Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [32]
‘That was Marthe’s share in the discussion,’ Lymond said. ‘I merely sat displaying passive resistance. If I may put it so crudely: should I wish satisfaction, I hardly need to resort to my wife.’
‘Then why are you still here?’ demanded Jerott. He sat, his face blurred with claret, peering at Francis Crawford in the dusk. ‘Devil take it, you were overlord of a country. You had the Tsar and his minions running pecking like poultry, so Adam says. Why don’t you go back? Or are you waiting to force that girl back with you?’
Wildly, Lymond stared at him. Then he turned, and in an explosion of breath slapped his hands on the sideboard and rested his weight over them. Crusts of wax, jarred from the candles, lay about him. He said softly, unlocking each separate syllable, ‘I am trying to go back. I thought, believe it or not, that nothing could stop me from going back. I was wrong. Marthe has stopped me. She suggested to the French that my divorce should be withheld unless I fight for them.’
He looked at Marthe as did her husband, his mouth a little open. ‘Mother of God,’ said Jerott Blyth stormily.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said a firm voice from the doorway. A wash of light brought clarity suddenly into the darkening room and bestowed a robust chestnut gloss on the bare head of Philippa Somerville entering with another candlestick in one hand. She advanced, aiming the flame at her husband and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Do I gather you stayed in France because of a bargain?’
Lymond turned round and laid his hands on the edge of the sideboard. Then he looked at his step-sister.
‘Yes,’ said Marthe and stayed precisely where she was, sitting on the low stool, staring with curling lip at her husband. ‘I suggested it to Piero Strozzi. They say the Tsar is power-mad. By the end of a year, there will be no controlling him, or the Russian army. There is little chance of it now. That is why Adam and his other captains have been trying so hard to prevent Francis from leading them to disaster. And why his wife has conspired to keep him in West Europe also. Is it not allowed,’ said Marthe dulcetly, ‘for a sister to protect her brother?’
Philippa set down the candlestick with a thump. ‘Is that true? You’re here only because they won’t give you a divorce otherwise?’
‘I’m sorry. Are you insulted?’ said Lymond.
‘Why do you want a divorce?’ said Philippa bluntly.
Stricken silent, three by no means inarticulate people looked at her. Then Lymond, speaking carefully, said, ‘Because, I assume, you would prefer to be free.’
Philippa’s clear brow wrinkled, and then smoothed again. ‘I suppose I should,’ she said. ‘But on the other hand, the Pope is old and I’m in no particular hurry. Was that the only reason?’
‘No,’ said Lymond. The double candlelight underlit his hair and his eyes and his cheekbones, all of them untrustworthy evidence. Philippa, from long experience, watched his hands, long-fingered and resilient, pressed hard on the walnut frieze of the sideboard. He removed them. He said, ‘In this far from seemly conversation, I suppose I had better bring in the name of Güzel.’
‘Yes. Well, we all know about Güzel,’ Philippa said. ‘But you told me once you didn’t intend her to have any children. So why after all this time feel bound to marry her? Wouldn’t she have you without it?’
‘Yes. Do tell us,’ said Marthe with interest. ‘Wouldn’t she have you without it?’
There was a brief silence. Francis Crawford said to his wife, ‘I am not sure if I follow you. Am I to assume that you are willing to dispense with a divorce if I wish to escape from France and find my way after all to Russia? I am, of course, delighted. Only the change of policy is, may I say, a little tardy?