Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [15]
‘The King’s representatives might just conclude that they are in sympathy with the enemy. He hasn’t changed,’ Jerott said.
‘Lymond? I think he has,’ said Adam shortly. ‘I have to make an arrangement on his behalf, Jerott. He would like to visit you later.’
‘Tomorrow?’ said Jerott. He remembered what Marthe had suggested. ‘About six of the clock would suit best, if he can manage it. I expect you are all busy this evening.’
The nostalgia, for a moment, must have shown. ‘Danny is busy,’ said Adam cheerfully, ‘but I’m not as it happens. And I must say, I’ve a thirst that a Cossack would envy.’
*
Which was how, when my lord of Lymond and Sevigny came to recross the bridge to his lodging, Adam Blacklock was not in the procession; nor were Jerott Blyth or his wife this time anywhere in the vicinity. On the other hand, the Captain-General was receiving the fullest attention of his banker, a heavily built gentleman gowned in black who, riding by his side, had become gently insistent that Mr Crawford should visit the Hôtel Schiatti with him.
Riding within earshot, behind the hundred men at arms, the servants and the finance officials, Danny Hislop deduced that Lymond was not interested in his bank balance, or in the papers which M. Schiatti apparently thought it his duty to look at.
Nor, it became further clear, did he wish to discuss his future plans with M. Schiatti, or even to enlarge on his curious situation vis-à-vis his wife. Danny sympathized with M. Schiatti, who appeared to be sitting on a sizeable fortune belonging to somebody whose sole ambition was to remove himself and it from the country as soon as its rulers would let him. For a moment Danny wondered why Lymond didn’t arrest the conversation more sharply, and then realized, with admiration, what reassurance the burghers would draw from it. The King’s commander had money in Lyon; and was leaving it there.
They were crossing the bridge. Bracketed by the sunlit river, the low green hill before them rose from a confection of tender bisque buildings, deeply lit by the afternoon glow. They lined the river like marquetry and sank melting into the china-blue water in a gloss of towers and gables and galleries. Upriver a handful of skiffs floated, newly painted, at the steps of Saint-Eloi.
On the bridge a horse plunged, a little ahead of Danny Hislop. He thought, but did not say so, that perhaps the rotting heads had upset it. There were people here too, watching them pass from the parapets: shopkeepers, clergy, housewives, children. A scattered cheer rose as the main party, with himself in it, rode by. He could not discover in it anything particularly ironical.
Another horse reared far ahead, and there was a clatter of hooves, a flash of morions and some controlled explosions of the human voice among the orderly percussion of trotting horses as the near-by riders were inconvenienced by it. Without interrupting M. Schiatti’s discourse Lymond turned his head and, meeting the look, Danny Hislop moved unobtrusively away and spoke to the captain of arquebusiers, who broke rank and rode quickly forwards. It was not a wide bridge. One did not, at this point in a campaign, want an accident among the proletariat.
Danny returned to his position just behind Lymond. He had just got there when his saddle dropped from his buttocks. His horse was bucking. Shaken loose, Danny whacked at it, hurtling forward. He was still going forward when it reared, smashing his nose against its neck and tearing the reins from his fingers. He was half off, swearing in Russian with tears and blood pouring down his face, when someone gripped the bridle and the animals on either side converged on him.
One of the riders was Lymond, his gloved hand running along the horse’s belly. He pulled, and Danny exclaimed again, his glove palming his face, as his horse bucked