Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [105]
But after a moment she freed a hand and took the cup from him, drinking greedily but drawing, at the end, a ragged handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her sunk mouth. A streak of raw colour had come into her cheeks. ‘Without my friends, I cannot keep tidy,’ she said. ‘The men mean well, but they are rough. And of course, I have not told them about Lisa. A cow, to a Spaniard? They would have her to Ham in a minute.’
‘The Spaniards are looking after you?’ Lymond said. There was no food in the house. On the other hand, he knew where to find some fat pigeons. He went to the window and lifted in the pail of new milk, drawing the shutters nearly closed once more behind him.
The sudden dimness made no difference to her. She looked in the direction of his movements, a little snatch of fright on her face and said, ‘Yes. To an old woman, all foreigners are kind, are they not? All I miss is a fire. When they are here, I have a fire, and it warms me. The evenings are cold.’ The sightless eyes fixed on him. ‘Would you light one?’
The fire was ready laid on her hearth: neatly set, as a soldier would do it. And beside it was a rack of fine logs, their white faces clean-cut by a woodsman. In one respect, the foreigners had looked after her. He said, striking tinder and lighting it, ‘How did you know my name? Because I called you Madame Jourda?’
‘That is my nom de jeune fille,’ said the old woman. ‘M. Proyart died twenty years ago. My neighbours were good.’ A stir of merriment, for a second, moved across the seamed face. Forgetful, she loosed her grip on the sword and when it fell, stiffened for a moment. But then, when nothing happened, she smiled again and left it there. ‘I should not be entertaining a young man. You are a young man? If you are Mistress Sybilla’s son, then you must be.’
The fire was burning well. ‘You remember Mistress Sybilla?’ Lymond said, without turning.
The thin voice had turned to anxiety again. ‘She didn’t blame me,’ said Renée Jourda. ‘When I said I must leave Scotland, she didn’t blame me. “Renée,” she said, “France is your homeland, and you miss it. We shall see each other again. Perhaps, if I need your help, you will come to me.” … But it was not Scotland I disliked. It was her husband. Gavin Crawford is a name to be loathed. She hated him. And Leonard Bailey, his kinsman. Half the evil in that house came from Bailey. I would not stay at Midculter.’
‘So you came back to France,’ Lymond said. ‘And you did help Mistress Sybilla again. Did you not? Ten years later?’
She smiled. Firelight, blossoming in the worn darkness, gave her face for a moment the thin, pretty shallowness it must once have possessed when she left her home to follow a wilful young mistress back to her wedding in Scotland; and then homesick, had abandoned her to settle here, with M. Proyart and those good neighbours who had now abandoned her.
‘When she had the baby?’ said Renée Jourda. ‘Such a baby! The father had bought her a jewel of a house, there in Paris. It was where they stayed when he was free, and when she could come from Scotland. She was to arrive for the birth of the child. She wrote to ask me to come to Paris. My sister Isabelle who was widowed was already there. She was housekeeper to them both from the start, and kept the house clean and warm, and saw to the bills. She still does it.’
‘Isabelle Roset?’ said Lymond. It was very hot by the fire. He moved to a low stool and sat there, breathing evenly. It took all his willpower and a good deal of his attention, which was why he was doing it. He said, ‘Who does she keep house for?’
There was a rattle outside. The pigeons, fickle passengers, were departing again from the hayloft. The sightless eyes turned on Francis Crawford. ‘Why, no one,’ said Renée Jourda. ‘Only Mistress Sybilla keeps it, for memory’s sake. The child was too young to be taken away. I said it should not be taken away, but they would have it. A boy.