Checkmate

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Enraged by the blasphemy, the King snatched a basin to hurl at d’Andelot but, his aim being no better than his son’s, instead cracked open the head of the Dauphin. M. d’Andelot, under instant arrest, was marched off with his wife to the bishop’s prisons at Meaux, thus freeing the six brothers de Guise of another rival.

  The Commissioners for Scotland endeavoured to preserve a unified front behind which, from their various religious convictions, they viewed the passage of events with some little alarm. The presence of the English fleet in the Narrow Seas still compelled them, supposedly, to remain in Paris. The real reasons on both sides were a matter of opinion. If they stayed, they could bring home the terms of the peace or the outcome of the war. They could watch and judge further the honesty or dishonesty of France towards Scotland, as already betrayed by Queen Mary. And, there was no doubt that, by accepting the King’s pressing invitation to linger, they were denying the Queen Dowager of Scotland the company of some of her strongest Reformers.

  Visiting Lords Seton and Allendale with some frequency, John Elder now knew very well which were the Calvinists and had heard, with admiration, of the fine reception given them by Lord Culter’s younger brother. In a comradely and even, one might say, a Christian sense, Lord Culter had been a disappointment, and so had his mother. The Secretary obtained, from Austin Grey, an introduction to Jerott’s wife Marthe.

  The meeting was not a success. Marthe, faced with a gentle denigration of Lord Culter for not acknowledging the less fortunate sprigs of his line, remarked merely, with boredom, that she didn’t know there were any such. On being reminded, apologetically, of the family resemblance, she merely remarked, irritably, that perhaps then Lord Culter was the bastard. Which, since Lord Culter had been born fully attested many years before anyone else, and the correct number of months after an equally fully attested wedding, was clearly prevarication.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ John Elder had added. ‘I felt sure I had heard that M. de Sevigny looked upon you as his step-sister. Could I be mistaken?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marthe had said. ‘I suppose it depends on heredity. What sort of mistakes did your parents make?’

  He thought of a very good answer in bed that night as he pulled his cap on.

  *

  In the continuing absence of Madame Roset, the agent who concerned himself with the Hôtel des Sphères instructed the servants to place neatly within a campaign chest all the money, clothes and other effects of the late Master Bailey, and hand them to the authorities for transmission to England by the first person of that nationality to leave the country. Since the two nations were still officially at war and the traffic was not therefore dense, the chest remained in a bureau in Paris, with a label on it.

  A recalcitrant cellar door, forced in the same house by a maidservant, proved to have stacked up behind it four locked boxes clearly containing money. The agent, applied to, took charge of them for his principal.

  Sybilla sent for Adam Blacklock and said, ‘I’ve had a letter from Philippa’s mother. I can’t answer it.’

  ‘I know. So have I,’ Adam said. Then as Sybilla added nothing, he said, ‘They don’t want anyone. I wrote to Applegarth and I wrote to Archie, and they don’t answer. I could wring Archie’s neck.… Nothing happened, did it, about that demonstration?’

  ‘No,’ Sybilla said wearily. ‘It was not very wise of them to go. But no one seems to have noticed. Why should Archie make you think of that?’

  There was no point in lying. ‘It was Archie who told me that Lord Culter was a Calvinist,’ Adam said. ‘Francis found out at Dieppe. You may not have noticed, but all the time you have been here, we have been keeping the Protestant Commissioners so far as possible out of trouble. Only the other night they escaped us. Without Francis at Court, we don’t have the warning we usually get.’

  ‘It seems hardly fair,’ Sybilla said, ‘that you should have had to assume the burden of caring for the Culter family.’ Then she said, as if quite against her will, ‘I am so afraid. They don’t speak, he said.’

  ‘You want me to go,’ Adam said. ‘But, you know, Francis has always been his own master.’

  ‘He was not his own master when he left Russia,’ Sybilla said. ‘Nor was he his own master when you brought him to France. He is like a river forced into glass and driven from stem to stem of a conjurer’s maze without ever reaching the sea. Would you rather I sent Richard?’

  It was an empty threat, but the fact that she was driven to make it was enough. Next day he left.

  *

  He had forgotten how beautiful Sevigny was. He rode to Orleans through wood-smoke and the song of birds and came to the river, strung like a rosary with its palaces, their bowered turrets stitched in the water like tapestry. He sent no warning before him but spent the night at Blois, and set out with the sun at his back in the morning, past the vineyards and through the spring flowers and between the slender tree trunks gloved in ivy, until ahead of him he saw the wall, and the beeches, and beyond them the château, distinct in the sun as a Cellini tiara.

  He was told at first, courteously, that my lord was not at home; and then suddenly Archie was standing before him, his hands on his hips, saying, ‘Oh. It’s yourself.’

  The tone was exasperated. But behind the lined and leathery face Adam caught a glimpse, before it vanished, of an expression which could have been pure relief. Then Archie said, ‘Give me your saddlebags. They’ve been riding. You can wait for them in the parlour.’

  ‘You bloody Indian clam,’ Adam said. ‘I wrote you.’

  ‘I didn’t get it,’ said Archie.

  ‘I wrote Applegarth as well,’ said Adam angrily.

  ‘He didn’t get it either. He’s away for a day or two. Jesus,’ said Archie, ‘are ye not keen to come in? You must be fair wore out with ali that writing.’

  So whatever there was to tell, Archie did not intend to convey it.

  Then, clean and combed, he was waiting rigidly in a tidy, well-appointed room which seemed to be full of books, and the door opened, and Lymond came in.

  Quel changement, Strozzi had said, and it was true. The change was there, and not only in the chamois and lawn, replacing the velvet, the rubies, the gold tissue. It was as if all about him had been stripped down and cleansed and reduced, without blurring, to its true structure. And his eyes, which were smiling, were clear.

  ‘Poor Hermes,’ said Lymond. ‘And without even a winged staff to pawn. Don’t look so apprehensive. Someone was bound to try again, once they got Piero to stop talking. O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war; O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name! We hoped it might be you.’ And taking Adam’s hand at the same moment to draw him to a chair he turned his head and said, ‘And here is Philippa.’

  They had walked, for whatever reason along the passage together and, not to embarrass him, were entering separately. We, Lymond had said instead of the familiar, imperious I. They’ve been riding, Archie had said, without requiring to identify them. Such a sovereignty, Adam thought, resentment starting up for the first time in his thoughts. Such a sovereignty, to be pulled down so quickly.

  Then Philippa came in, and looking only at himself said smiling, ‘I’m sorry. Signor Strozzi said it was like being received by the Dioscuri. Would you rather be entertained by one of us at a time?’

  Which was altogether too near the mark to permit him to reply with a truthful assent. So he grinned and said, ‘I came to see both of you. Kate has been writing to ask how you are.’

  Neither of them queried the excuse. ‘Sit down,’ Lymond said, ‘and have something. I suppose it is too early for anything but Hippocras. Where did you come from, Blois?’

  And as Adam nodded and he busied himself pouring spiced wine, Lymond said, ‘We are as you see. It was not given to us to make this change with proper consideration for our friends, for which you must blame an obtuseness of mine. That it was a change of great … importance to us, I hope you will understand. Later, I hope you will find us more
communicative. When there has been … what do they call an earthquake?—a wondernous of earth, it takes a little time to recover.’

  He presented the wine. ‘Now may we leave the subject? You must have seen the vineyards as you came by. We have some changes in the gardens we want to show you presently. And these.’ And laying down the salver, he lifted two books of drawings. ‘Do you remember my trying to buy these in London?’ He did not say how he had now come by them, but Adam saw Philippa lift her eyes, with a smile in them, to his.

  It was the key to which all the rest of the long day was tuned: that of tranquil hospitality, filled with small pleasures, carefully designed to his taste, first by one of his hosts and then by the other. All their attention was concentrated on himself and he was enclosed by it, as in a satin box. To his efforts to let in the outside world their response was totally negative and differed only in quality. He mentioned as soon as he could the break-down of the Cardinal’s peace negotiations over the twin stumbling-blocks of the future of Savoy and Calais, but before he could speculate about their resumption, or about the honesty of their purpose, he had been led by Lymond’s skill into another channel and with equal adroitness denied any chance of returning. Philippa, he found, took no part in such diversions, but would allow an outside topic to die for lack of contribution.

  Nor was he more successful on the few brief occasions on which she was absent. At one such time he mentioned Thionville: ‘The German levies and the money have come, and we are mustering, all of us at Chalons. De Nemours, of course, and de Nevers and d’Estrée and de La Rochefoucauld and de Thermes and the Vidame and de la Brosse … d’Elboeuf … Robertet. It’s a damned shame, of course: de Guise and Strozzi are going to sweep in and take all de Vieilleville’s credit. You can imagine the comments. With the architect of the Calais victory out of the way, the Duke de Guise wants to make sure of his pedestal. Strozzi——’

  ‘Adam: there must be something which interests you in what we are doing here?’ Lymond said. ‘We have already, I promise you, had our fill of Piero’s views.’

  ‘Piero Strozzi’s views, I find, are generally expressed in the form which will best benefit Piero Strozzi,’ Adam said. ‘I imagine he didn’t tell you that——’

  ‘Enough, Adam,’ said Lymond. The tone was one which any man serving under him would have recognized: he had not used it before, and he did not use it again. A moment later, the door opened, and Philippa came in, obviously unaware of what they had been saying. He had not heard her approach.

  Even then, he did not give up, although hour by hour he was beginning to realize the truth in all Strozzi’s bizarre statements. Although he knew they did not want him, they continued, one would say, to outdo one another in courtesy towards him.

  It was not strictly true to say that they never spoke to one another. Philippa had been reading the Dialogues, and at dinner they fell into a discussion about them which ceased, prematurely, when Lymond discovered that Adam had dropped out. About books and ideas they communicated aloud, and at a level which silenced Adam. On trivial matters it was as Strozzi had said: there seemed no need for speech. They appeared to know intuitively the pattern of each other’s thoughts and actions. Communication there was effortless as breathing and achieved, in passing, with the eyes. The refreshment they offered himself was part of a climate of carefulness which was continuous, and most of all noticeable in the ease of mind they created for one another.

  And so it was true, too, that everything about their relationship in public was cerebral. As Strozzi had said, they never even touched fingertips. And when Adam, taking a risk, mentioned that Madame Marguerite was missing her favourite lutanist, and was that a new spinet? no one pursued the subject. In Sevigny, there was something so deep and so dangerous that it could barely be felt. But there was no music. And there was no laughter.

  Once, he managed a moment alone with Philippa, as the afternoon drew on and he had only the evening to make his mind felt, before he must sleep and then ride off at daybreak. Waiting, on their tour of the farm buildings, for Francis to close a gate he said, ‘And the headaches? Has the air of the Loire brought an improvement?’

  She had found, in a heap of straw, some hens’ eggs and was carrying them, brown and smooth, in her palms. One forgot that she was the daughter of a gentleman farmer. It would suit her, this life on Sevigny. Then she turned sober, friendly brown eyes upon him and said, ‘The headaches have gone. It is no credit to the Loire, or my company.’

  It was highly improbable. ‘Are you sure?’ Adam said.

  She flushed. And Lymond’s voice behind him said, ‘Do you think I would mislead her?’

  By that time, Adam had flushed also. ‘No. I don’t think you could mislead her,’ he said. ‘You think as one person, so far as I can see. But you will have to remember that there is a world awaiting you, when you emerge from your tower. We shall do our best to spin it meantime the way it should go, but it is not easy. There have been Calvinist demonstrations in Paris and Chartres; d’Andelot and his wife have been arrested along with others. Your brother took part in one of the processions. He might very well find himself in difficulties.’

  It was one of the rare occasions when, outside an impersonal topic, he saw the eyes of Francis and Philippa meet, and cling. Then Lymond said, his eyes still on hers, ‘He is of age.’ Then answering, it would seem, some further change in her gaze he said, ‘I did not mean the onus to fall on your shoulders. Perhaps my mother could be persuaded to leave, and he to escort her home on the grounds of frailty?’

  ‘Not while Philippa is here,’ Adam said.

  Then Lymond said, ‘I have told you the only solution. The world has turned. We are two families now: two trees; two separate plantings. Tell them that. And god shall wype awaye all teares from theyr eyes. And there shalbe no more deeth, nether sorow, nether cryinge, nether shall ther be eny more payne, for the olde thinges are gone. And so, too, will be supper, unless we hurry. Come, poor Adam, and eat. You have delivered messages enough.’

  He could not enjoy the meal although, as before, it was well cooked and presented. The house, he had already realized, ran like a machine, as it had done for many years under Applegarth’s care. There had been nothing demanded of Philippa which need intrude on this relationship. Nor, except for the books, had there been any change that he could see in the château. It had always been exquisitely furnished but impersonal, and until now Lymond had visited it only rarely. But to this home neither he nor Philippa, it was clear, had brought the detachment of mind which had made of the house at Vorobiovo a casket of brilliant treasures, constructed, chosen, commissioned by Gûzel and Lymond alike to create a setting for their guests’ entertainment.

  One remembered there, too, the social skills, the fluent ease of host and hostess which obliterated for all practical purposes their personal relationship, so that you did not remember till afterwards that here was a clever and powerful courtesan, and here was the man who possessed her.

  This was the same man. It was, one had to believe, the sheer strength of the invisible union which made the bond between man and woman this time such a towering and tangible thing.

  Towards the end of the evening, weary himself with the strain of the day, and his journey, Adam saw a tiredness of a different kind begin to touch the hollows of Philippa’s face and then, less obviously, betray itself in Francis. Once, visited for a term by a pair newly-betrothed, he had learned to understand the signs. The need, as for a spring in the desert, was for peace in each other’s company. He said good night then, as soon as he could, and went upstairs to his chamber.

  He was a man, unlike Strozzi, for whom prying was out of the question. It was with no other intention therefore than to admit the night air to his anxieties that he pulled aside the heavy hangings and, opening the latch of his window, stepped out in his shirt among the flower pots on his small balcony.

  Below him was the wing of the château he had just left, with the long windows of the grand’ salle stil
l blazing. And the comte de Sevigny and his wife were still there, clearly in view from where he was standing.

  If there had been anything less than commonplace in their dispositions, he would have turned his back and left the balcony. As it was, he saw that Francis had lodged himself, a book on his knee, in what was obviously an accustomed chair, far to the side of the otherwise empty salon, while Philippa sat close to the fire, also from time to time reading. At other times she simply leaned back, and watched Lymond’s downcast eyes and his hand, as he turned the pages of his book. Then he, perhaps feeling the gaze, would look up and smile. So far as Adam could see, they were not speaking.

  He stayed there in the mild air, watching, and listening to the clock on the distant stables chime the final hours of the night. Then, across in the other wing, Philippa rose, her book closed in her hand and Lymond, leaving his seat, came forward and opened the door for her. Then, with a smile, she was gone.

  With a smile, and nothing else. But, of course, she must know, with the hangings apart and the candelabra burning, that all they did was visible. Presumably, Lymond knew it too. He closed the door at any rate directly after she had gone and returning to his seat, picked up his book and carried it to the chimneypiece. There he stood for a while, studying the embers. Then, the glow underlighting his face he knelt, laying down the thick volume, and began to rebuild the fire with remarkable care, as if erecting a city of gossamer. He remained kneeling by it for quite some time after it was done and then, when the flaring heat must have discommoded him, he rose and wandered to the far end of the room and back, his hands clasped, his eyes on the floor.

  An explanation, with two people of different quality, would have been simple: just so might a bridegroom, married a month, await the nightly disrobing of a modest young wife. An explanation which did not even cross Adam’s mind as he lingered there, unaware of his fatigue, and watched the owner of Sevigny pass and repass, pacing the length of his salon, diverging sometimes to the fire, to the window, to his book, for the better part of two weary hours. He was still there, gazing down into the fire when Adam saw his head lift sharply and turn. A moment later, the salon door opened abruptly and Philippa stood on the threshold, her long hair tossed over her night-robe.