Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [131]
Remember, the citadel is a magazine, packed hard with munitions. While you are there, cut off from reinforcements, guard against Greek fire from the town cavaliers and bastions. They will be desperate. Remember. Remember. Rare in her life, Philippa’s temples were aching. ‘I might leave early,’ she answered. ‘But should I leave you here to suffer? Jerott is with the armies?’
Marthe smiled. ‘Jerott goes, like Crassus’ lamprey, when one calls him. His death has no high price on it. It is Francis whose falling will drag a whole edifice down. Strangled on his body his concubines and his cupbearer, the master of his horse and his chamberlain, the usher of his great hall, and his pastry-cook.’
Philippa rose.
And as she stood, the doors opened and the music wavered and perished.
Through the noise, no one had heard the growing din in the streets as the hard-pressed group of horsemen entered the portals of Paris and rode stumbling along the rue St Antoine’s icy runnels, where the paving had been stripped for the tilting match.
Even the hubbub at the gatehouse had failed to reach this long, tapestried room with its bridal banners and flowers and escutcheons where France dallied, while its manhood, its prowess, its fortune all hung in the balance.
The doors opened, to admit a manifold uproar and a single gentleman of the chamber.
The words he spoke to the King were unguessable. Behind the sculptured black beard something altered. The King mounted the dais to his chair. Then through the doors in spurred boots and cuirass, mud caked as he had ridden all the long, difficult journey from Abbeville came Robertet; a familiar face, frowning with weariness, and a tread, after the dancers’ light feet, like yoke-oxen.
At the dais, he genuflected and the King’s white jewelled fingers commanded him. ‘We welcome you, M. Secretary. Rise, turn, and tell all my people what news you bring them.’
He rose. He turned. Between all the intervening, motionless heads Philippa could see the mask, grey cracked with white, which the mud had laid on his features. Robertet cleared his throat and then lifted his voice, hoarsely, into the silence.
‘Your Majesties, mes seigneurs, messieurs, mesdames … I have the honour to tell you that Calais is French once again.’
*
The cheering, beyond all controlling, went on for ten minutes. For ten minutes the Schiatti thumped her shoulders and pumped Catherine d’Albon by the hand. For ten minutes no single fact of the winning of Calais could be learned: the author of the triumph, its course, its culmination, its cost. Many broke into tears. Many shouted, still weeping. Many, like the demoiselle d’Albon, stood silent, their eyes brilliant, their hearts offering prayer.
Marthe said to her step-sister by marriage, ‘If you are feeling loyal, then I must ask you to accept my commiserations. On the other hand, you will now be free of your husband by April.’
Robertet had started speaking. The noise died. The words glorious leadership and Duke de Guise made themselves heard. Philippa said, ‘What did he say?’
‘He is placing credit where credit is expected. We needn’t, however, stay to applaud him. There is a door just behind you if you would like to complete your withdrawal.’
‘… and Marshal de France Piero Strozzi …’
‘I can’t hear him. He’s mumbling. Come on,’ said Gino Schiatti. ‘I want to see how Paris is taking it.’
‘… the efforts of Messrs d’Aumale and d’Elboeuf, le Duc de Bouillon and M. de Montmorency …’
‘There won’t be hunting tomorrow, devil take it. He’ll decree a thanksgiving service and celebrations. Mistress Philippa …’
‘… not without cost. Stubborn fighting … Aside from those lost in the water … The Master of the Camp, who had his foot clean blown off
‘Then that’s agreed. This way, Mistress