by Checkmate
They did not take to one another. When, presently, the Queen rose to take part in a galliard, Philippa said to her step-sister by marriage, ‘Marthe. Why did you come?’
‘For the revelry,’ Marthe said. ‘Men live, not while they breathe, but while they live well. And to cast an eye, I must admit, on my fellow-women. The girl, Catherine, you can see, adores my splendid Francis. How does he do it?’
‘Alchemy,’ said Philippa shortly. ‘The Maréchale de St André thought he was a shower of gold.’ If you place your cannon on shipboard, for God’s sake watch the steep fall of the tide. At ebb your battery will cease to bear, and you will yourself be under fire from the defenders.
‘I thought you admired the noble Catherine,’ said Marthe. ‘The young Queen certainly wishes him tied to you and to Scotland. A monstrous tiger among the silly flocks. How nice to go through life being male, pretty and wanted.’
You will have to hinder them when they try to repair the citadel breach. Watch out. They will cover the work with fusillades, and they seem to have plenty of light artillery. Philippa said, ‘It rather depends what you are wanted for.’
‘Ah yes. It is a property of bells,’ Marthe said, ‘to call others to church, but to enter not therein themselves.… If you are bored, ask your mistress to excuse you. These tiresome satellites cling together awaiting tidings from Calais, but you have a home in each country. You, of us all, by divine bounty are free from all apprehension.’
Remember, the citadel is a magazine, packed hard with munitions. While you are there, cut off from reinforcements, guard against Greek fire from the town cavaliers and bastions. They will be desperate. Remember. Remember. Rare in her life, Philippa’s temples were aching. ‘I might leave early,’ she answered. ‘But should I leave you here to suffer? Jerott is with the armies?’
Marthe smiled. ‘Jerott goes, like Crassus’ lamprey, when one calls him. His death has no high price on it. It is Francis whose falling will drag a whole edifice down. Strangled on his body his concubines and his cupbearer, the master of his horse and his chamberlain, the usher of his great hall, and his pastry-cook.’
Philippa rose.
And as she stood, the doors opened and the music wavered and perished.
Through the noise, no one had heard the growing din in the streets as the hard-pressed group of horsemen entered the portals of Paris and rode stumbling along the rue St Antoine’s icy runnels, where the paving had been stripped for the tilting match.
Even the hubbub at the gatehouse had failed to reach this long, tapestried room with its bridal banners and flowers and escutcheons where France dallied, while its manhood, its prowess, its fortune all hung in the balance.
The doors opened, to admit a manifold uproar and a single gentleman of the chamber.
The words he spoke to the King were unguessable. Behind the sculptured black beard something altered. The King mounted the dais to his chair. Then through the doors in spurred boots and cuirass, mud caked as he had ridden all the long, difficult journey from Abbeville came Robertet; a familiar face, frowning with weariness, and a tread, after the dancers’ light feet, like yoke-oxen.
At the dais, he genuflected and the King’s white jewelled fingers commanded him. ‘We welcome you, M. Secretary. Rise, turn, and tell all my people what news you bring them.’
He rose. He turned. Between all the intervening, motionless heads Philippa could see the mask, grey cracked with white, which the mud had laid on his features. Robertet cleared his throat and then lifted his voice, hoarsely, into the silence.
‘Your Majesties, mes seigneurs, messieurs, mesdames … I have the honour to tell you that Calais is French once again.’
*
The cheering, beyond all controlling, went on for ten minutes. For ten minutes the Schiatti thumped her shoulders and pumped Catherine d’Albon by the hand. For ten minutes no single fact of the winning of Calais could be learned: the author of the triumph, its course, its culmination, its cost. Many broke into tears. Many shouted, still weeping. Many, like the demoiselle d’Albon, stood silent, their eyes brilliant, their hearts offering prayer.
Marthe said to her step-sister by marriage, ‘If you are feeling loyal, then I must ask you to accept my commiserations. On the other hand, you will now be free of your husband by April.’
Robertet had started speaking. The noise died. The words glorious leadership and Duke de Guise made themselves heard. Philippa said, ‘What did he say?’
‘He is placing credit where credit is expected. We needn’t, however, stay to applaud him. There is a door just behind you if you would like to complete your withdrawal.’
‘… and Marshal de France Piero Strozzi …’
‘I can’t hear him. He’s mumbling. Come on,’ said Gino Schiatti. ‘I want to see how Paris is taking it.’
‘… the efforts of Messrs d’Aumale and d’Elboeuf, le Duc de Bouillon and M. de Montmorency …’
‘There won’t be hunting tomorrow, devil take it. He’ll decree a thanksgiving service and celebrations. Mistress Philippa …’
‘… not without cost. Stubborn fighting … Aside from those lost in the water … The Master of the Camp, who had his foot clean blown off
‘Then that’s agreed. This way, Mistress Philippa. No, follow Marco. It is not necessary to obtain permission from your Queen? The occasion is without precedent.’
‘I thought you were bored?’ Marthe said. ‘Don’t tell me——’
‘… Among those whose sacrifice we who survive will long remember
‘Do you mind,’ said Philippa Somerville bitingly, ‘if before romping drunk in the city I satisfy myself whether I am merely unhappily married or widowed?’
The Secretary’s voice came to an end. Marthe betrayed a faint irritation. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can hear all the details.’
‘Such as whether Jerott is living?’ Philippa said. And turning, made a smooth but remorseless passage away from her.
Lymond’s sister made no effort to keep her. Over the heads of the courtiers she watched her make her inquiry. But when, hard on that, Philippa walked out of the room, Marthe broke off her discourse and moving swiftly, made her way through the same doorway.
It led to the guardroom; to a passage lined with the white and silver hoquetons of the Archers and, at last, to a long, empty gallery, of which one windowed wall looked over the garden. There had been no time for Philippa to reach the end of it, even had she been walking quickly. Nor had she thought of seeking sanctuary in any one of the rooms which gave on to it. Instead she had simply slowed up and stopped in the middle, and when Marthe came up behind her was standing perfectly still, her hands loose at her sides.
Marthe paused, her hand still on the door-latch behind her. Then she closed both leaves and watched Philippa’s head lift at the click of it. She walked forward and spoke. ‘Gino is pining. Did you learn what you wanted to find out?’
Philippa heaved a short sigh. Then turning, Lymond’s wife faced her inquisitor.
Her face was marked, past disguising, with the clear ribboned tracks of her weeping. ‘Yes,’ said Philippa thinly. ‘And so, I take it, have you.’
Unusually, Marthe was pale. But the mockery lingered, like a snow-print caught in ice after the thawing. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know that our wanton is safe. And that you love him.’
He is safe. The tears, defying all discipline began again, coursing down her no doubt clown-like cheeks and jumping off through the pearls co her bodice. Philippa said, ‘What a perfect day you must be having.’
(Estollete, je te voi
Que la lune trait a soi
M’amiete o le blont poil)
‘I am pleased, naturally,’ Marthe said. ‘I gather Jerott and the others are equally blessed by fortune.’ There was a long cushioned stool in the window embrasure. With a hissing rustle of tissues, she sank on it. ‘So. I love the love that loves not me: I am his friend and he my foe? You have been excessively secretive. You were afraid I should tell
Francis what you feel for him?’
‘I think you should,’ Philippa said.
The blue eyes stared into hers. Then unexpectedly, the fair face relaxed. ‘And receive my quittance, I gather. So he knows.’
Without speaking, Philippa regarded her. Then she said, ‘He has cause to suspect, but tact enough to ignore the situation. He has ties elsewhere. I think I told you as much.’
‘You did. You also said the paragon’s name was unknown to you. You cannot know how many mistakes he has made. He may be making another.’
‘It had occurred to me,’ said Philippa briefly. ‘I am quite sure he isn’t. Otherwise I should hardly be planning to marry again.’
‘I see. And who is to suffer in the cause of Francis’s nerve-storms? One of the Schiatti? The Duke of Paliano? One of the Dauphin’s young titled gentlemen?’
‘I thought,’ said Philippa, ‘of trying them one after the other.’ She stood quite still, facing her sister-in-law. ‘No one will suffer. Marriage, like law, is a practice. Aut bibat, aut abeat. Subscribe, or get out of it.’
‘Like Jerott,’ said Marthe. ‘And your families? Whatever your choice, you must make your romance convincing. In four weeks, nine Scottish delegates are coming to France to contract for the little Queen’s marriage. Pious, religious and unblamable princes who will repeat current gossip like jackdaws.’
Had it been anyone but Marthe, of the open eyes and dulcet voice and sleek yellow hair, one would have taken that at its face value.
It cost something: it cost almost more than she could manage to fight, and to keep on fighting, by this time. Philippa said, ‘I hadn’t heard, but I am sure that I’m going to. What has Queen Mary been telling you?’
‘It was Mary Fleming,’ said Marthe. ‘A pretty, uncritical creature, and a devoted admirer of Francis. She tells me Richard Crawford of Culter is one of the Scottish bridal Commissioners.’
Lymond’s brother. ‘Yes?’ said Philippa flatly.
Marthe smiled. ‘He is coming next month. And bringing with him Sybilla his mother.’
Chapter 10
Six jours l’assaut devant cité donné
Livrée sera forte et aspre bataille.
In one matter Lymond’s captains had forecast correctly. In the weeks of brilliant manœuvring which preceded the investment of Calais, neither they nor their leader had a thought for personal matters. And even when Calais surrendered, there was still a rose to replace in the chaplet. The remaining marshy square miles of the Pale, the last English possessions in France, had to be overrun and appropriated before the triumph was perfect.
Thus, while the Duchess of Bouillon’s daughter was bedded, the victors of Calais were casting already through the cold winter marshes, spreading fright and apprehension among all the lonely, Spanish-held strongholds.
The Duke of Savoy their commander was not there. For days he had been in Bruges, begging for money with which to pay the five German regiments hurriedly saved from disbanding, and for the twelve thousand more foot and horse he would have to raise, recall or seduce from their warm German ale-houses to replace the armies he had just dispersed for the winter.
Meanwhile, crowded on the frontier at Gravelines were his best Spanish captains, each with handfuls of Walloons and hackbutters. More were marching up from the south, where the French Jack-o’-lantern had beckoned them, but were still too far off to be comfortable. Nor could he cull men from Saint-Quentin or Ham or le Catelet. Those hard-won Spanish forts were under-garrisoned as it was.
Messages, earnest, courteous and sensible, passed back and forth between King Philip and his wife, Mary Tudor of England. It was understood that the Earl of Rutland was preparing an army to protect the English possessions round Calais. They said that the Earl of Pembroke was on his way with five thousand men to cross the Channel from Dover, and that a further five thousand were spoken for. It was known that eighteen English ships, no doubt laden with troops, had had to turn back from Calais because of the disastrous capture of Fort Ruisbank. Preparations were made to receive landings at Dunkirk; lighters and barges were assembled at Dunkirk, Nieuport and Ostend; carts for money and baggage were readied.
The Duke of Savoy, still awaiting his army, laid plans to encamp at Saint-Omer.
Three thousand unarmed refugees walked into Gravelines form Calais, and had to be sheltered and nourished. A lively, well-plenished band of four hundred enemy horse rode up to the Sluice before Gravelines, reconnoitred it and Dunkirk, and withdrew, neatly, leaving panic behind them.
Another troop stopped off at the English-held fortress of Hâmes, and called upon Edward, Lord Dudley, to deliver the castle. He refused, even to death. By the back postern, at the same moment, he sent a call of despair to King Philip: for guns, powder and spades, and a standard of three hundred foot-soldiers. No one sent them. The besiegers, on the other hand, had other business to attend to. They made a note to return and rode off, in high spirits.
On Thursday, January 13th, six days after Calais’s surrender, the town and fortress of Guînes was surrounded.
Lord Grey of Wilton had seen it coming. In fact, he got Mary, his wife, to ride for help that first weekend, when the French were busy sapping up to the fortress by trenches. It was done properly, with a safe conduct from the Duke de Guise, who would never subject an English Earl’s daughter to the inconvenience of a bombardment. All the same, she had a long message to convey to the Duke of Savoy which her husband had induced her to memorize. Unless relieved, Guînes was in great danger of falling. There was food for only thirteen days and powder for four. The French were trenching to drain the defence moats and had occupied the wreck of the town, emptied and burned by Lord Grey himself before they could stop him. The enemy had thirty-five siege guns protecting his workers while cutting. Lord Grey’s total garrison amounted to one thousand English and Burgundians, kindly sent in by the Governor of Artois.
They would, of course, fight to the death for their honour. But the Duke would no doubt see that if Guînes were lost, Calais could hardly be retaken. Whereas (Lady Grey was word perfect on this point) if a strong force were to relieve Guînes and repulse the French army, the occupiers of Calais might be besieged in turn and starved into submission.
It was all perfectly true. It was not Lord Grey’s fault that the Duke of Savoy had no army, and that those troops he had, he was saving to protect the Low Countries, not to lose lives and prestige in pulling English chestnuts out of a peculiarly horrendous French fire. Two small bands of Spanish soldiers were sent to help Lord Grey at Guînes, of whom thirty-five men got into the citadel and five only lived to get out of it.
By Sunday night, the cuttings had reached the ditches and started to drain them. At dawn on Monday, the bombardment began which was to subject the Mary bulwark between the fortress gate and the town to nine thousand cannon shot in forty-eight hours, dislodge the English counter-battery and breach the bastion.
At two o’clock on Monday afternoon the French sent several parties to wade the moat, now only waist-high, and examine the damage. Later, two bands of Gascons attempted to scale the bulwark and inspect it more closely, and retired, pursued by culvers and hackbuts and pots of wild fire: shortly after, the French resumed firing. The eight deafening salvoes they delivered that evening tore open a breach which exposed all the Mary’s defenders.
Night, falling, saved them, but an English captain had lost his life, and a Spanish, and forty or fifty common soldiers. They had then been under siege for five sleepless days before the entire French armed forces. With Lord Grey were his twenty-year-old son Arthur, his cousin Lewis Davie, his nephew Austin Grey, his colleague Henry Palmer, an English captain called Bracknell and an experienced Spanish leader of Alva’s called Montdragon. The quality of the leadership was undoubted; and in Grey of Wilton’s case, supreme.
He knew the Pale, and its strengths, and its weaknesses. Marsh lay all around him: a wilderness of short, sour grass showing everywhere the white eyes of water, upon which floated the s
mall hill of Guînes.
Marsh protected two sides of the fort’s moated ramparts. On the other two, the French were encamped. Lansquenetz straddled the highway to Ardres, which led south from the barbican entrance. And across the west ditch, Frenchmen held the burnt-out husk of the town and by daylight, if they were shrewd, would have ranged their batteries on its maundes, or on the commanding flat stage of the market place. One had only to count the ensigns, streaming from each moving body of troops, and scan the flagged pavilions which spread their skirts from bush to bush to recognize what one was opposing.
There was a particular pleasure, now and then in one’s life, in matching one’s skill with the best. He had expected to find it when he led the English troops at Saint-Quentin, but that had been a rogue victory, won through an old man’s mistakes. Arthur, he remembered had been elated, but he had seen again in his nephew’s manner that air of withdrawal which meant he would never make a first-class general, for all his brains.
God knew, one didn’t go into this business with any illusions. Over and over again, he had impressed the facts of life on these two boys. One battle in twelve might be won by a brilliant military stratagem. The rest stood or fell by somebody’s blunders. Only rarely, there came the feel of a great campaign evolved by a stylist: imaginative, comprehensive, irresistible.
That was the spice in the unseasoned meat of one’s livelihood. Savoy had been shown it this winter, and he and Wentworth were the targets. Wentworth had succumbed and so might Guînes, if the troops from England failed to arrive to relieve him. He had sent Mary to beg help from Savoy, but he knew, even if they had help to give, that they would withhold it until the English bands came. If there was to be failure let it be an English failure, as Calais was an English failure. If there looked like being a success, then the troops mustering at Saint-Omer would be marched in to deal the finishing blow.
