Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [60]
What had to be done now was obvious, even if the King had not sent to command it. Until help came, Lyon must rely on its present small force under Adam himself backed by Hislop. And Lymond must go to Paris, where the court, fled from Compiègne, was to entrench itself.
For in the absence of captains and Constable, of de Guise and Strozzi in Italy, of de Thermes and Brissac in Piedmont, there was no one left to save France, if the King of Spain marched upon Paris.
Adam thought, his face sombre, of Fergie Hoddim and Alec Guthrie. And of the contrivance which had sent Lymond away from the King’s eye in the first place, and which now looked like bringing him the rôle of saviour of France which the Constable and the Duke de Guise had both coveted. To stand at the side of this monarch as he had stood by the Tsar. And to face, in the oddest upshot of all, an English army under Lord Grey of Wilton.
Five minutes’ rest was all Adam could afford, and he was already on his feet when yet another summons came from de Sevigny, brought this time by Danny, curtly efficient, with none of his usual ebullience. He did not know what Lymond wanted, or who was with him on this occasion. Adam shut the windows against the beat of the bells, and went off soberly.
In the event there was no one there at all but Lymond himself, seated as he had been all morning at his desk in front of the tall latticed windows, the motionless heart of the hurricane. Round him, the scattered benches and stools were now vacant. And against the wall, neatly stacked, were the leather bags, the boxes, the coffers ready strapped for the journey to Paris. His desk was empty, and the extra candles extinguished. Embedded, flinty and pure as a cameo against the dark boards of his chair-back Lymond said, ‘Shut the door. I have four questions to ask you.’
Three of them concerned recent orders and, thank God, he had excellent answers. The fourth stemmed from the impending visit of Catherine, heiress of the captured St André, who would require to return north with her mother.
Five minutes sufficed to dispose of it all. Adam rose. There was nothing more to be said. It was a moment of crisis, and war their métier. He was half-way to the door when Lymond spoke again. ‘By the way. Who brought me home early this morning?’
So there was something more to be said. His voice neutral: ‘Archie,’ he answered. ‘Helped by your friend Macé Bonhomme the printer. There were no spectators. Archie sent a message ahead and Danny and I opened the door to the three of you.’
‘Thank you. Where is Archie?’ said Lymond.
‘He called back ten minutes ago. Do you want to see him?’ asked Adam.
From the square below came all the clatter and cursing and stamping of a body of men saddling up for an expedition. The tolling bells, near and far, slipped through the hubbub. Two of Lymond’s household, tapping, were permitted to enter and began, without wasting time, to carry out all the baggage. Lymond looked at the hour glass. He said, ‘I can give him five minutes.’
Adam went out. By the time he found Archie Abernethy and pushed his way back through the turmoil, the last of Lymond’s luggage was out and Adam saw that the hour glass was empty. In civil warning: ‘Watch out,’ he observed to his colleague, and closing the door, left Archie to Lymond’s cold mercy.
Had he stayed, he would have heard Lymond say nothing.
Instead it was Archie who stood inside the door, lips tight and naked head glaring and said, ‘Ye senseless bluidy tup-heidit madman!’ with venom.
Seated still at his desk, his hands loose on the smooth oak before him, Francis Crawford did not answer; nor did he interrupt the long tirade that followed. Only when it was finished did he say, without lifting his eyes, ‘You make your point. Who else was at Macé Bonhomme’s?’
Archie Abernethy, without looking, sat down on the stool just beside him. ‘Of course. Ye were blind …’
‘Of course. You know how much I drank better than I do. Who