Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [132]
‘I thought you were bored?’ Marthe said. ‘Don’t tell me——’
‘… Among those whose sacrifice we who survive will long remember
‘Do you mind,’ said Philippa Somerville bitingly, ‘if before romping drunk in the city I satisfy myself whether I am merely unhappily married or widowed?’
The Secretary’s voice came to an end. Marthe betrayed a faint irritation. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can hear all the details.’
‘Such as whether Jerott is living?’ Philippa said. And turning, made a smooth but remorseless passage away from her.
Lymond’s sister made no effort to keep her. Over the heads of the courtiers she watched her make her inquiry. But when, hard on that, Philippa walked out of the room, Marthe broke off her discourse and moving swiftly, made her way through the same doorway.
It led to the guardroom; to a passage lined with the white and silver hoquetons of the Archers and, at last, to a long, empty gallery, of which one windowed wall looked over the garden. There had been no time for Philippa to reach the end of it, even had she been walking quickly. Nor had she thought of seeking sanctuary in any one of the rooms which gave on to it. Instead she had simply slowed up and stopped in the middle, and when Marthe came up behind her was standing perfectly still, her hands loose at her sides.
Marthe paused, her hand still on the door-latch behind her. Then she closed both leaves and watched Philippa’s head lift at the click of it. She walked forward and spoke. ‘Gino is pining. Did you learn what you wanted to find out?’
Philippa heaved a short sigh. Then turning, Lymond’s wife faced her inquisitor.
Her face was marked, past disguising, with the clear ribboned tracks of her weeping. ‘Yes,’ said Philippa thinly. ‘And so, I take it, have you.’
Unusually, Marthe was pale. But the mockery lingered, like a snow-print caught in ice after the thawing. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know that our wanton is safe. And that you love him.’
He is safe. The tears, defying all discipline began again, coursing down her no doubt clown-like cheeks and jumping off through the pearls co her bodice. Philippa said, ‘What a perfect day you must be having.’
(Estollete, je te voi
Que la lune trait a soi
M’amiete o le blont poil)
‘I am pleased, naturally,’ Marthe said. ‘I gather Jerott and the others are equally blessed by fortune.’ There was a long cushioned stool in the window embrasure. With a hissing rustle of tissues, she sank on it. ‘So. I love the love that loves not me: I am his friend and he my foe? You have been excessively secretive. You were afraid I should tell Francis what you feel for him?’
‘I think you should,’ Philippa said.
The blue eyes stared into hers. Then unexpectedly, the fair face relaxed. ‘And receive my quittance, I gather. So he knows.’
Without speaking, Philippa regarded her. Then she said, ‘He has cause to suspect, but tact enough to ignore the situation. He has ties elsewhere. I think I told you as much.’
‘You did. You also said the paragon’s name was unknown to you. You cannot know how many mistakes he has made. He may be making another.’
‘It had occurred to me,’ said Philippa briefly. ‘I am quite sure he isn’t. Otherwise I should hardly be planning to marry again.’
‘I see. And who is to suffer in the cause of Francis’s nerve-storms? One of the Schiatti? The Duke of Paliano? One of the Dauphin’s young titled gentlemen?’
‘I thought,’ said Philippa, ‘of trying them one after the other.’ She stood quite still, facing her sister-in-law. ‘No one will suffer. Marriage, like law, is a practice. Aut bibat, aut abeat. Subscribe, or get out of it.’
‘Like Jerott,’ said Marthe. ‘And your families? Whatever your choice, you must make your romance convincing. In four weeks, nine Scottish delegates are coming to France to contract for the little Queen’s marriage. Pious, religious and unblamable princes who will repeat current gossip like jackdaws.’
Had it been anyone but Marthe, of the open eyes and dulcet