Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [116]
‘It doesn’t sound much like Kate,’ he said, damn him. ‘It sounds a tempting idea, though, from your viewpoint: to have me sitting in Scotland with jack, knapstall, splent, spear and axe being hit on the head by both parties, while France and Spain kiss and make friends again. You haven’t spoken to your uncle yet, have you? He had an even better idea.’
Austin Grey thought of his uncle, for thirty years intermittently guardian of some part of England’s holdings in France, when he was not chastising Scotsmen in Scotland. According to Arthur his son, Hannibal was sworn an enemy to Rome at nine years of age, and my father bred one to France at fourteen. The mirror of military valour, held up to Austin by his mother since he, too, was less than fourteen. The epitome of the life that he despised and disliked and followed because he would not displease his mother, and because, whatever else it lacked, it upheld honour. He said, ‘What did my uncle suggest?’
He knew by the other man’s smile that he was going to be baited again. ‘That he should connive,’ Lymond said, ‘at my escape to Russia, in return for betraying all I know of the French armies and their forthcoming battle plan. A neat device, with advantages to everybody and a built-in safeguard in case I should be seized with a vile urge to egg the bargain. Whether I end up in Russia or Hecate’s garden with thrice-folding portals of ebony, the King of France will never employ me again.’
Not only the use of the future tense, but something in the other man’s mocking, mellifluous voice brought Austin Grey erect from the wall-stones. ‘My uncle made you such an offer. And you accepted it?’ Hard on disbelief had rushed contempt. He did not try to hide it.
Crawford of Lymond uncrossed his arms and rising, twitched round the tall chair so that it faced Austin invitingly. Then he approached. One could recoil. One could allow him, as Austin did, to stretch his hand and move oneself, grim-faced, to sit in it. ‘Prepare, my dear child,’ said Lymond, ‘to receive a revelation. Ham is not a Court of Love. Piero Strozzi is not a true, Christian knight and neither is God’s silly vassal, the monarch. Muchos Grisones, in fact, y pocos Boyardos. Modern war is fought by a number of strong, sweaty horsemen with constipation, who have their eyes on power, on wealth and on glory, and who obey the rules just when it pleases them. Your uncle and I understand each other perfectly. I am going to Russia. He has the information he needed. The French are going to Calais.’
Co co co co dae. Austin Grey looked up at the man standing watching him, smiling, his hands lightly folded behind him. He said, ‘Can you trust a bargain, then, with no honour?’
‘I trust your uncle’s,’ said Lymond. ‘He has his reasons for wanting me to go to the fate which pride and lust prepare. And he seems to trust mine. I have told him all I know. I had just come back from Calais to Flavy when I was captured. The only person which stands to lose by the transaction, indeed, is yourself. Are you still in love with my wife?’
Austin Grey stood up. For a moment he remained face to face with Philippa’s husband. Then, turning, he moved to the window and stood there. ‘Ham is not a Court of Love,’ he said. ‘There is no reason why I should listen to that sort of question, or answer it.’
‘No, there isn’t, but you’ve done both,’ said Crawford. He conveyed a faint impatience. ‘I know I shouldn’t soil my lips with the name of your loved one, but it occurred to me that I could be helpful, unless, like Antisthenes, you would rather be furious than voluptuous. The young Queen Mary has made her a lady of honour, and restrained her from leaving France while I am here.’
‘At your prompting?’ said Austin. He had learned to control his face but not his colour, which had left his brown skin entirely, although he did not know it.
The other man sighed. He rambled to the table and picking up a steel pen threw it accurately into the centre of the door where it hung like a shot parraqueet, quivering.