Checkmate

  It was, in fact, the last thing he remembered saying, just before he received an incapacitating blow on the back of his cranium.

  Outside, awaiting orders, the ring of horsemen kept their patient vigil, and the group of those dismounted stood in the yard, exchanging muted opinions. From there, the course of battle was agreeably palpable. They listened, impressed by the language before, finally, silence prevailed.

  It was not clear whether it was Julian or Diego whose jubilant voice finally reported, shouting, that the prisoner was subdued, and they were about to bind and descend with him.

  There followed a short wait. Since they had been told to guard the exterior of the barn, Captain Carasco’s loyal men continued to stand and guard the outside of the barn. They were still guarding it when the first of them became aware of a strong stench of burning.

  The barn windows had all been close-shuttered, which was why unnoticed the burning boughs in the corner, dry as powder, could become a Catherine wheel which sparked fire into the litter. Once lit, the straw only smouldered. But the smoke it vented, thick as wool, acrid as ammonia, poured through the seams of the timber and when at last they rushed forward and dragged the doors open, rolled over the yard like the white, stifling fall of some fatal, Ionic volcano.

  Figures, retching and coughing, burst from the smoke, joining other spluttering figures in the shrouded, darkening air of the yard. Inside the barn, ribbons of flame fluttered, metallic and bright in the darkness. More helmeted figures burst through them; and last of all a man without uniform: a soot-smeared gentleman with yellow hair and a torn, peasant’s shirt, whose two arms were gripped by his captors.

  Diego, or perhaps Julian, took time between running to and fro from the pond to congratulate them as they disappeared into the fog. ‘You have him!’

  ‘Aye, we have him.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the general?’

  ‘Yellow hair. Can you not see?’

  ‘And a full beard and moustache?’ yelled Diego, or Julian, choking. He threw his last helmetful of green water on the blazing barn and prepared to abandon it.

  ‘He admitted it.’ Smoke, billowing, closed on the speaker just as Captain Carasco himself, his hand to his head, tottered to the barn door and cried gaspingly, ‘To me! To me! There are men in the barn!’

  Of the few men left who could see or hear him, five ran towards him. ‘There are none, mi capitán. All have run out.’

  His breath wrestled through the smoke in his throat. ‘I tell you, our men are still upstairs. Can you not hear them? Bring water. A rope. An axe.’

  ‘There is nothing to hold water, mi capitán,’ said someone thickly. ‘We are using our helmets.’

  ‘Use them, then! We must break our way through to the hayloft. Rope … A pail … I have seen a pail …’

  It had struck Lymond, too, that someone would think of the milk pail. He had run with the rest nearly as far as the horses, and seen Piero Strozzi mount, and Danny, and all the Spanish-garbed company, as well as the soldier passed off as himself. Then, merging into the smoke, he dropped back before they could miss him; for he had one responsibility which he could in fairness ask no one to share with him.

  So, twisting, sprinting, avoiding the other blundering figures which came at him, black and blinded from the choking seat of the fire, Francis Crawford raced back to the farmhouse and into the parlour, where, taking a moment, he swung the pail of milk out through the window. Then he groped through the white, stifling haze to where Renée Jourda had been sitting.

  She was there still; her sightless eyes looking straight at him. Through it all, behind the crazy torrent of movement, he had been conscious of this. Aware that in this shuttered room a blind woman was sitting, assaulted with questions, shaken by trampling vibrations; unseeing, suffering listener to the explosion of gunfire, the clash of steel, the shouting of men in stress and in anger. And last of all, exposed to a choking alchemy by which the very air became bane in her nostrils.

  He looked at her, speaking her name: his voice steady over the private, high-spinning turmoil of extreme exertion.

  But she did not answer, although she sat erect and calmly, with the long hair … grey, not black … straggling over her shoulders; and her eyes open and creamy like milk-glass; and not yellow with straw.

  ‘She is dead. I speak,’ said Captain Alferez Carasco from the window, a milk-pail in both blackened hands, ‘to el conde Criafordo? There are three men at the door and one at each window: soon there will be thirty.

  ‘Milord, you are surpassed. You will be pleased to surrender.’

  Chapter 7

  Par grans dangiers le captif echapé

  Peu de temps grand la fortune changée.

  The red and white chequered fortress of Ham was only five miles to the north-west of Flavy and, powerful as a walled city, had for three hundred years commanded the village, the church and the River Somme whose moat encircled it.

  Lymond saw nothing of his arrival there. He came to his senses during the night in a hurriedly prepared chamber in the tower; and in the morning was brought to the low-ceilinged room with its seven-foot window embrasures where the Duke de Nevers, for France, had so recently given up tenure to the Duke of Savoy, for Spain and England.

  Savoy was not there. Behind the massive, dark desk sat a man taller and older whose groomed, silvery beard still rested on the bosom of his richly sewn doublet in the fashion of ten years ago, when he was England’s general, commanding the wars against Scotland.

  ‘Ah, M. de Sevigny,’ said Lord Grey of Wilton. ‘Pray sit down. I am sorry that Captain Carasco had to use force. He was ordered to avoid it. The odds being one to thirty I feel you could, with honour, have surrendered your sword.’

  ‘I was angry,’ said Lymond. He remained standing.

  ‘Just so,’ said Lord Grey. He rose and stalked slowly round his desk, having reconsidered a tart comment about overplaying one’s hand in pretty Spanish masquerades. This might look like the insolent opponent, half his age, of Hume; of Heriot; of Hexham but it was not; as one knew already from the man’s record. Lord Grey said, ‘I must make plain my regret for the death of Madame Jourda. There was some impression that she, and not your friends, had warned you of your danger. The Captain lost his head.’

  It was not all that he had lost. He was in the care of the barber-surgeon at that moment, having had six inches of Mr Crawford’s sword passed through his chest wall. Lymond said, ‘If you will be kind enough to make out a report of the matter for his grace of Savoy, I shall be glad to countersign it.’

  Which meant he wanted Carasco broken. It was probable that he would be. The Duke’s orders were to let this man have anything, within reason, that he wanted. Lord Grey said, ‘It shall be done. Of course. An army is only as good as its officers,’ and having got the man seated at last, clapped his hands for wine, served it, and took a chair this time on the same side of the desk as his prisoner. ‘I am glad to see,’ said Lord Grey, ‘that we have managed to find clothes for you more befitting your rank. I admire your hardihood. Had we not known who you were, you and your friends might have been killed on sight as common soldiers. One hopes they bear you no resentment. They saved their skins, I am told, with remarkable alacrity.’

  ‘It would interest you to know who they were,’ said Lymond. ‘It would interest me to know who informed you that I might be coming to see Madame Jourda.’

  There was a certain relief in doing business with professionals. ‘I have no objection,’ said Grey. He rose to call Myles, his secretary, and returned to his seat to await him. ‘We are unlikely to require his services again. Ah. Here we are. A letter, unsigned, but very circumstantial, as you will see, in its detail. At some time in the next weeks, the Scottish general known as the comte de Sevigny would make a personal visit to a farm near Flavy-le-Martel to settle a family dispute with an old nurse named Renée Jourda. He was likely to come alone, and in private. The writer wished no reward for the information, but would expect hal
f the bounty if M. de Sevigny were secured.’

  ‘To be paid where?’ said Lymond.

  ‘At a certain spot in a wood near Chantilly. I have sent a man there. He has orders to stay as long as feasible, in order to see what manner of person comes for it. When he returns, you may question him. There. You may wish to see the letter. You may even perhaps know the handwriting.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Yes,’ said Lymond. ‘I know the handwriting.’

  The soul of tact, William Grey, thirteenth Baron, sipped wine and waited. ‘Thank you,’ said Lymond. He laid the letter back on the desk. ‘You wanted to know about my companions. The leader was an officer from my company called Daniel Hislop, and he and the men under him had been in action for several days outside Péronne. I called on them to give me cover when I saw how busy the district was. Hence they were in military dress and I was not.’

  ‘You give short measure, Mr Crawford,’ said Lord Grey patiently. ‘I am prepared to believe that you made some excuse to visit the home of an old family servant. I do not believe you would have troubled had her home been, say, in Chantilly. You came to study the fortifications here at Ham. And you did not come alone. I am told there was a second man in peasant’s clothing.’

  ‘I believe there was,’ said Francis Crawford. ‘Let me make you another bargain. I shall tell you his name, when you bring me the address of the man who uplifts your blood-money. Cuando amigo pide, no ay mañana. Are we not going to discuss the terms on which I change sides?’

  ‘If you wish,’ said Lord Grey courteously. He disguised, with success, his distaste for being hurried in delicate matters. ‘You are naturally anxious about your future. His Majesty King Philip must be the final arbiter. But I know that two choices will be laid before you. One of these is to return to Spain with the King.’

  He looked up at the other man sharply. No flattered blood mantled Lymond’s skin below the cuts and the darkening bruises. They said the lady Elizabeth, sister to Philip’s wife, had taken an interest in him. They did not say, but whispered, that if King Philip’s wife the Queen of England were to die, the King would seek to marry the lady Elizabeth her successor. ‘And the other?’ said Lymond.

  ‘Your freedom, upon an agreed ransom. To be effected on the conclusion of peace terms.’ Lord Grey smiled. ‘You are too skilful an adversary, Mr Crawford, to be permitted to take the field against us any longer.’

  ‘And the ransom?’ said Lymond.

  Lord Grey of Wilton sipped his wine and put the cup down. He had hoped to defer this. On the other hand, one might as well get the thing over. He said, ‘One million écus of gold, Mr Crawford. To be paid in a single sum, promissory notes being in this case unacceptable.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lymond.

  There was a little silence. It was a round sum, but not a chance one. They had spent an evening working it out, he and Laurence and Arthur. Savoy himself had weighed it up. It represented what they guessed of the total value of all Francis Crawford’s possessions: his land, his treasure, his income from his new offices. It added to that, all that was owned by his wife Philippa Somerville. And to that, the whole estate of his mother and brother in Midculter, Scotland.

  All these, together with what he might borrow, might possibly raise such a ransom. It offered him freedom and ruin. It put him barefoot in the market again, sword in hand, with this time his brother beside him.

  Lymond said, ‘I take it my brother is causing you trouble. I’m afraid he will continue to cause you trouble. Nothing, I assure you, would induce him to ransom me. And equally, nothing would induce me to accept any favours.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said Lord Grey, ‘you would face most stoically a lifetime of prison. I am sorry you feel your brother would do nothing to help you. It occurred to us that the rest of your family might feel differently. And if the money is offered to us, we should have no qualms on your behalf in accepting it.’

  ‘So I go to Spain,’ said Lymond thoughtfully, ‘or you beggar my family?’

  ‘You claimed once,’ said Lord Grey, ‘it was Russia your mind was set upon.’

  The hard blue eyes did not avoid his. ‘Even for me,’ Lymond said, ‘the price is too high.’

  They looked at one another. Outside the door, Lord Grey knew Myles was standing, obediently, to prevent any untimely interruption.

  ‘There is other coin,’ said Lord Grey of Wilton carefully.

  A smile, irritatingly understanding, broke upon Francis Crawford’s mobile, discoloured face. He rose to his feet and looked down, still smiling, at his noble enemy. ‘And in the land of Ham for them, Most wondrous woorkes had done? You spoke of two choices only.’

  ‘There is a third,’ said the thirteenth baron of Wilton. ‘It is my own suggestion but I am prepared, on certain assurances from yourself, to guarantee that King Philip will sanction it.’

  ‘Assurances?’ said Lymond gently.

  ‘Indeed. And of a kind which may not be to your liking, unless you have deceived the French as thoroughly as you deceived my unfortunate nephew at Douai. I shall suggest to you the means by which, without money, you may obtain your freedom. In return, I shall require you, enable you, and if necessary compel you, Mr Crawford, to travel to Russia, and stay there.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Francis Crawford. His eyes, resting on those of his captor, bore an expression Grey could not identify. Then he said, ‘Was that an inspired guess? I am almost as anxious to leave Europe, my dear Lord Grey, as you seem to be to remove me. Therefore faisons de fueille cortine et s’aimerons mignotement. I am prepared to give you your assurance. I promise, once free, to abandon Spain, France and Scotland in favour of Russia. Provided, of course, that the mitigated price of my freedom is still not beyond me. In place of money, what do you wish of me?’

  ‘Information,’ said Grey. He had risen too, and stood by the desk, his patrician fingers lightly clasped at his back, the gold of his chain glinting over the paned yoke of his jerkin. ‘But of a most exhaustive nature. What money the French king has raised. What troops he has, and where they are stationed. His intentions in Italy. His intentions in Lyon. His intentions in Lorraine. And finally, of course, his fullest plans for his present campaign in Champagne and Picardy. Whether he intends to disband his troops or place them in winter quarters. Whether he means to try and retake these forts or strike elsewhere, and when and how. His plans for Calais and Gravelines and Guînes. Tell us these things,’ said Lord Grey. ‘Convince us that what you tell us is truthful, and you shall have funds, baggage, servants, safeconducts and conveyances which will see you in Moscow by springtime.’

  ‘And so,’ said Lymond unexpectedly, ‘the knot has got to the teeth of the comb.’ His eyes were on the tiled floor where, here and there, the pattern had worn down to the terracotta.

  ‘You hesitate?’ said Lord Grey mildly. ‘With a kingdom awaiting you?’

  ‘I might,’ said Lymond, ‘make my kingdom Hispania. I wonder if you have thought of that?’

  Lord Grey smiled. ‘Under Ruy Gomez? Under Alva? Under Arras? You would be dead of a draught, or a stabbing, before the year was well out. Mr Crawford, I have no fear that you will follow the monarch to Spain. I think your prospects in France are less golden than perhaps once you were led to believe. Give me the information which will allow King Philip to finish this war, and I shall convey you to Russia, and your ransom with you. It is an offer well worth considering.’ He rang the bell on his desk. ‘When you have your reply, ask your guard to inform me.’

  ‘Why wait?’ said Francis Crawford. ‘You may have my answer now, if you wish.’

  ‘So hastily?’ said Lord Grey of Wilton.

  ‘Why,’ said the other man, and surveyed him from boots to crown with those derisive, chilly blue eyes. ‘I have my eye on a piece of ground called Aceldama. You have found the right coin. I accept it.’

  *

  He had been taken back to his chamber and they were locking him in when a man in half-armour arrived and came up the stairs
running, the guards saluting his passage.

  Arrived at Lymond’s threshold he took off and gave to a man at arms his gloves and his helmet, revealing fine dark hair flattened by sweat, and a steep-boned self-contained face shadowed, but not yet coarsened by war. Then he stepped inside and motioned to them to lock the door after him.

  ‘Mr Crawford,’ said Austin Grey. ‘I wish the favour of your attention.’

  Lymond turned, smiling. ‘My lord of Allendale. Come then, South Wind, and perfect my garden.’

  *

  The King of France, riding in cavalcade to Compiègne with half the Court, was shown and approved the Duke de Guise’s magnificent plan for the recovery of Calais. He commanded that there should be no secret made among the soldiery of the great booty to be obtained there; and he took aside the Marshal Piero Strozzi and placed round his neck a collar worth eight hundred écus in recognition of the work of espial he had engaged in, at such cost and such risk to himself.

  ‘Nor, when he is returned to us, shall we show ourselves less generous towards M. de Sevigny,’ said his Majesty. ‘We grieve that France has lost, however temporarily, such a servant. A trumpet will be sent to inquire the terms of his ransom. We have even considered an attack on the fortress, but M. de Guise informs me that it would cost the lives of many brave men, with no assurance of rescue. We are happy at least to have Marshal Strozzi beside us.’

  ‘It was unfortunate,’ said Marshal Strozzi. ‘Whatever ransom is agreed, your grace will lose the Chevalier’s services until the war ends. If the Duke is willing to reconsider, I am prepared to mount an attack against Ham.’

  ‘And risk your life again? We should not allow it,’ said Henri. ‘In any case, our object at present is Calais. That taken, the war will not be long in ending. M. de Sevigny will return. You will see. And he will be welcome.’

  *

  In a room in another wing of the fortified château of Compiègne, four men sat round a table and discussed, from another viewpoint, the same subject.