Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [78]
By then the Maréchale de St André was almost sober. Standing in her own hall, she spoke to her valet de chambre: a word of commendation, a word of future rewards. Then, with her daughter, she entered the warmth and the light of her parlour.
Francis Crawford, his hat pulled off, and one hand easing over his brow, was listening to one of his own men reporting. There was an exchange of words, and then he turned and crossed to his hostess. ‘There have been no alarms. Someone called, but went away when told we were sleeping. And there is good news from the battlefront. King Philip is staying in Saint-Quentin. It looks, mesdames, as if you will not have to learn either Spanish or English.’
‘I know English,’ said Catherine. Her mother, on first entering the light, had whipped off the tight cap and patting her hair, had begun to loosen the strings of her apron. Catherine stood as she was, face to face with François, comte de Sevigny, and looked at him.
His hat loose in his hand, Lymond returned the look pensively. ‘I rather thought that you did,’ he said. ‘But tonight I think that French would capture it better:
‘Ce Christ empistolé, tout noircy de fumèe
Qui comme un Mahomet va tenant en la main
Un large coutelas, rouge du sang humain.
‘It was written by a Catholic against Lutherans, but it applies very well the other way also.’ He looked from one to the other of his protégées. ‘The City is armed: it is nervous after Saint-Quentin; and any country which has suffered a reverse of fortune instantly turns on its nonconformists. Don’t attend such gatherings again, madame, mademoiselle, until the climate is safer.’
The Maréchale said, ‘How can we thank you?’ with a throb in her voice. ‘You too.… You too, M. de Sevigny, are a Calvinist?’
‘Don’t answer,’ said Catherine.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said Lymond mildly. ‘I happen to agree with More, that no man shall be blamed for reasoning in the maintenance of his own religion. But that has little bearing on tonight’s episode. Half the violence was caused by crowd-madness, and half, as I have said, by fear of the enemy.’
‘Who are of the same religion as themselves,’ Catherine said. ‘Is it true that the Christian King is making a new alliance with the Ottoman Turks, who are Mohammedans?’
‘He is hoping for one,’ Lymond said. ‘Of course, to be cynical is the natural state of a courtier. For the other thing, you would have to look at the Hôtel Bétourné tonight, for example.’
‘You find that gratifying? But then,’ said Catherine, ‘should such meetings not continue? And should women of rank not attend them, to affirm their faith in public if necessary; and if necessary die for it?’
‘Of course,’ said Lymond placidly, ‘there is no missionary as persuasive as death. The Church knows that already. The Church would meet martyrdom by inviting the Inquisition to Paris. The Crown and the people might very well meet it by massacre. Bloodless reformation requires a very delicate sense of statesmanship and timing, and rarely receives it. Praying, on the other hand, can be done at any time.’
He smiled suddenly; and Madame la Maréchale, her eyes half-closed with fatigue, smiled vaguely back. Catherine d’Albon said, ‘What prayers do you suggest?’
‘In English?’ Lymond said. ‘I don’t know. What about one from Geneva?’
She wondered for a moment whether he would break into song, as he had on the wild journey home, with her mother’s chamber valet. But he merely put his hand on the doorlatch and spoke the words gently, and without the cynicism he had spoken of:
‘And from the sword (Lord) save my soule
By thy myght and power;
And keepe my soule, thy darling deare,
From dogs that would devour.
And from the Lion’s mouth that would
Me all in sunder shiver
And from the homes of Unicornes
Lord safely me deliver.’
She had followed it all, her lips moving. ‘And from the horns …’
‘… of Unicorns, Lord safely you deliver. Sleep well. Good night,’ he said; and left,