Queen's Play - Dorothy Dunnett [96]
‘And the verse?’ Meeting the same vacant face d’Enghien, empty-pursed, gritted his teeth. Foursquare on the grease-splashed floor, the man could defy him indefinitely. ‘Louis!’ he called; and the Prince of Condé, turning, snarled in reply. ‘I have no money, idiot!’
The answer cost him his post. In that second’s inattention, the two on the roof, lunging, flung open the trap, and St. André dropped beside his rival on the shelf. ‘But I have. Where’s the Irishman?’
‘Not here.’ The Marshal had remained within a step of the trapdoor and Laurens de Genstan was kneeling on the roof, looking in. It was patent that as soon as the vital words had left the roaster’s lips—if he ever remembered them—St. André and his partner would have a head start.
But he also had the money. Impotent, d’Enghien watched him slip the whole purse from his belt and throw it, sagging, into the roaster’s powerful red hands. The big man opened it, and grinned.
‘Obédience, like I told you, was the word one had put there. For the rest, there were only five lines. Like this, as I remember …’ And above the hiss and spit of the fire, he raised his hoarse voice in elocution.
‘Marie sonne
Marie ne donne
Rien sinon
Collier et hale
Pour la Sénéchale.’
In Blois there was only one church bell named Marie: the tenor bell of St. Lomer.
As the words left the roaster’s mouth, Condé sprang. But the Marshal was ready for him. An arm jerked, a strong hand pushed, and caught off balance in the cramped place, Condé shot forward.
It was no purpose of St. Andre’s to crack the man’s skull for him. As the roaster, the gold stuffed into his shirt, plodded thoughtfully to the great doors of his shop and, wheezing, began to unbolt them, the Marshal caught Condé under the armpits and thrust him, hooked by his collar, on to the stout prongs below, transferring the coiled rope as he did so to his own shoulder. There the Prince kicked, livid as a newly caught heifer, while d’Enghien, cursing, swung himself up to free him.
But the shelf was built to withstand the hanging weight of dead carcases, and not as a springboard for live ones. It creaked once as d’Enghien’s two hands clutched it, groaned as he swung his feet round, and collapsed with a rending crash as he landed. The heaving, shouting throng in the street, bursting through the half-open door to see the state of the race, saw only the Prince of Condé and his brother d’Enghien battered, bruised and disqualified on the floor amid the debris of the roast shop.
St. André hadn’t waited. De Genstan helping, he shot through the roof window on to the tiles and took a hasty casting look for possible rivals. Behind was no one. In front, the torchlight from the street lit a tattered once-white shirt and glittered on the crescent of an Archer, flying batlike towards the tall huddle of spires that was the Abbey of St. Lomer.
‘It isn’t possible!’ wailed de Genstan.
St. André flung himself forward. The red, squat mouth of the roast-shop chimney loomed before them, belching smoke. Jacques d’Albon, Marshal de St. André, slapped it as he passed with a furious and masochistic intent. ‘It is possible … if they were lying listening at the lip of that: For a moment they were both silent, negotiating the chasm between one building and the next. Then, slipping short-legged along the spine of an almshouse, St. André spoke again. ‘The last crossing will be from the bell tower to the château. Whoever climbs the château wall first is certain to win.’
In both their minds was the same picture. The church of St. Lomer with its high bell tower stood between the château hill and the Loire, its highest spire just below the lowest part of the castle wall. The space between spire and château was three times as long as the ropes which both parties now carried; but this had no bearing.
For the chasm was bridged already by the stout cable put there a week before by the saltimbanque Tosh, down which he slid, torches flaming, to the cheers of the crowd. The moon had set, but dimly, behind the black bulk of St. Lomer, that