Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [14]
Philippa drew a deep breath, and found relief in expelling it. ‘Do you think,’ she said carefully, ‘that someone is going to be goaded into doing something soon?’
There was a long pause. ‘I think,’ said Jerott at length, equally carefully, ‘that someone is going to the court of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, and someone else is going to Flaw Valleys, England, to Mother.’
Which summed it up, Philippa supposed, with regret.
For their stay in Lyons, Onophrion had hired a house, on Lymond’s instructions. As with every domestic arrangement on the entire journey, the controller’s dispositions were perfect. The house, in three chic carved wooden storeys with its own courtyard, was well staffed and admirable. Even more admirable was the discovery that the clothes, the household linen and even the mattresses packed under Onophrion’s direction for the sumpter-mules had survived their swim in the Rhône quite intact.
The food, it became obvious, was Onophrion’s dearest care; but his search for the finest tailors and cloth-makers was meticulous, and soon his special task, that of suitably dressing the men-at-arms and attendants of a Special Envoy of France, was on its rich and orderly way. Only just in time did the Special Envoy, leaving the house with Jerott, catch and stop Onophrion on the verge of purchasing ells of cramoisy velvet, violet satin and cascades of gold bullion to be made into clothing for the Special Envoy himself. ‘No! No. The prayer of Job upon the dunghill was as good as Paul’s in the temple. I shall choose what I want for myself.’
Master Zitwitz inclined his head. ‘I have gone too far. Forgive me. I wished only to save time. If I have the best—only the best—cloths and laces set out for you, would you give yourself the trouble of choosing? I shall appoint the tailors to come as you wish. Also, M. le Comte may require jewels?’ It was a sore point that, whatever Lymond’s possessions might be, Salablanca had charge of them.
‘Do I require jewels?’ asked Francis Crawford, of the air. ‘Let us ask M. Gaultier.’ His eyes wide, he turned, catching Jerott’s sour grin. ‘Think!’ said Lymond. ‘Breeches! Bangles! A Hairy Alpenrose in dimity ruffles! … Don’t you wish you were going as well?’
‘I wish we were going to Gaultier’s,’ Jerott said evenly. ‘We’ll be late.’ And waited while, smiling, Lymond finished buckling his sword, flung a cloak over his right shoulder and slithering downstairs, crossed the courtyard to join him.
The rue Mercière, Lyons, where rested the unique horological spinet, the King of France’s gift to the Sultan Suleiman, was not far away. With the spinet was its maker, Georges Gaultier, usurer, clockmaker and dealer in antiquities, who in pursuit of his fortunes had several establishments the length and breadth of France, in two of which he had had the doubtful pleasure of entertaining Francis Crawford before.
Jerott knew this. He also knew, from sources in Scotland, a little more than Lymond would expect about Georges Gaultier’s permanent house-guest. Crossing the narrow threshold in the rue Mercière he viewed without enthusiasm Maître Gaultier’s fleshless frame, sallow skin and general air of liberal neglect, not helped by his attitude of qualified interest. Egypt, Syria, Armenia, Arabia Felix or otherwise, were to him as familiar, Jerott gathered, as the castle at Blois. He made only cursory mention of his previous meetings with M. le Comte de Sevigny, and betrayed no excitement over the present one. He settled a date for crating the spinet, now finished, and a further date on which the crate, accompanied by himself and assistant, would join M. de Sevigny—or did he wish to be called M. de Lymond?—to sail by river from Lyons to Marseilles.
Lymond said pleasantly, ‘Let’s keep the title until we have to impress somebody. I should also like you and your assistant to call on me at least a week before we embark. We shall be together for a long time. You should