Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [290]
It came in the livery of the royal household and in the form of a troop of bright-armoured horsemen who swept through the royal town of Blois and the vineyards beyond in the trembling heat, and arrived at the château just as the man they were seeking walked down the steps, his fair hair glittering in the sun. Behind him, a young girl with long brown hair in a light silk berline paused and stood still as they dismounted and the leader, a gentleman of the King’s bedchamber and therefore a courtier of some considerable distinction, came forward.
‘I am glad to see you, M. de Sevigny. I bear you greetings from His Most Christian Majesty.’
This was a different matter from the cheerful exhortations of his fellow-commanders, and all of those present perceived it. When, presently, the King’s representative was established indoors with his hosts he lost no time in delivering his message.
‘I am to bring you news of the fall of Thionville. It was taken by the Duke de Guise on the 22nd, after a siege of great hardship, and it means that the army may now march north through Luxembourg with good prospects. His Majesty forgives your recent defection. He reminds you that in times such as these, the fulfilment of a gentleman’s duty to his king and his Order is a matter of honour. His Majesty therefore refuses all your demissions and requires you instead to present yourself within three weeks to the lieutenant-general of his army. In earnest of which, and of His Majesty’s love and good feeling towards you, I am to offer you this.’
Across his two palms the King’s representative held an oblong case of gilt leather, stamped with the lilies of France and clasped in gold with the cipher of Valois. M. le comte de Sevigny, rising, accepted it, and placing it on the table, unfastened and laid back the cover.
Inside, banded with gold, was the staff of a Marshal of France.
The girl made a small sound. The comte de Sevigny did not speak at all, with good reason. In France, only four men could hold this office under their Constable, and four men currently did, to his knowledge.
So my lord of Sevigny, his hands on either side of the case, showed no joy but instead broke silence curtly. ‘Whose, Monsieur? Whose is the bâton?’
And so, regretfully, the courier answered him. ‘It belonged, Monseigneur, to Marshal Strozzi. He was killed at Thionville on the 20th.’
*
It was Philippa who suggested the day after that, when she knew he had not slept at all, that they should ride south-west to the château of Onzain and visit Lord Grey in his captivity.
Any wish of hers was his also, effortlessly as two pools of a brook reaching parity. She knew he was aware of the reason. That morning, drawn from her own restless bed by her anxiety, she had found him there, within sight of her chamber, waiting as he had done every dawn in those early weeks, restoring to her the gift of his presence.
But this time, unlike those first cruel mornings, she had had to remind herself not to react naturally: by taking his hands as Kate would have done, or offering him the warmth of speechless comfort, as he must have known it once, one supposed, from Sybilla.
That way, that sunlit, gentle path was set with mines, and had at the end of it a chasm she could not contemplate. So she hid her impulse, and did not know, because he was better at concealment than she, that he had noticed it.
*
They had once before called at the old moated château of Onzain, set for four hundred years by the Loire on its ridge overlooking the watermeadows.
That had been when she first found casual talk possible: conversations with Nick Applegarth and his steward; encounters with folk on the farms of Sevigny and in the gardens. That was when Francis had brought in, little by little, other elements to replace the first, steady bulwark of the written word, and his presence, all her waking moments