Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [101]
He called King Philip a number of names, and embarked on a series of dirty songs all of which Lymond appeared to know in several versions. The session ended when Mr Pigault, full of his own beer, slid comfortably under the table. From there, after brotherly leavetakings, the applesellers made their way to the market-place where, under the Gothic towers of the Staple, they filled their cart with cloth, cheeses and tallow and began to make their leisurely way again by Rigging Street and the Shafts and Cock Lane to the Millgate, the east door out of Calais.
Above the portals, a two-line verse had been cut, with some optimism:
Il sera vraisemblable que Calais on assiege
Quand le fer ou le plomb nagera comme liège.
When they were free to speak openly: ‘Have you,’ inquired Marshal Piero Strozzi of M. le comte de Sevigny, Chevalier of the Order, ‘ever witnessed iron to swim like a cork?’
‘No,’ said the comte de Sevigny soberly. ‘But Nature’s laws are beyond a simple man’s reckoning. If I were asked to wager, I would say that before the new year, iron will swim; and Englishmen with it.’
They left the cob and wagon at Ardres and slept at Cléry in the same ruined barn, where the food and drink had been replenished and a sum of money added, divided into two purses. Healthily tired, with beer, with laughter, with riding, Marshal Strozzi slept instantly.
Lymond was later in quenching the candle. Waking at first light, Piero Strozzi found by his pallet a neat stack of paper, closely written, with beside it some cards bearing intricate plans: of the Citadel; of Fort Ruisbank; of the four gates and the bulwarks of Calais. He was examining them when Lymond came back into the barn fully dressed, and picked up his sword.
Strozzi said, ‘I may be old enough to be your unfortunate uncle, but I have my powers of memory yet. Why waste a night’s sleep? I shall, if you wish, applaud your skill as a cartographer. My little friend Nicolas de Nicolay produced a plan of Guînes just as pretty. You were his pupil?’
‘I was taught by an Englishman. The notes are an aide-memoire, that’s all. You will have a great deal to add. I wished you to take them because,’ said Francis Crawford, ‘you are going straight back to Compiègne, and it will be two days before I can join you. I have some business in the country to attend to.’
‘So!’ said Piero Strozzi. He sat very still, his broad naked shoulders, stuck with straw, glistening in the dim light. ‘A woman?’
‘I said business,’ said Lymond. ‘Remember? The intellectual passion that drives out sensuality.’
‘Then a little more spying?’ said Piero Strozzi slowly. ‘You are in bad country for it. You had better tell me where you are going. Dressed like that, you will be killed: you will not be taken prisoner.’
‘Private business,’ said Lymond. ‘I know the risks. If I don’t return, you may give Monseigneur de Guise my deepest apologies. I enjoyed our excursion. I have translated into Italian, by the way, the song you didn’t understand. If you ever come face to face with King Philip, you can sing it to him.’
Piero Strozzi roared, ‘Body of God, I shall!’ and stood up, and slapped the other man on the shoulder and watched as he swung into the saddle and set off through the low scrub on a track which seemed to lead south-east, between Péronne and Saint-Quentin.
It was not a direction Piero Strozzi fancied. A stretch of flat, ravaged farmland punctuated by strong forts: some held by French