abruptly. ‘I feel, John, your approach is too spiritual. The situation is plain enough to any practical man. While the Catholic powers have been at war with one another, Calvinism has flourished both in France and in Scotland, where the Queen Dowager has had to countenance it because she required the support of its adherents.
‘Now with the taking of Calais, the wars of France and Spain and the Papal States may all be drawn to a close: already the Cardinal of Lorraine is urging the King towards new and violent steps against heresy. In Scotland the Queen Regent is likely to receive orders from her brothers in France to take a stand against the new religion. Already there is unrest over the grasp France is exercising in Scotland: the principal officers of State, the main strongholds, are all French already. There is talk, since her nobles refuse to cross the Border to wage war on England, of still more French troops sailing to Leith under the Vidame de Chartres.’
He paused; the pale royal eyes raking the intransigent figure before him: of the man he had never before met, whose exploits at fourth or fifth hand he had half heard, half caught like echoes without ever finding a man, except perhaps his dead uncle Tom Erskine, who could attempt to assess their value. Then he said, ‘You are a Scotsman: a man of eminence in your own field, who once appeared to interest yourself in the affairs of your country. What you are about to do, and what you are about to leave undone will both affect us. You say you mean to go to Russia. My information is that you cannot survive there. I do not know you. I should expect you however at least to avoid obscure martyrdom.’
‘I am perhaps a little more optimistic than you are,’ Lymond said. ‘The Tsar is a hard man to cross, but then so am I. Corsario a corsario, as the saying goes, no ay que ganar los barilles d’agua.’
‘… Whereas in France,’ said Lord James Stewart, as if he had not spoken, ‘you have fame, office and property with only one cloud on the horizon: soon you will be expected to declare yourself openly for the established church or the new religion. If you choose the Catholic Church, your future will be proscribed, for no man, however able, can rise higher in France than the de Guises. And if you choose the new religion, you will court death as surely as in Russia.’
Lymond was smiling. ‘Whereas in Scotland, you mean to convey, the possibilities on either side are almost unlimited?’
‘That is just what I mean to convey,’ said Lord James Stewart.
‘And the choice is mine. I can march into Scotland at the head of a French and Catholic army and fight the Reformers at the Queen Regent’s side, while retaining all my revenues and my goods in both kingdoms. Or I may abandon all I possess in this country and return to support the cause of yourselves and my brother—if, that is, my brother does not succeed in making a shred-pie of me with his fists or his dagger beforehand. I hardly know which to consider.’
John Erskine said stiffly, ‘It is not hard, if you allow material prospects to be your sole arbiter.’
Lymond said, ‘I thought, according to his lordship, that we were being practical.’
‘We are,’ said Lord James curtly. ‘Let us continue to be so. Any man joining our faction in Scotland will lose all his French possessions and will find little favour with the Queen Dowager during her lifetime. When her mother the Dowager dies, Queen Mary will stay here in France with her husband the Dauphin and later, one supposes, as joint queen of France and of Scotland. Meanwhile Scotland will be ruled by a regency. And by then, this party will be so strong that the regency will be unacceptable by the Scottish people unless it is a Calvinist one.
‘Some of the men you will speak to are despondent,’ said Lord James Stewart. ‘Some see no future for Scotland save as a Catholic province of France. I have no such fears. No country so far separated from another need call it master. In name, the monarch of France for some time to come may call himself King also of Scotland. But the Regency, and those who brought the regency into power will be the rulers of Scotland, nourishing it on their native wits and goodwill, and leading it to dwell in the pure light of the only true religion. That is our plan. And there were those who told me that you might be man enough to join us.’
‘As a member of the Russian Orthodox Church,’ Lymond said, ‘I could arrange to have the Water of Leith blessed at Epiphany. Otherwise the spiritual yield of the arrangement would seem to be as small as the material one. I am sorry that a drunken ride of mine should have so misled you. I have no interest in Scotland. All I can promise is that I shall not be beguiled into leading an army against you.’
‘You will forgive us,’ said Lord James Stewart, ‘if we fail to break into applause. What if the King of France does use force to put down the new religion in Scotland, and your brother and his house are all slaughtered? Will you not then come hurrying back?’
There was a little silence. Then Lymond said, ‘Yes. Indeed, I might.’
The Queen’s brother stood up.
‘Wait!’ said John Erskine suddenly. To Lymond he said, ‘You do not trust us, and we have not been open with you. Our people in Dieppe have received letters from Admiral Coligny, now in prison at Gand. We know what you did for his brother’s wife in the Hôtel Bétourné last autumn. That is our third reason for approaching you.’
He could not tell from the other man’s face whether or not he found that surprising. ‘I see,’ Lymond said. ‘And you attributed to me the highest spiritual motives. I am flattered, but I must disillusion you. I owed a slight debt of chivalry to the Maréchale de St André, who was also present at the Communion. Public exposure and confiscation of all the family goods might also have blighted somewhat my forthcoming marriage with her daughter.’
He turned to James Stewart. ‘I shall either return to Russia, or, if your forebodings are totally realized, I shall remain in France with my bride, adorning and strengthening, if I may so put it, the court of your sister Queen Mary. She is a fervent Catholic. She will be bitterly disappointed to hear of the course you have chosen in Scotland.’
‘You threaten?’ said Lord James, smiling.
‘Hardly,’ Lymond said. ‘There is nothing you say or do that is not already known to the Queen Dowager and her daughter, and also, of course, to messeigneurs her uncles. I think you should take care, that is all. Religion in recent years has become a political sport, and politicians are more skilful than honest men at extracting themselves from disasters.’
&n
bsp; ‘I rather think,’ said John Erskine of Dun, ‘that Mr Crawford intends us a compliment.’
‘It is the least I can do,’ said Mr Crawford, picking up his neat bales of cloth, ‘after your gallant intervention of yesterday. You did not say what colour of stockings you fancy? Or perhaps your faith restricts you to black. Nothing, as every advocate knows, shows off a fine leg to better advantage. Black then, and a lace handkerchief to weep into at the wedding. Have you brought the Crown Matrimonial?’
The unexpected question, as he turned at the door, caused Lord James to look at him sharply. ‘The Scottish Regalia are in Scotland,’ he said.
‘Good. I should keep them there,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘Gentlemen, until we meet tomorrow, I am your grateful and admiring servitor.’
The bow he made, with the bales, was quite admirable; and presently they saw, from the casement, the same bales being affixed to a packhorse. A short while after that, the comte de Sevigny himself emerged, followed by his man and the woman Martine. He kissed her hand, mounted, and accompanied by Abernethy, crossed the yard and disappeared into the streets of Dieppe below the castle.
A difficult young man, they had been told, thought John Erskine. How difficult he could not have dreamed; nor could James, standing silent beside him. Then James said, ‘A brilliant rogue. We do better without him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the other man thoughtfully. ‘Indeed, he blocked every sally but one. Until you told him, he did not know his brother was a Calvinist.’
‘So? You heard him,’ said James.
‘Ah, yes. I heard what he said,’ answered Erskine. ‘But I rather think the interest will lie in what the comte de Sevigny does.’
*
Riding side by side to the castle of Dieppe, Archie Abernethy glanced at his lord and master.
‘Ye’re fit?’
‘For anything. Including another Hôtel de Ville banquet.’
‘You’re riding to Paris with the Commissioners?’
‘And with my mother and brother. Exactly.’
‘I hear ye left Mistress Blyth fair put out,’ Archie continued. ‘And ye ken Master Blyth’s no blessed wi’ discretion.’
‘You are afraid,’ Lymond said, ‘of an almighty clash between my sister and the rest of my family, and you think I should do something about it?’
‘Aye,’ said Archie.
They were in the open space approaching the gatehouse. In a moment they would be inside, receiving the salutes of the liveried guard and the greetings of the Lieutenant-Governor and all his people under the laurel boughs and the dressed flags of France and the banners of Scotland. Francis Crawford turned to his escort.
‘It was as catastrophic as you think,’ he said, ‘if not worse. But I have in mind the difficulty with Marthe. There are other pitfalls, too, which a word in the right quarter may shield them from. They will be here until April. And so shall I.’
The cracked, seasoned face had turned scarlet. ‘All right,’ said Archie. ‘Ye should take to mind-reading and write bloody almanacks. But if I’ve got the night off, there are two addresses yon woman gave me.’
‘Two addresses!’ said Lymond. ‘You’ll never find strength to climb the hill afterwards. Have you coin for it?’
‘Plenty,’ said Archie.
Lymond looked at him. ‘Well, you’ll need more than coin with that face. Take the mule with the cloth. They’ll go mad over night-robes in heliotrope satin. They’ll stand on tubs, and parade tail to trunk for you.’
‘Man,’ said Archie crossly. His voice and his stare, as usual, were totally at odds with each other. ‘Man, you’re a right bluidy antic.’
Chapter 6
Coeur de l’amant ouvert d’amour furtive
Dans le ruisseau fera ravir la Dame.
The low, apricot sun of young March lit the rue de la Cerisaye when Philippa first found and explored it. Only in its nearness was there anything startling. It lay, a little closed road among orchards and gardens, on the opposite side of the rue St Antoine from the palaces of les Tourelles and de Guise. Beyond it was the river. Behind it, the cherry trees which gave it its name spread almost to the town wall before being contained by the gates of the Arsenal and the courtyard of the Bastille. And beside it was the great religious house of the Célestins.
One could hardly walk up and down the loveliest street (so they said) in all Paris, and attempt to unlock each front door. Some, in any case, were not on the road, but concealed behind high garden walls and sealed courtyards, as she had seen on her first wary reconnaissance.
That had been while the Crawfords were still at Dieppe, and before the Scottish Commissioners left on their progress to Paris.
News from the north indicated that the scale of festivities at Dieppe castle was quite beyond M. de Fors’s expectations, and that M. de Sevigny had sent for his sledges. All one could conclude from this was that M. de Sevigny had not, in public, promoted a scene with his relatives, whether of estrangement or violence, and that he was fulfilling his rôle as royal deputy.
She would know how matters lay as soon as she saw them in Paris. Meanwhile, freed from her worst apprehension, Philippa took the next step in the long path she was cutting for somebody else: a path which, if she succeeded, would lead him quite out of her keeping. She sent the Dame de Doubtance’s key to the Célestins with four royal lackeys and Célie.
A dear friend, Célie would say, had died, leaving her mistress a key to a house in the rue de la Cerisaye. The house was unnamed. The commission was pressing. Would the Holy Fathers, so wise, so esteemed by their children, find it in their hearts to help the countess.
With the key, she had sent a gift to the funds of the monastery quite enough to make sure that a friar would be out in his sandals at sunup. No one, surely, could object to his door being tried by a Célestin.
After that she had a difficult day, in the course of which her mistress fell out three times with her dressmaker, and had to receive a lecture from monseigneur her uncle the Cardinal whose effects were felt by everyone, including Mary Fleming, whose charming brother John came, unnecessarily, twice, to talk about it. Half the afternoon was taken up with a council of war about the betrothal ceremonies, over which the Dauphin’s mother and the Duchess de Valentinois politely disagreed, and Philippa herself emerged muttering, to find her way discreetly impeded by Catherine d’Albon, looking beautiful.
She carried a letter in her hand addressed to her mother in a handwriting immediately recognizable, as if indited in letters of sulphur. Led apart, Philippa read it, and soon understood why the girl looked transported.
In it, at last, Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny asked leave of Catherine’s parents to seek the hand of their daughter in marriage.
Should they agree, the letter continued, the betrothal contracts might be signed on April 25th, on which day his divorce would become absolute.
There followed, briefly, the terms of his own fiscal pledges, which were of a kind to please any mother: even one who had slept with the bridegroom. Concentrating heavily on this characteristically piquant aspect of the affair, Philippa looked up, smiling successfully, and said, ‘I’m truly very glad, and so will his family be, when they meet you. Would it seem very odd, do you think, if you came to my room and we celebrated?’
Odd or not, it was what Catherine needed; barred by rank and etiquette from overt excitement. Over the wine Philippa poured she answered, smiling, Philippa’s first, sensible questions and then, bit by bit, the guard came down; and it was Philippa who found herself listening, and later, choosing her answers.
And even then, talking because she could not help it, the other girl kept all the qualities of intelligence and instinctive good manners which made her the right choice for this marriage. And observing, Philippa saw as in a mirror all her own deepest emotions reflected as once, in this many-sided glass, there must have been reflected the feelings of those other women … of Christian Stewart … of Güzel Kiaya Khátún … of Oonagh, the mother of
his child.
It reminded her, in humility, that she was less to him than any of them. So that she was glad that this accomplished and lovely woman would be the one to whom, at last, he proposed to tie himself, by a deliberate contract which his own code of conduct made it unlikely that he would ever evade. Which promised some happiness for them both. And which, if it did nothing else, would stop him from going to Russia.
She wondered if Madame la Maréchale de St André had passed on the advice she had given her, and whether with a marriage offer in her hand, Catherine would feel secure enough to ignore it. On the other hand, Mr Crawford himself might feel free now to pay court in earnest. And if he did it was unlikely, thought Philippa phlegmatically, that Catherine d’Albon would succeed in resisting him.
Before she left, Catherine kissed her for the first time, and holding her hands said, ‘You, too, will be free: whom will you marry? Whoever it may be, you must try not to leave us. We need you, Philippa.’
Which was generous, but one had to be practical. So Philippa said, ‘It’s probably as well, or the Vicar of Rome would re-open hostilities. You know I should like to stay, but it poses certain delicate problems of protocol as M. de Sevigny’s family will be the first, I’m afraid, to point out.’ She smiled. ‘Lord Allendale also has other ideas. I am visiting him at the Hôtel d’Hercule this evening.’
‘When you know what you want, tell me,’ Catherine said. And kissed her a second time.
She returned it with warmth, but no candour. She knew her desire and had just killed it; dispatching it like Ninachetuen upon a scented scaffold of flowers with aromatic fires lit underneath. There was no reason why anyone but herself should burn on them.
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