Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [77]
An argument developed between a rôtisseur and a man in an apron over which purveyor was losing most through the adjectival decree that food prices had to stay where they were, on pain of whipping; not to mention the order that wine for the bastion workmen was to cost no more than two liards—two liards!—a pint. The man in the apron pointed out, thickly, that bloody cook-shops supplying bloody food to bloody pioneers at their workings could claim exemption from their whole bloody tribute, while the scare lasted.
The rôtisseur drew to his attention, coldly, the fact that some bloody crocheteurs didn’t ever pay tribute anyway.
Words passed. M. de Sevigny supported the rôtisseur and won the argument, since he turned out to have a better acquaintance than anybody with the chapter and verse of the regulations. Which was not surprising, since he had devised them himself, with the penalties.
After cordial leave-taking the party moved on, but not very quickly. There were men-at-arms still by the river. Dazed, half drunk with spiced wine and fatigue and tension at four o’clock on a September morning, Catherine d’Albon found herself and her mother seated on stools in a bakehouse, watching three arguing men compare methods of kneading. With drunken indignation, M. de Sevigny had refused to produce loaves for a rival. On the block, however, stood three wrought lumps of dough in the happy likeness of M. le Prévôt des Marchands, M. le Prévôt-Général de la Connétablie, and Monseigneur the Cardinal of Lorraine, with his hat on. M. de Sevigny supervised their consignment to the ovens, was embraced by all present and drifted off after Moses, who was making discreet signs from the doorway.
The quay was empty, and at the foot of the steps was the Collège de St Barbe’s green and white boat, with the oars mysteriously already in situ. Moses said, ‘Can you manage, sir?’
‘This night,’ said Lymond, ‘how can we fail? Wonderfully enriched with shining miracles in confusion of heresy and error. It seems difficult to thank you adequately. I can only say that you have done more than you know. Your father has something to give you. And I want you to take this. If on account of what you have done tonight you or your father are troubled by the authorities, show them the ring and ask them to find me. My name is Francis Crawford, and my brother and I studied at St Barbe.’
‘I know that,’ said Moses. He took the ring, and stood, the broad grin stamped on his features. ‘It is true what you did to all the Professors’ boots?’
Lymond stared at him. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’m afraid it is.’
‘Is it true about the mathematical proposition you placed before Orontius Finnaeus that spelt …’
‘I don’t know how you heard about it,’ said M. de Sevigny. ‘Perhaps you had better not tell me what else you know about my misspent youth.’
Moses said, ‘When the ladies of the rue Glatigny were invited …?’
‘That,’ said M. de Sevigny, ‘is what I meant. We have to go. A thousand thanks, Moses.’
They had rowed half-way over the Seine before Moses stopped waving from behind the flood wall and went off, presumably home. Lymond steered them past the Mint watermill and up to the steps at the Tour du Coin, where they had to face an interrogation from the special guard Lymond himself had put on the waterway. The Maréchale’s valet de chambre, primed on the way over, told the tale about returning late to the bakehouse, and they