Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  At first, seeing Lymond come out of the smoke, he thought his prayers had been answered. Then he saw who it was, and put up his hands as the sword went through his heart.

  Jerott’s party heard the wall of the conduit collapse when they were far along the high passage, and a blast of hot air followed it, stirring their clothes and their hair. Then there was a greater rumbling: a movement of stone and of earth that went on for a long time and was still going on when Lymond joined them out of the darkness, sheathing his sword. He said, ‘Let’s go quickly,’ and they turned and hurried, without speaking, up to the air.

  They left the Dauphiné where Roxelana was guarding her. They slipped through the sea gate to Marmora where a fishing-boat rocked, its owner conveniently absent, its sail and oars not. Míkál went with them until they were past the confines of the city and some way along the coast, where horses were waiting. Míkál’s friends were waiting there too, singing poems by Lisáni to the jasmine skin of their lovers. They got into the boat laughing, with a ripple of bells, and Míkál took Lymond’s hands. ‘The Dhammapada says, The fletcher carves and adjusts the horn of which his bow is made; the pilot manages his ship; the architect hews his beams; the wise man governs his body. I shall not keep thee. A man must hurry in twilight. Thy little bride has the soul of a hon.’

  ‘My little bride has an extraordinary range of erotic Persian poetry,’ said Lymond. ‘What else did you teach her, on that journey from Zakynthos?’

  ‘Happiness,’ said Míkál simply. ‘She has the key. She will open the door, in due time, herself.’

  Pierre Gilles’s farewell was less scented, but equally firm. From Marthe he knew now where to find his lost papers in Chios. They had come to terms with each other, these two: whether because of the death of her uncle or the gesture she had initiated which had saved them: the disappearance for ever of all she had dreamed of for sixteen long months. For Jerott, on the other hand, he had formed an inconvenient attachment, largely because of the excellence of his medical Latin. With great difficulty Jerott disentangled himself from an oner to pursue his career in his patron’s palace in Rome, breakfasting on ancient Greek manuscripts and dining on dissected giraffe. The old man, disappointed, had left him with a warning. ‘Watch that woman. She’ll eat you alive.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to take Marthe?’ said Jerott, with malice. ‘She has Latin.’

  ‘She has too many ideas,’ Pierre Gilles had replied. ‘Women with ideas are a threat to the civilized world. Get an ichneumon instead. They have only one idea. It’s the same one, but they’re more open-natured about it.’

  Thus there were six of them at last; travelling day and night: travelling with Kuzúm, hollow-cheeked asleep in Philippa’s arms, until Lymond found them a primitive cart-coach in which Marthe and Philippa and the child could snatch an uneasy night’s rest while he drove it steadily on. It was slow, but it was better than stopping. And in daylight they left it and rode on, fast again.

  They were all young but Archie, and he was probably tougher than any. But as they travelled westward and south, snatching sleep, too tired to speak, even Jerott began to question the pace. The only opposition they had had was of Onophrion’s making. What if Roxelana was quite content to let them away, and their haste now was for nothing at all?

  Lymond answered curtly and, when Jerott persisted, lost his temper in spectacular fashion. They had long outpaced the gentle attentions of Míkál’s fellow creatures, and all the organizing since had been Lymond’s with Archie to assist, riding ahead to obtain food and fresh horses and provender. They dared not take guides.

  Because of the searchers at Gallipoli they could not take ship there either. In any case, in that season the large trading-ships with their holds full of passengers were rarely found in these parts, and Lymond wouldn’t trust to a small vessel, driven by weather to frequent and perhaps dangerous anchorages; easily overtaken by a single powerful galley. Once, when they could find no horses, he hired a boat they could row themselves and took to the sea, joining the road further on down the coast. With Kuzúm asleep at their feet Philippa and Marthe shared an oar, grimly in silence, until Jerott, turning, pulled it out of their hands and helped them to ship it, sweat streaming down his own face. Marthe, sitting swaying in the soft air, her blue eyes half closed, said, ‘I forgot. Your friend is a professional.’

  By the time they landed, the girls were asleep, lulled by the salty wind and the comfort after the jolting dust of the saddle. The man who pulled up the boat told them of the company of troops they had just missed on the way. They had gone to all the villages and taken the horses: there was no horse to be had for ten miles to the east, and troops strung out all over the road. ‘But only to the east, Lord,’ he said. ‘If you are going west, you have missed them.’

  His brother had horses, and some food. The price Lymond paid for them took more than half of their small stock of money, but at least they were mounted and again on the road. On the way, Jerott apologized.

  Lymond said briefly, ‘It seemed unlikely that Míkál was taking so much trouble purely to fend off Onophrion.… We shall have to use our wits. They have faster, fresher horses than we have and good ships if they need them. If the news about us has reached this point already, it’ll be all over the archipelago in a matter of days.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we continue. What else do you think we can do? We want a Venetian ship trading with Malta, or a Venetian state where we can wait for one. For that we’ve got to go south and west. We take turns scouting ahead.’

  Jerott was silent. The journey had been punctuated by weary quarrels aggravated by Lymond’s impatience. The witty, intolerant tongue whipped them all on until, in the end, Jerott rode without answering, his eyes blazing, his mouth shut on his fury. Archie took it in silence.

  The hell of it was, Lymond was right. Their hopes lay in Malta. There Leone Strozzi and the Knights of St John would give them shelter and rest, and when the time came a perfect escort for the rest of their journey. Once in France it would be easy to arrange Philippa’s journey to Scotland with Kuzúm, a strong armed retinue and Archie perhaps to go with her. Marthe, one supposed, would return to that queer household in Lyons, or the house in Blois where the Dame de Doubtance sat in her web. Jerott himself … he thought little about it. Home to Nantes, perhaps, and then to join Lymond’s company wherever it might be fighting. Or perhaps not to join Lymond’s company. His tired mind could not decide.

  What Lymond’s own plans were, he had no idea. Discussion began and ended with hour-to-hour problems, and the all-consuming one of reaching a suitable ship. Meanwhile, travel became more and more difficult. Once they nearly ran into a patrol and had to split forces, Jerott hiding the women while Archie and Lymond drew off pursuit.

  The next time, in the hills near to Volos, Archie rode off to scout and didn’t return. Jerott, scouring the district in daylight, found him finally with a broken-legged horse, and taking him up on the crupper made his way back to the shack where he had left Kuzúm and the two girls sleeping, with Lymond on watch.

  He saw the flames of its burning from two hills away, and heard Kuzúm screaming from closer than that. Driving the laden pony round the last ridge, Jerott saw before him the hut, burning bright as a taper with a group of men fighting before it. Closer, he saw Philippa running, Kuzúm in her arms, into the coarse grass and scrub. Then in the whirling group of battling men he saw Lymond’s bright head, and beside it another as fair, her arm rising and falling, the glint of steel in her fist. Three assailants, and Lymond and Marthe.

  Jerott shrieked, tearing downhill, and one man fell to Lymond’s sword as he looked round. The other had Marthe’s arm by the wrist, his blade lifted, when Lymond knocked it away and engaged him, Marthe falling back gasping. The third man wheeled and ran, and Jerott, dropping Archie by Lymond, spurred his foundering pony to follow.

  The running man was a delly, the same breed whom Jerott had outfaced in the partridge garden at Chios- He turned,
his eyes glinting, at the sound of the hooves, and then changing direction, made for where Philippa stumbled over the rough ground, the little boy in her arms. The delly got to her just before Jerott reached him, and snatching the boy from her grasp, turned round, his knife at the small throat. ‘You move. I kill,’ he said.

  ‘Stay still, Kuzúm,’ said Philippa. To Jerott, frozen on his horse she said, her voice steady, ‘Tell him we shall pay him for the child, and he may go free.’

  Jerott translated. Behind him, all fighting had stopped. He could hear footsteps running towards him which slowed and then, as the delly gestured, stopped altogether. Lymond’s, he guessed. The delly said, broken teeth shining, ‘No. You kill: you take money back. You give me the pony.’

  Lymond’s voice said, still half-winded, ‘Get off and give him the pony.’ He was closer than Jerott had thought. ‘Tell him once he is on the pony, we shall pay for the child, alive. He can throw the boy down.’

  ‘How much?’ said the delly.

  Jerott risked a quick glance behind. The building still burned. Before it, Archie stood sword in hand beside the spreadeagled bodies of the two other dellies, Marthe a little behind him. A few yards away Lymond was standing, still breathing quickly, the sweat shining bright on his cheekbones and inside the open neck of his shirt. As Jerott watched, he put his hand within the torn lawn and brought out the flat deerskin purse of Venetian zecchini, the last of their money. He shook it, so that the delly could gauge the weight from the sound, and poured a few coins into his palm, and then back. ‘All of that. Get off, Jerott.’ He added in English, ‘Get the boy when he mounts.’

  It was touch and go, but greed won. Jerott dismounted and the delly, stretching an arm, caught the reins and drew the pony towards him. Then eyeing them all, he set the child in the saddle and began to swing up behind him, knife in hand just as Lymond flung him the purse. It fell short, rolling jingling on the rough ground, the gold jumping and sparkling and the delly, aghast, stopped for a flickering second.

  In the same second, Jerott threw himself at the horse. The delly’s knife flashed and a line of red sprang across Jerott’s right hand. Then he had Kuzúm’s solid flesh in his hands, and ducking back, had rolled with him out of reach. For one wistful moment the man hesitated, his eyes on the gold on the ground. Then, seizing the pony again, he mounted and threw it into a gallop.

  Lymond, running flat out, flung himself at him. Trying to tear Kuzum’s sobbing stranglehold on his neck, Jerott knew only too well why. One man escaped would bring the whole pack down on them. And they were now two horses short. Jerott tore free and, side by side with Archie, raced after the delly.

  Lymond’s jump, a little misjudged, had been short. He had done what he could to redeem it, clinging with one hand to the back of the saddle, dragging the horse with his weight while, knife in hand, he tried to dislodge the rider. Steering with his knees, the delly had turned and with both arms was trying to hammer him off. At Zuara, Lymond had jumped like this and mastered his balance in a matter of moments but now, watching them fight, Jerott saw that, clinging one-handed, Lymond was not succeeding in bettering it and, indeed, would be forced to drop unless he used his knife soon. Then he saw a spark of silver jerk through the air, and knew that the delly had kicked the knife from Lymond’s free hand.

  There was only one thing left for Lymond to do, and he did it. Closing both arms like a vice round the rider’s thick body, he dragged him with him out of the saddle, and between the horse’s hooves to the ground.

  Far behind, Archie and Jerott saw them roll over and over, and then Lymond on top stumble to his feet and, bending, seize the half-conscious delly by the hair. He had no weapons, but there was no shortage of rocks. By the time Jerott came up, with Archie racing behind, there was very little to see of the landscape, rock, grass, earth or straggling weed, which was not crimson with blood.

  His brow stiff with difficult lines, Jerott looked up at Lymond. Unhurt, so far as he could judge, but splashed, shirt, doublet and forearms, with the delly’s lifeblood, he had eased back to an outcrop of rock, and was half sitting, half leaning on one of the heavy pale slabs, his eyes closed, his head high on the stone at his back. He said, without opening his eyes, ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘My God,’ said Jerott, and swallowed, the smell of fresh blood in his throat. ‘Do you think he could be anything else?’ Then Archie, standing still behind, put a hand on Jerott’s arm and held it there, warning.

  A long way behind, in the silence, Jerott could hear Kuzúm coughing and sobbing, and the murmur of Philippa’s voice. Marthe he had seen already half up the small quarry, where the three other horses were hidden. The pony, its immediate fright over, had slowed down some distance away and was nervously grazing. Archie walked forward slowly and quietly and came to a halt close to Lymond. He said, ‘Ye did that blind? Can ye see now?’

  ‘No,’ Lymond said.

  Jerott’s hands opened. Archie went on, his face hard as teak, ‘Has it happened before? Is there pain?’

  ‘It happened … after the chess.’

  His quick, gasping breathing half stifled the words. Archie moved forward and, barely touching him, slipped his hand inside Lymond’s shirt. ‘Try to tell me. Is there pain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You damned fool …’ said Archie under his breath; and Francis Crawford smiled and half-opened his eyes. ‘But I got you … quite far.’

  ‘You got us all the way,’ Archie said. ‘There’s a Venetian ship in the harbour at Volos, with a cargo for Malta. My dear lad, we are home.’

  They were probably the last words Francis Crawford heard in that place. Leaving him where he lay, Jerott walked back slowly towards Philippa and Kuzúm. He had no idea what to say.

  Kuzúm, mercifully, was quiet, his head in her skirts. Philippa said, ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘It isn’t that,’ Jerott said. ‘It’s worse than that.’ He stared at Philippa, his face blank, thinking. Christ … he married her … From the morning of the escape, the circumstance had left his mind utterly.

  Philippa said matter-of-factly, ‘It’s the opium. He is dying?’ Marthe, her three horses hobbled behind her, had joined them swiftly, standing by Philippa’s shoulder, watching Jerott’s pale face.

  Jerott said, ‘We don’t know. It is the opium … Archie’s terrified to move him. His theory is that even if he recovers from this exhaustion we have to cut off the drug.’

  ‘He won’t stand that, surely?’ said Marthe.

  ‘I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be an alternative. Archie says that to continue now would be tantamount to dying of poison.’

  ‘He might prefer it,’ said Marthe. ‘He knew what would happen. He has laid wagers with himself, I imagine, for days: how many hours, how many miles towards safety before he has to drop out.’

  It was then that Jerott told them of the ship going to Malta. And as they stared at him, silent, he said to Philippa, ‘He would want you and Kuzúm to go on it. I know it will feel like desertion; that all your instinct is to stay; but think of him and not of yourself if you can. What he is paying for now is Kuzum’s freedom,’

  ‘I could nurse him,’ said Philippa. And: ‘No,’ said Marthe evenly. ‘I shall do that.’

  Jerott could not shake her. Immovable as she had been on the Dauphiné, so Marthe now had made up her mind. Archie should go on the Venetian vessel to Malta with Philippa and the child, and from Malta travel with them to Scotland. Jerott, the former Knight of St John, should stay at Birgu with his fellows. There, when Lymond could sail—if Lymond could sail—she would bring him.

  It was a plan they followed with only one alteration: Jerott had already made up his mind to stay on Volos with Lymond and Marthe. He consulted briefly with Archie, and then set off to find lodgings, while the girls gathered together what was left of all their possessions, and with cloaks and half-charred timber constructed a stretcher of sorts.

  In the end, they left it behind. Jerott was back in an hour, two
small mules jogging behind him, bearing a fine horse-litter of hide piled with blankets. With him on a pot-bellied donkey came a priest, his black robe trailing the dust. On a little hill to the north-west of Volos he had found a small church with a whitewashed school and almshouse and hospital. There Lymond could be cared for in peace.

  The priest and Archie between them lifted him into the litter. He had not spoken again and was quite unconscious, the blood stiff on his clothes, the cavities deep under his eyes. Shortly after that, having instructed Jerott with all he knew, Archie took the road to Volos city and harbour, Philippa with Kuzúm at his side.

  She didn’t cry. Her spirit felt scoured; her brain arid as if slaked in quicklime: she remembered with shame the doubts and vanities she had shown over that mariage de convenance whose conveniences, so humiliating at the time, were indeed a matter of life and death to so many, and whose lack of grace concealed a true grace she was only beginning now to discern.

  Until their wedding eve in the Seraglio of Topkapi, Francis Crawford had been a friend of her mother’s; an adult whose alien being she did not wish or pretend to interpret.

  She could say that no longer. She was his wife in nothing but name: the privacies of his nature were not hers to explore and to analyse: she kept him as far as possible out of her thoughts, and conjecture out of his affairs. Leaving him was less like leaving even the most simple of her friends in Flaw Valleys, and more like losing unfinished a manuscript, beautiful, absorbing and difficult, which she had long wanted to read.