Checkmate

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Marthe looked down, the hilt gripped hard in her fist. Beneath the floss of fine hair, the freckles overcast Danny’s white face like flotsam; but it was not the face of a man who was dying.

  ‘He was wearing steel under his shirt,’ said Nostradamus. ‘But he won’t walk for a while, or use his shoulder.’

  ‘I never trust bastards either,’ Danny said hoarsely. ‘Marthe. You owe me something. Take the advice of a well-wisher. Leave that paper alone.’

  ‘I had to,’ said Marthe again. She looked at Nostradamus. ‘You could look after him? That is … You are staying?’

  ‘I am not leaving France,’ said Nostradamus. ‘My part in the prophecy is fulfilled. Yours has still to come. Whatever made you think you were free?’

  ‘And the end?’ Marthe said. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘We all die,’ said Nostradamus. ‘The man you love. The man who loves you. The man you married. But because of you there will be something, I promise you, by which men will know Francis Crawford has been.’

  *

  She left in an hour, alone, in the plain clothes of a merchant, with a merchant’s safe-conduct in her saddlebags. And in the breast of her shirt was the scroll from the house of Doubtance, freshly packeted, and sealed, in bitter whimsy, with the crest of her husband’s ring.

  On the week-long ride to Dieppe no one followed her, and no power of heaven or of earth prevented her sailing, although storms delayed her departure and drove her ship finally from port after port, before stranding her in the roads outside Dover. There her patience ran out, and when they sent a boat to the town for fresh water, she had herself and her bags put ashore by it. She was engaged in buying a horse when two customars, strolling up, asked her to come with them into their office.

  Searchers and customars are not always honest men, and she took thought for her saddlebags, but not for the paper she carried. Nor could she have known, unless the Lennoxes had told her, that wherever she had made landfall, one man or two would have stopped her, and thrust her, as now, into an empty cell, and turning the key, made her their prisoner.

  *

  The storms which delayed the Réal on her journey north were more erratic. After the fourth unexplained sojourn in harbour, Richard Crawford sought out the master and demanded an accounting. He had not known his brother was on deck until halfway through the seaman’s obliging explanations, when Francis said agreeably, ‘When did the wind change?’

  The more uncommunicative gentleman, who looked fragile, had not so far engaged the master’s attention. ‘Eh?’ he said.

  ‘When did the wind change? It’s been south-south-west for thirty-six hours, but you’ve adjusted the foremast and the staysail twice already this morning. Are we a training ship?’

  ‘No,’ said the master.

  ‘… my lord,’ said Lymond.

  ‘No, my lord,’ said the master. ‘Only honest seamen who serve their trade faithfully. She’s an old vessel, and seen a few fights. You have to gentle her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lymond. ‘I should prefer sailing her. Do I have your permission?’

  The master gazed at him. ‘I can’t see my owners liking that, my lord. I’m sorry. But perhaps you or the other gentleman would like to take the helm for a little?’

  ‘Would you like to take the helm for a little, Richard?’ Lymond said. It was as inconsequential as any of his conversation had been, on the rare occasions during the voyage when he had sought company. Once, in his sleep, he had spoken Philippa’s name, but never at any other time.

  ‘Not unless you want to swim to Leith,’ Richard said.

  ‘Or, like the Turks’ diabolical iron galley, ride under the water for ever. It would pose, one should say, certain problems of steering.’ He raised his voice just a little, and threw it aft, ‘M. le timonier? Pouge un peu, s’il vous plaît. Et puis il faut larguer les voiles. Master?’

  The master had gone very red. ‘My lord, there can only be one who commands on a ship.’

  ‘That is correct. And you have kindly handed me your authority for a day,’ Lymond said. ‘Go and sleep. I shall give you your ship back at nightfall.’

  His jaw jutting, the master turned on Lord Culter. ‘I will stand security for him,’ said Richard gravely. ‘If he chips the shaft of an oar, I shall pay for it.’

  He was not at all sure that it was wise, but it seemed to be what Francis wanted, and that he should want anything was of moment. He was aware that the master, although overborne, was still there, on the long rambade, watching. Then Lymond walked to the poop, and, turning, his hands clasped lightly behind him, said, ‘Ecoutez, tout le monde and talked on in short, carrying phrases, while the stern post arched to the sky and plunged again into the sea just behind him.

  The men near Richard were grinning, but he did not know the common language of galleys, and so missed the cause of it. He could tell the orders, however, from the pitch of his brother’s voice and watched, holding hard to the rail as lines of men came and went, in a rush of bare feet. Above his head, soles dangling, they were doing something to the brails on a yardarm. The sea hissed and the coast, grey in the drizzle, began, quickening, to unroll towards them.

  The ship was trim in an hour, and then there was nothing to do. Richard said, ‘Chancellor. I had forgotten the voyage from Russia.’

  ‘Had you?’ Lymond said. He had come in for food, his skin with colour in it, and his hair blowing and damp. ‘Oh, yes. Russia, and all the Levantine seas and Malta. And of course, my years at the oar.’

  ‘You prefer the sea to the land?’ Richard said. The possibility had never struck him.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Lymond said. He had eaten, but with no obvious appetite. ‘I don’t like to see things done badly on either. At the moment, I am tired of journeys. It is time I arrived somewhere.’

  ‘And when you do?’ Richard said. ‘I’ve tried not to force you to talk of the future, but your men are in Scotland ahead of you and that means that you have to find them employment. And this time, you cannot be neutral. You have to make up your mind whether you are going to support or oppose France. You have to make up your mind whether you are going to support or oppose the new religion. And even if you and your officers try not to commit yourselves, your men will, when and if you start recruiting them.’

  He tried, and failed, to collect Lymond’s eyes. He added, a little brusquely, ‘I wanted you to come back to Scotland for Sybilla’s sake; not to defend any cause of mine.’

  ‘I know,’ Lymond said. ‘But my calling is war: even if I wanted to retire to the farm or the cloister, do you think I should be allowed to? As soon as I set foot on Scottish soil, rumour will make me the centre of every conspiracy.’

  ‘What then?’ said Richard.

  ‘If I knew, I would tell you,’ Lymond said. ‘There will be no recruiting for St Mary’s. I should like to think there need never be. I stopped Graham Malett from leading a power crusade in the name of religion. It would be the ultimate irony to be forced into doing the same thing myself. Hoddim and Guthrie and Blyth and the rest are in Scotland because they are men of great experience, with counsel to give and the ability to answer force with force, if it does become necessary. We don’t know yet what your fellow-Commissioners are going to say or do. If word of the donations leaks out, if accusations of poison are made openly, then trouble may start before anyone is ready for it.’

  ‘They know what is at stake,’ Richard said. With pained perplexity, he stared at the downbent head, propped on one hand, of his brother. ‘You were taken to Russia, expecting little. Perhaps you will find a purpose here.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, Richard,’ Lymond said. ‘You don’t need to remind me what country I belong to.’

  Richard drew a deep breath, his eyes suddenly open. ‘Then——’

  ‘Then I am making a gift to her of the men I have trained,’ his brother said. He had removed his hand from his head and, looking up, met Richard’s eyes with tired resignation. ‘I have been told to live in Scotlan
d, and I shall do it, but I doubt if it will be to Scotland’s benefit. There are handicaps, I have found, more crippling than blindness. Even the part of me that did not come back from Dourlans would hardly have made you a whole man.… But one would like to spare Sybilla the realization of it.’

  And Richard was silent, for the truth Jerott had seen touched him, too, for a moment before he thrust it aside. He said, instead, ‘Once, I returned, by mistake, a present you gave me.’

  As when he had come in, fresh from the wind, surprise and pleasure roused, for an instant, all the colour in his brother’s face. Francis Crawford said, ‘I have kept it, in case one day you might want it. If you do … It makes worthwhile this part, at least, of the journey.’

  *

  That evening, as he promised, he handed his command to the master, who was good enough to comment, gruffly, on the speed he had made. Then, as was usual during this convalescence, Lymond went below and drifted quite early into the deep, empty sleep of physical weariness.

  He was not awake, therefore, when the vessel tacked, in the night, into the roads outside Berwick where two small English ships were hovering, waiting to take her.

  The noise of the boarding broke Richard’s sleep, and presently that of his brother. But by that time the Réal was firmly under escort, and sailing into the mouth of the Tweed in captivity.

  There, neither the master nor the crew of the Réal was invited to come ashore. Only the Earl of Culter and his brother with their servants and their belongings were transferred briskly without explanation from the riverside to the brooding heights of Berwick castle.

  The room to which Richard found himself taken, with Lymond following, was that of the Lieutenant-Governor of the castle; but Lord Wharton, it seemed, was either asleep or absent that evening. The officer who turned and greeted them, shaved, accoutred and quite impeccably groomed, was Austin Grey, Marquis of Allendale.

  Richard spoke to him. Without even glancing at him, Austin Grey said, ‘Our two countries are still at war. Any objections you may have will be noted. You will not find your stay here unpleasant, Lord Culter.’

  He was looking at Francis. Then, turning, Richard saw that his brother was white as a pargeted board. He remembered then, with abrupt nausea, the disastrous encounter in Paris with Allendale, after Lymond had broken his word and escaped from the wedding with Philippa. In Francis, there was so much that was admirable; and the flaws were so great. Yet one forgot them.

  Austin Grey had not forgotten. His brown, austere face, its nostrils a little distended, told that; and his open stare of hatred and loathing, focused without words on Lymond. Then Lymond said, as if he could not wait any longer, ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Haven’t you been able to have her watched?’ Austin said. ‘Or has your spy forgotten you? Or … No. I forgot. You have been on the high seas for quite some time, haven’t you? You wouldn’t even know if she was dead.’

  *

  Except by pleading, there was no possible answer. The anguish of it got to Richard, or a shred of the kind of perception one still had not learned to expect of him. Richard said, ‘You heard my brother. Where is Mistress Philippa?’

  It gave Austin pleasure, clearly, to prolong the silence. He said, at length, ‘In Flaw Valleys, with her mother. She wrote me two days ago, to say that since she would never remarry, it might be better if we did not continue to meet. An abrupt quittance, don’t you think, for the girl she once was? Or could she have been preparing for your arrival?’

  Francis Crawford had experienced this form of antagonism before, and when well, was fully qualified to withstand it. Now, nothing was especially easy. The hammer-beats of relief made him unsure for a while of his stance on a floor which still swayed like a sea-deck. He said, ‘Philippa didn’t know I was coming. I am on my way to my own house. I have no intention of seeing her.’

  ‘I thought I would make sure of that for you,’ Austin said. ‘Lord Culter will, I am certain, be transferred fairly easily, after due negotiation over the Border. Your own stay will, I think, be rather longer. A Marshal of France, a man whose ingenuity wrested Calais and Guînes from us and placed my uncle in such harsh captivity, will not soon, I’m afraid, be forgiven. Nor would it be reasonable to expect your conditions of imprisonment to be any less strict than those of my uncle. I am speaking, after all, to the man who tricked us so ably at Douai, at Flavy-le-Martel, at Ham, at Calais … and, of course, in the matter of his personal bond in Paris. Lord Culter, you will be lodged here.’

  He rang a bell and the door opened. ‘And my brother?’ Richard was saying.

  ‘He will be in private hands,’ said Austin Grey. ‘Where, it is not for me to tell you.’

  Richard, a strong man, was resisting the guard who, entering, had gripped his arms to remove him. ‘I demand to know where,’ he said. ‘I demand to be lodged in the same room. Bring Lord Wharton.’

  ‘Lord Wharton is away,’ Austin said. ‘Take him out.’

  The fool was still resisting. Lymond said, ‘For God’s sake get out, Richard. If you do what they want, they’ll release you.’

  It got home, evidently, for Richard hesitated, and then turned and walked out. The door closed.

  ‘You knew we were coming,’ Lymond said.

  ‘Obviously. There are some powerful people in France,’ said Austin Grey, ‘who dislike you nearly as much as I do. I do not think you quite realize yet what you are dealing with. I know what happened to Philippa in … in the Hôtel des Sphères in Paris.’

  The power to cerebrate every physical response had long since left Francis Crawford. He sat down. He said, ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was an evening of quite some violence,’ said Austin. ‘Didn’t you imagine it might become a matter of public knowledge?’

  Lymond said, ‘I know it’s not a matter of public knowledge. I have just come from Paris.’

  ‘It hardly counts now anyway, does it?’ said Austin. ‘Now you have left France. Do you still tell me you are not going to join Philippa?’

  Whatever he said, he was not going to be believed, but he did keep looking directly at Austin, so that the other man could see his eyes. He said, ‘I left Philippa because I don’t want to be near her. She left me because she doesn’t want me beside her. If you ask her, she will tell you this also.’

  ‘You devil,’ said Austin Grey in a low voice. ‘Oh you devil, what have you done to her?’

  ‘Everything, I think; except kill her,’ said Francis Crawford. There was nothing it seemed worth while adding. Eventually, he said, ‘I think you should tell me what you are going to do with me.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Austin Grey. ‘I couldn’t make you suffer enough. I haven’t the skill. But I know someone who has.

  ‘I am going to walk out of the door, and send in the four men who are to take you to your place of imprisonment. I shall not come back. I do not expect to see you again. I hope, when what is about to happen happens to you, that you will think of me. And crow. Crow on your bloody dunghill, if you can still do it.’

  The four men who came in were heavily armed, down to mail coat and steel gloves and morions. They wasted no time on speech but advanced on him. He stood up.

  He had no weapons other than his hands, and against the steel they were of little use. He managed to break someone’s nose, and mark another unshaven face with his knuckles before he was beaten half-stunned to the floor and kicked senseless.

  They shackled him all the same, and put him into a cart, and took him to his destination while he was easy to manage.

  *

  It was the piercing cold, penetrating and even overwhelming the pain of his stiffened body which brought him finally back to consciousness. He lay with his eyes closed for a long time, as his training taught him to do, seeking the augurs of danger. He was lying, stripped to the waist on stone flags and stuck there, so far as he could feel, by the dried blood from recent contusions. He was not fettered.

  After a while, when it was fairly certain
that he was alone, he opened his eyes and found himself in a bare, circular room, served by two doors and one window, barred and set high in the wall. One of the doors, securely locked, gave probably on to a staircase. The other he was grateful, for the sake of dignity, to find led to a primitive office of necessity. Within the room itself, there were no furnishings.

  He was in an unused tower, and it was daylight, but how far advanced into the day he did not know, nor if the tower was part of a habitable building. The window was too high to look out of, and the floor too cold to lie upon, so he sat, curled like a cat in the corner under the window, and concentrated all his senses on listening.

  After a long time he did hear some sounds far below which indicated that there was life of some sort in the building. And that therefore he had not perhaps been abandoned to starve. At first, this seemed a matter for relief; and then, when he thought about it, of little consequence. When, several hours later, footsteps sounded quite clearly mounting the staircase, and there came the rattle of keys, and the sound of men’s voices, echoing, he was shivering so uncontrollably that his teeth rattled if he closed them. He stood up, slowly, as the door opened, and John Elder entered the chamber.

  He was smiling: the raw smile one remembered from all the tedious receptions preceding Queen Mary’s marriage. Behind him were the four armed men he had met before, one of them with his nose in a plaster. Lymond gazed at it, pursing his lips, for a long and insolent moment, and then turned his attention to Elder.

  ‘M. le comte de Sevigny,’ said the secretary. His smile had grown, if anything, wider. ‘I am happy to see you. I am to ask you if you will have the goodness to come downstairs and join the Countess of Lennox directly.’

  *

  They gave him his shirt back for the occasion, but his fingers were too cold to lace it, and for Margaret Lennox, in any case, there were well-defined limits to the trouble he would take. From her jealous concupiscence at twenty-seven for a boy eleven years younger had come all the ills that had dogged him.