Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [62]
Philippa climbed down their rotten ladder and sat in their rotten caique and swallowed her tears all the way across to the ship of M. Leone Strozzi, Prior of Capua and Knight Hospitaller of the Order of St John.
Coming on deck a little time later, Marthe had none of Philippa’s compunction. She stopped in the captain’s doorway, and studied, smiling a little, the ruined table within, and the man lying stupefied in the shadows. In his turn, watching her from where he leaned, arms folded, against the dark panelling, Lymond spoke. ‘You wanted to see me?’
She covered her mistake like a veteran. For a moment the blue eyes widened and the clear brow ridged in something like a genuine alarm. Then, irony in her voice, Marthe said, ‘My congratulations. Rumour has lied.’
Following her gaze to the table: ‘Keep your congratulations, perhaps, for Mr Blyth,’ said Lymond dryly. ‘I am told you would prefer to remain on the Dauphiné and I regret that this is not possible. If you will kindly pack, the caique is leaving at midnight.’
‘The caique has left,’ said Marthe.
‘By whose orders?’
‘By mine. I told the Master,’ said Marthe, ‘that you had decided to send Miss Philippa and her entourage only. She’s half-way there now.’
‘M. Viénot!’ Soft though the call was, the captain answered immediately. ‘M. le Comte?’
‘From this moment, you accept no indirect orders from me without verifying them, and no orders at all from Mlle Marthe. Signal the Prior’s galley, and when the caique returns, see that Mlle Marthe and her luggage are placed in it. You might also ask Salablanca to remove M. Blyth to his cabin.’
‘You are proposing to use force?’ said Marthe. Her hair, combed out over her shoulders, lay on her bedgown outlined in silver from the deck lamps behind her: her voice expressed nothing but a kind of wary contempt.
‘I see no need. I mean to make landing on Malta,’ said Lymond. ‘It is a private matter, and as far as you and M. Gaultier are concerned the official embassy ends here. Your responsibility for the spinet is also therefore at an end, and since there is an element of danger, I see no point in exposing you needlessly. You will have, I hope, a safe and comfortable journey home.’
‘And my uncle?’ said Marthe.
‘Has expressed a preference to continue on board meanwhile. As far as he is concerned, you are your own mistress. As far as I am concerned, you are not.’
‘And if the spinet sinks to a watery grave,’ said Marthe, ‘who will recompense the King and the Sultan? Or have you providently amassed a second fortune for that?’
‘I am hoping it won’t immediately concern me,’ said Lymond. He gathered the door-curtain in his hand. ‘You have perhaps twenty minutes to pack.’ Then, as she stood unmoving, the mocking smile still on her lips, he said with the same weary courtesy, ‘Mademoiselle. There is nothing personal in this. If I could take you, believe me, I should. Since I have decided against it, you have really no rational alternative. I can have you tied and carried on board; you can threaten and even carry out suicide; you could possibly damage me or my men. These would be the petty exchanges of juveniles; and we are not juveniles.… Please pack quietly, and go.’
‘And your oath, on Gabriel’s altar in the Cathedral of St Giles?’ Marthe said in her pleasant, identical voice. ‘Was that a juvenile foolishness too?’
There was a long silence. The woollen door-curtain, released from Lymond’s hand, swung to across the cold doorway and he smoothed its folds, unseeing, with gentle fingers. Without turning, he said, ‘Very few people know of that.’
‘I am one of them,’ she said; and, watching his back, continued softly to speak. ‘Nor am I fool enough to believe that child is dead, whatever Mr Blyth tried to pretend. I know the truth now. Up to yesterday, your first duty was to the woman and boy. Now it is to the boy. If you reach any other decision, it is due to Gabriel’s strength and your own moral vapidity.