Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [176]
He slept until wakened by the rumble of iron wheels and the sharp clap of hooves underscored by the tinkle of harness bells, as the fish wagons set off again under his windows. He lay for a long time watching the amber glare of each passing lantern, and the patterned light traverse the roof-beams.
Some day, he supposed, the faculties by which he lived would not all return to him. It would put a convenient term on many things, and in the meantime he saw no reason to dwell on it. In two months the royal wedding would be over, and with it, the Commissioners’ stay and his own contracted duties in France.
Lethargy both mental and physical sent him to sleep again presently, and next time he awoke in broad daylight, with a savoury smell of hot food in the air and Martine seated picturesquely on a stool by the blazing hearth, smiling at him.
She was wearing the pearls he had once given her. He smiled back, and held out his hand to her; and when she came deftly to his side, gathered her scented hair in his palm during the long interval of her embrace.
Her lips were warm and flexible, and her skin smelt of lilywater and not of the heavy, dizzying aromatics of the East. He avoided responding, because that was his intention, but he did not disengage first. It was Martine who, withdrawing her knowledgeable, courteous hands, placed them one on each side of his uncovered throat and, studying him, said, ‘What you cannot say to your confessor, you can tell to me. What is it you want?’
He had not deceived her. But then, he had not expected to. He lifted his own hands and interlaced the fingers smoothly with hers. ‘Nothing you can give me this time,’ he said. ‘Except perhaps your general sympathy. Par temperance ay acquis grand renom; Cyncinnatus Quintus est mon vray nom.’
She moved away and sat still, her eyes thoughtful, one hand still in his. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘it is a woman. And at last, at last the right woman, mon fils?’
One might not wish to answer but one did not, with Martine, commit the solecism of avoiding her gaze. He said, ‘It is a good thing to have friends, says the proverb, but they are unfortunate who are compelled to make use of them. It is best, ma belle, if you know nothing about it. Forgive me.’
Martine said, ‘You may have had temperance once. You do not have it now.’
She looked at him soberly. ‘I shall not kiss you like that again. And I shall not ask you her name. But tell her, from me, not to make you wait any longer. Last night, you were ill.’
‘Honest woman,’ he said, and lifting her hand, kissed the fingers and held them briefly, smiling. ‘There is no need to blame anyone. I had saddled myself, like the callowest law-clerk, with an impossible ride. My blisters will mend with my vanity … Tell me about Hélène Bouchard.’
‘What do you wish to know?’ Martine said. ‘She is a draper’s widow who likes to entertain Scotsmen. Her last guest was a writer. You can see, if you look, some of his work on that table. And Lord James and Master Erskine, the Scots Commissioners who had you brought here yesterday, are awaiting politely below to talk to you.’
‘Qui maudit soit les pieds d’escot, Et les pieds d’escots qui les suivent … They are friends of yours?’ Lymond said.
‘They are; but they need be none of yours unless you want it. I saw you in trouble, and I knew this house was near and they could bring you here. The Governor has been told you are being entertained for a single night privately. Should we have said you were indisposed?’
‘Would he have believed you?’ Lymond said.
She smiled, her handsome eyes watching him. ‘Perhaps not. Your reputation has preceded you. You had perhaps better express an interest in