Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [65]
Their last call, in darkness, was to the ramparts. Accompanied this time by a group of officials from the Arsenal, a pair of gunners and an Italian engineer called Batiste, they walked out through the Porte Saint-Denis and, crossing the water by torchlight, took up a position by the Priory of Saint-Lazarus.
They were to see an artillery demonstration, Jerott was told, about which the citizens had been warned before couvre-feu. Against the last pale staining of sunset he could see pricks of light in the tall, turreted portals of the gate, Porte de deuil, Porte de joie, and its heroic St George and the dragon. Men, small and black, moved along the ramparts on either side among the angular barrels of the artillery.
Jerott felt unsafe, on the flat ground below. It was an unusual position from which to judge the success of a bombardment. He felt even more unsafe when abruptly, a marigold of bright fire blossomed high in the firmament and was followed by the flat clap of sound from a cannon.
Since no one else ran, he remained where he was, controlling a wince as a second, third and fourth explosion followed almost at once, and then a string of others on either side of him. The night filled with spangled grey smoke, and with whorls of flame which burst in the air, and lay and shuddered below in the ditch water.
He counted eighty cannon, and then eighty more salvoes as they were recharged and fired almost immediately. Wheeling birds filled the sky, and every child, dog, goose, sheep, goat and chicken in Paris and out of it gave tongue, but unlike the proving of Jean Maugué’s bombard, no bloody cloud of arms, legs and heads had risen to heaven: Priés pour l’âme de Jean Maugué, qui nouvellement est allé de vie à trespas entre le Ciel et la terre, au service du Roi notre Sire.
Lymond appeared to be pleased. The voices of his companions, thin in the deafening silence, were raised in praise and ejaculation. There was more talk, and people began to disperse. Lymond, appearing, said, ‘Having achieved the condition of una miseria di speranza piena, I think we may consider the day’s business concluded. Has thow, Foly, ane wyfe at hame? If Archie calls to tell her you are well, will you spare me a moment at the Hôtel St André? I shall entertain you with a gloss on my cannon.’
It was the invitation, seven hours too late, that Jerott had been waiting for. If he sat down now to talk about anything, he would most likely fall asleep. He hesitated. A set of fingers closed on his elbow and a voice he recognized as Archie’s said, ‘Go and hae your clack. I’ll tell Mistress Marthe you’ll come later.’
One of Archie’s more powerful hints. Removing his arm and rubbing it, Jerott said, ‘All right. Thank you. Did you say the Hôtel St André?’
Undisturbed, Lymond answered him. ‘The home of the Maréchale and her nubile daughter. It’s quite near you, on the other side of the Porte de Montmartre. As in the poem. C’est du vin de Montmartre Qui en boit pinte, en pisse quarte.’
They were on their way there already, with the Watch walking beside them. Archie had vanished. Since the atmosphere seemed fairly emancipated Jerott said, ‘And the Marshal is still a prisoner? Doesn’t that present certain interesting problems?’
‘I don’t know about problems,’ Lymond said. ‘It certainly presents certain interesting opportunities: the air is heady with alacritas. But recalling our rank, we are behaving ourselves with unimpeachable purity.
‘In any case, the d’Albon girl is at odds with her mother. She will court whom she must; she will marry where she has to; but none of the arts taught to young girls by duchesses can conceal the fact that she despises us. You, too. Archie mentioned you were coming. She thinks you have broken Catholic faith with your