Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [162]
The herald was Alec Ross. He had his tabard on by the time Lymond dismounted, had walked through the line of servants into the archway and there paused, to hear his formal welcome. He saw, without looking, that shutters were open everywhere and windows crowded. The maître d’hotel added a few formal phrases and a succession of apologies. The sieur de Fors had not expected their lordships to come from Paris until Sunday. At that very moment, the Lieutenant-Governor was entertaining the Commissioners and their train to a banquet at the Écu de France … a modified banquet, of course, in view of the sad bereavements which the Commission had recently suffered.…
He had no idea—why should he?—that the comte de Sevigny was Richard Crawford’s younger brother. It was left to Alec Ross to interrupt, pallid with distress. ‘I have to tell you, my lord, that it was a terrible shock to us all. The Lyon and all the Commission would want me to tell you. Two shiploads drowned, and they can’t even name all the dead.’
The deferential circle in the courtyard moved closer. Under the watching windows Lymond said, ‘How many men did they rescue?’
‘None, my lord count,’ said the herald. ‘Aside from the two earls and the Bishop of Orkney. Your lordship realizes that none of the households could swim. It was a fishing boat coming by later that found the three, supporting the lady.’
The vice of pride serves its purpose at times. So, after two heartbeats, Lymond said, ‘The news which reached Paris was incomplete. Was the Dowager Lady Culter among the survivors?’
‘Why. I beg your … My lord … You didn’t know?’ said Alec Ross. ‘My lord count, yes. She’s not strong; she’s resting, but she’s in the house there now. I thought you knew!’ said Ross Herald, horror in his worthy face.
‘No. But perhaps then, I might be allowed to visit her,’ said the comte de Sevigny. ‘I am, as you may know, Francis Crawford.’
A scattered cheer rose from the courtyard, as the most ornamental of the victors of Calais walked into the house of Jean Ango. For once he did not respond, although he heard it.
What forces he might still possess he must harbour for another purpose. Of the three children Sybilla had reared, he was the only one living. This time, whatever one’s instincts might be, one did not turn on one’s heel and walk past her.
*
Put him, blindfold, into a closed room anywhere in the world, and he could tell if Sybilla was with him. It had to do, perhaps, with her scent. To him, it was more: a breath from the sweetness and peace of his childhood; a sense of light; of understanding; of loving amusement; an air from the flower-filled walls of pairidza.
Nothing, even now, took from him that first moment as he stood on her threshold. Until the second moment came, and with it his years and his memory. He closed the door, and then turned calmly and looked for her.
He had thought to find her shrouded in shawls, in a chair or in bed, and fortified by companions and serving women. Instead she was alone, playing idly with cards against the grey wintry light from the windows. A charcoal brazier glowed on the polished wood of the floor, and candles bloomed by the warm woollen hangings and the wainscoting, lighting the studs on the coffers and chairs, the toolings of books, the spotless stiffened veil on Sybilla’s snow-fair hair, and her fine skin, and the rings on the small hands touching the cards. Then she looked up, and waited.
Which was unfair. In the last five years they had met only once, and then not to speak to one another. And so little had changed: the delicate face, the gentian blue eyes were as he remembered them. Her gaze on him held nothing but repose. But then, he had asked to be received. She had known for a few moments that he was coming, and from her window had perhaps even seen him arrive. His skin and hair were damp from the swift grooming he had contrived for himself, but he could do nothing about the