Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [58]
Lymond watched them judicially, calling out strikes and setting off each barrel at the required angle. Towards the end he found some boules and bounced them down as well: they hailed upon barrels and footpads and trilled, with ringing reproach, on the rising helmets of the pikemen beyond them.
‘As Snailes do wast within the shel
And unto slime do run
As one before his tyme that fel
And never saw the sunne …
‘Whoops! That was Adam,’ said Francis Crawford, watching open-eyed the progress of his latest invention. ‘Serve him bloody well right. Syne Sweirness, at the secound bidding, Came lyk a sow out of a midding. Am I running about; are you running about so that the fat officers of the Christian Crown of France can lie in the Hôtel de Gouvernement, taking advantage of the wife of the Maréchal? Mind you,’ and he chose a spot at the top of the steps and sat down, surveying the scene with continuing interest, ‘no one could say that we hadn’t brought ourselves now to the attention of this majestic metropolis.’
Philippa sat down as well rather weakly, and watched. The barrels, trundling down, had done their worst with the miscreants and were now cutting swathes through the rescue team. The boules, flashing in the new torchlight, ricocheted still from step to wall to other less fortunate targets. She saw Adam, getting up, fend off another just before it capsized him and Danny Hislop, behind, caper hurriedly. She further realized that what she was seeing was not the effect of miscalculation.
Perched beside her, a clutch of gaming balls in his lap, Francis Crawford was making his own strictures felt with all the artistry of a practising juggler. Danny, sweetly struck on a fine point of balance, disappeared as she made her discovery and the sergeant, a man of some presence, flung his arms up and tumbled back, shouting. Restored at a stroke, Philippa cheered and jumped to her feet, seizing a boule as she did so. She aimed, and shied.
Melodiously, Lymond supported her: ‘And eek the buttokes of hem faren as it were the hyndre part of a she-ape in the full of the moone.’ His voice was husky with laughter. ‘Go on. The one with the beard. He’s an Anglophobe if ever I saw one.’
The one with the beard disappeared. Behind him, in slow succession disappeared also the Prévôt des Marchands and the column of officials and magistrates who had been mounting the ruelle behind him.
Whooping, Lymond sprang to his feet and in his face was child and man; Kuzúm and Francis Crawford; triumph and mischief and a ridiculous, thoughtless delight that made her seize his hands and fling them apart and say, ‘Francis! Francis, you fool. This is what you should be!’
A cock crew, far away, disturbed by the uproar.
And as in that grotesque shrouded room, the air deadened. The noise below her sank into dumbness; the colours faded; the brightness dwindled and perished in ashes.
‘What a very uncomfortable remark,’ Lymond said. His face, from wholly blank, became blankly benignant. He said, ‘Perhaps I should. I’m afraid I am more like Abraham. A godly man, you remember, but the denial of his wife … was such a fact as no godly man ought to imitate.’
He stopped. His fingers, courteous prisoners, remained suspended inside her grasp, clearly desiring freedom but unwilling to impose it.
Philippa opened her hands and released him; and as if she had once more restored him his tongue he went on, with gentle apology. ‘But I am no godly man. I’m only a commander of some experience, who knows how to ask a tired army to throw its heart into a citadel and follow it. Forgive me.’
He straightened. ‘Here is Archie. And, good God, the Schiatti cousins, a bouquet in one hand and a bell in the other. They will see you safely home.’ He smiled at her. ‘Clever child. Even for a Somerville, my dear, it was an irresistible performance.’
He smiled