Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [207]
It sounded innocuous. Late in life, Richard had begun to master the game played so well by his younger brother. But Philippa, who had Lymond for her fencing-master, saw suddenly through it. He had been told of her attachment, and was probing it.
In the seraglio, one learned the trappings, at least, of a golden diplomacy. ‘Not in the least,’ Philippa said. ‘But le mal preveu ne donne pas grand coup, as they say. Perhaps he will mend his manners now that the Bishops are here, and God will come with feet of wool, surprise him asleep, and waken him with an iron arm. Archie won’t like it at all.’ Who had hinted at the state of her feelings for Lymond? Jerott, maybe. She knew Jerott had called on Sybilla.
But it was not Jerott. Lymond had seen what was happening; and softer footed than God, was standing behind Richard Crawford, speaking gently. ‘Everything she says is a lie, and the arm of iron which pushed me into Catherine d’Albon’s embraces did not belong, I would have you know, to the Deity.’
He stared straight at Philippa. ‘I tried to convince my furious friends you had a weakness for me.’
Damn him. Damn him for letting her down—in what drunken access of fury? And damn him for insisting now, belatedly, on redeeming it. Philippa said, ‘If I had, I grew out of it early. Like the Etrurian mule who ate hemlock, any poor ass seduced by a Crawford——’ She broke off abruptly, remembering.
‘… is apt to wake flayed alive,’ Lymond finished. He had himself well in hand. Archie was right as usual. He said blandly, ‘You can’t be expected to recall the fate of each of my mistresses. Even Richard gets muddled up sometimes. Why don’t you call on Austin Grey instead of corresponding with him? You won’t meet me. Like yourself, I seem to be permanently occupied with other people’s errors of judgement.’
He was correct: fear of meeting him was the main reason which had kept her from the Hôtel d’Hercule. But not, as he must suppose, because of the manner of their last meeting. The others had moved away, leaving Lymond and herself for a moment standing together. She said, conscious this time of being under an undiluted and possibly suspicious regard, ‘Tell Austin I haven’t forgotten. I shall call on him presently.’
‘He will be deeply moved, while preserving a gentlemanly fortitude. You could either marry him here,’ Lymond said, ‘or go home with him two days after the Dauphin’s wedding. In any case, leave instructions for Willie Grey’s ransom. Advise the Queen when you are going. And write to Kate. She thinks I am keeping you in Paris instead of vice versa.’
‘There are times,’ said Philippa shortly, ‘when I feel like the entire Russian army.’
‘There are times,” said Lymond equally shortly, ‘when I wish that you were. It would solve the whole Tartar problem and save Ottoman Turkey for Jesus.’
‘My dear Mr Crawford! Caelum, non animos mutant, qui trans mare corrunt. So near dissolution, and still bickering!’
The voice, a sacerdotal one, came from behind her. She recognized it, but would not entertain it. Lymond, on the other hand, not only identified the owner but took steps to deal with him. ‘Why, naturally, my dear Master Elder. Chi Asino va a Roma, Asino se ne torna. Have you not preserved your habitual qualities? And how is your sweet charge, and the Countess of Lennox?’
The Countess of Lennox.
An ambitious and powerful woman, who has been the downfall of more than one comely youth in her day. Such as a fair, haunted child of sixteen, with a French degree and his first major battle behind him.
She had known of the association. She had not known how it began. And looking at the worldly courtier smiling beside her, she wondered if Lymond had forgotten. She turned.
Master John Elder was secretary to Lady Lennox, and her son’s tutor. Philippa