Checkmate

  She had studied her mirror. She knew how the candlelight enhanced the excellent line of her throat, the shape of her cheekbones, the balance and mould of her body. She said, ‘It seems a poor way, Mr Crawford, to ask for a lady’s hand in marriage. Can you not manage a quote or two from the poets? A note of devotion? A fleeting salute on the cheek?’

  ‘A masquerade?’ he said lightly. ‘Would you think any better of me?’ But his hands were still and he was looking at her.

  ‘Is happiness a masquerade?’ said Catherine d’Albon. ‘Or do we not speak of it? I am sure my mother did not.’

  ‘We shall speak of it,’ he said. ‘I trust I may be able to give it to you. Aside from that, I make few demands on those close to me. I shall not encroach on you.’

  She said, ‘You are telling me, I think, that you mean to lead your own life.’

  ‘I hope you will lead yours,’ Lymond said. ‘And that mine, where it touches us both, will not be displeasing to you. But if you hold me in horror, there is no reason why this contract need be completed. And if I have offended you, forgive me.’

  There was a little silence. Then, ‘You make no pretence,’ she said quietly; and saw him recognize and accept the bitterness she could not quite keep out of her voice.

  Then he said, ‘No. Pretence makes a poor foundation when you are hoping to build.’

  ‘Do we have anything to build with?’ said Catherine d’Albon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lymond. ‘There are my good intentions. And there is your wit, and your kindness, and your beauty.’

  ‘What do you know of them, Mr Crawford?’ said Catherine d’Albon.

  For the first time in an interview which had fallen out not at all as he expected, Francis Crawford hesitated. Then walking towards her he raised her hand, and kissed it, and leading her back to her chair, seated her, and placed himself thoughtfully on the little rug at her feet. He said, ‘If you wish pretty phrases, and true ones, I should say that your beauty I can see and your wit I am coming to know in this meeting. Your kindness, clearly, I do not yet qualify for. But I should be honoured if you would allow me to try.’

  ‘As you say,’ she said, ‘you are able to make polite speeches when brought to it. Why are you divorcing Mistress Philippa?’

  His eyes were blue: a dense and brilliant cornflower, and his hair was leaf-gold under the flattering light. He said, ‘Doesn’t she want to marry the worthy youth Allendale? I don’t know her plans, but I rather thought that was her intention. I am divorcing her, lady, because our marriage has never been more than a formal one. I don’t bed with children.’

  ‘Rumour says,’ said Catherine d’Albon, ‘that you did. Or are the Knights of St John all mistaken?’

  ‘You know too much,’ said Francis Crawford slowly. ‘Shall I amend it? I don’t bed with young girls who are virgins, unless they ask me, and unless I am married to them.’

  ‘I see,’ said Catherine d’Albon. ‘You must be asked?’

  ‘And married,’ said Francis Crawford.

  ‘That is easy,’ she said; and for the first time he saw her lips tilt in a smile which recalled nothing at all of her mother. ‘If you ask me, I expect I shall marry you. But as for what comes after that, who can forecast?’

  ‘Nostradamus,’ said Lymond. ‘And I myself for that matter. In fact, I would be willing to take a small wager.’ He looked at her, the levity fading. ‘If you have doubts, Catherine, there is no need to go on with it all.’

  ‘I have doubts,’ said Catherine d’Albon. ‘But they appertain to myself, not to you, No. It is a match. How could I fare better?’

  She felt his recoil as if it were physical. Then he said, with a kind of suppressed anger, ‘I know it should be different. It will be, if you will give me time. I promised you happiness; and I meant it.’

  ‘But you have no expectations,’ said Catherine d’Albon, ‘of receiving any from me?’

  His self-possession, unlike hers, was in place again. ‘I should like you to try,’ Lymond answered with gravity. ‘I shall tell you, from time to time, how you are succeeding. Meanwhile, I suggest we summon your mother. There is a common belief that left behind locked doors, I don’t stop to ask anyone anything.’

  She rose. ‘You mean,’ Catherine d’Albon said, ‘I have agreed to marry a libertine?’

  ‘Everyone marries libertines,’ Lymond said comfortably, rising and taking her elbow. ‘But not everyone knows it beforehand.’

  *

  News of the impending marriage, discreetly disseminated, produced a number of different reactions.

  Her grace the Queen of Scotland was extremely displeased.

  The Prince of Condé, a fairly regular recipient of the Maréchale de St André’s favours, was a little put out and began instead, belatedly, to pay a good deal of attention to her daughter. A number of other noblemen followed suit.

  Piero Strozzi, who heard the news out of town, was delighted, and added spice to the general interest by inquiring of all those he met as to how son petit François had got the branch budding so promptly. Jerott Blyth, offended by Lymond’s lack of frankness, quarrelled with Adam Blacklock and stalked off to the Hôtel d’Hercule, to be told that M. de Sevigny was absent on business. Danny Hislop, calling later, was told the same story.

  Madame la Maréchale de St André, who had better means of judging its accuracy, called and was admitted, but left without having arranged, as she had hoped, for the necessary meeting between herself, her daughter, and M. de Sevigny’s family. His mother, M. de Sevigny said, was still recovering from her journey.

  Catherine d’Albon began to spend a good deal of time in Lymond’s company. Her dramatic good looks, daily enhanced, became breathtaking. So her mirror informed her, and her mother, and the comte de Sevigny’s eyes, sometimes, resting on her. But so far, he had done no more than kiss her hand.

  I don’t bed with virgins unless they ask me, and unless I am married to them.

  There was time enough, in spite of what her mother might say.

  Jerott discovered that Lymond was in fact in residence in the Hôtel d’Hercule but failed a second time to get himself admitted, upon which he walked instead to the rue de la Huchette and sent his name in to Lymond’s mother.

  Sybilla received him. She remembered him as the fiery, black-haired young Knight of St John who had concerned himself so passionately about Francis’s affairs in Malta and Scotland. She saw now the same young man in the guise of a Lyon merchant, and married to the girl of whose existence her older son Richard knew nothing.

  She said, ‘You wish to talk to me about your wife; about Francis; and perhaps about this wedding of his, which everyone seems to be speaking of.’

  She had always been a splendid person: bright as a silver penny. Jerott said, ‘Have you seen him? I’ve been shown the door twice. Did you know about this marriage arrangement?’

  It was typical Jerott Blyth, if not the overture which courtesy perhaps demanded after an interval of five and a half years. Sybilla, amusement in her tired eyes, said, ‘We travelled south together, but he didn’t speak of it. Don’t you approve? I know of nothing against it.’

  ‘It depends what his plans are,’ said Jerott. ‘If you want my view, he should have stayed in Russia.’

  ‘Why?’ Sybilla said. Her tone expressed kindly interest.

  ‘It was good for him. It would have kept him away from Marthe. And that poor lass would be married long since to her Austin.’

  ‘You speak of Philippa. Is she in love with Austin Grey, Jerott?’ said Sybilla. ‘I hear he is a prisoner with Francis.’

  ‘She would have been,’ said Jerott bluntly. ‘As it is, she has to get Francis out of her system first. He held on to that marriage far too long, and she’s paying the penalty, not milord of Sevigny. You know she wanted to trace Marthe’s birth?’

  ‘Yes. I knew that,’ Sybilla said. After a space she added, ‘And has she succeeded?’

  ‘Not while she was in Lyon,’ Jerott said. ‘If she fou
nd out anything since, I don’t know about it.’ Now it had come to the point he hesitated, his face rather red.

  ‘She is not a child of mine, Jerott,’ said Lady Culter quietly. ‘Nor can I tell you anything about her that you don’t know already. But whatever irregularity there has been, I think it would be best if Richard knew nothing of it. So far as Marthe herself is concerned, I have a favour to ask you. I should like to meet her.’

  He had not expected that. He gazed at her miserably. ‘She would hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘She resents me? Or Francis? Or both of us?’

  ‘She resents the birds in the trees,’ said Jerott bitterly. He pulled himself together. ‘They are very alike. In times of dispute it’s best not to get between them.’

  ‘What are they disputing about?’ Sybilla asked. ‘The new marriage?’

  ‘In a way. Marthe is set on a union between Francis and Philippa.’

  ‘Is she? Why is that?’ Sybilla said.

  ‘Revenge, perhaps. She won’t say.’ The flush on his splendid, jutting profile deepened. ‘You know the life he has led, Lady Culter. He is ten years older; he has a son, and a mistress in Russia. Even the girl he is marrying——’ He broke off.

  Sybilla sat, fragile and composed, watching him. ‘If it affects Francis, you may tell me,’ she said. ‘If it concerns Catherine, not.’

  ‘In Lyon,’ Jerott said, ‘he was her mother’s lover.’

  Sybilla dropped her eyes. ‘I see,’ was all she said. There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘I should still, in spite of all this, like to meet your wife. Do you think, Jerott, you could arrange it?’

  But, of course, he couldn’t. And so, at last, he had to tell her the reason.

  *

  Alone among Francis Crawford’s friends, his wife made no effort, on his arrival in Paris, to see either him or his mother.

  Fresh from the Hôtel des Sphères, she knew she could not face Sybilla just yet; or be sure of concealing her knowledge from Lymond. Instead she bestowed on him, from a distance, the kind of protective attention which, through Osias, he had conferred on her; and for the same reason. Leonard Bailey had not so far, to her knowledge, made any move since their interview. When he did, she wanted to hear about it.

  So she learned, before the Scots Commissioners had been two hours in Paris, that there had been no reconciliation between Lymond and his family. She knew when he first called on Catherine, and the growing number of meetings that followed. She knew that on his visits to the Hôtel de l’Ange he did not present himself to Sybilla, but performed his duties towards the nine other Scottish delegates on the well-worn treadmill of ceremonies, sight-seeing and conviviality: at the Louvre, the Bastille, the Palais de Justice, les Tournelles, the Church of Notre Dame, the Abbey of Saint-Denis and its treasures.

  She used, as Sybilla had, the best intermediary she could find; and asked Archie Abernethy to meet her.

  From him, she learned of the brief illness at Madame Bouchard’s house in Dieppe.

  ‘And Lord James and Mr Erskine?’ she asked when he paused. ‘What did they make of it?’

  ‘It would seem nothing out of the way. He had had a hundred-mile ride, and a long day and a good evening’s drinking before it.’

  ‘… But?’ said Philippa.

  ‘But he was postit for six hours till the pain eased; and weak for about as long after it. Barring him and me, no one knew of it. They’re strong men for the Reform party, John Erskine and the Queen’s bastard brother,’ said Archie. ‘They must hae been blithe tae get the chance tae speak wi’ him.’

  ‘What did they say?’ Philippa said.

  ‘He didna confide in me, but I think I can guess without having a nosebleed. He also said that the meeting with his ma was more vexing than he expected.’

  ‘Hence the nerve-storm,’ said Philippa.

  ‘Maybe. He was already pitched unco high leaving Paris, from some event in the Séjour du Roi, I should fancy. Master Blyth wouldna say what it was.’

  ‘I know what it was. And now, Archie?’

  ‘There’s a truce, for the moment, with the family. He has himself well in hand. It’s just a matter of wearing out the few weeks to the wedding.’

  ‘With or without help from Catherine d’Albon,’ said Philippa reflectively. She paused, and as Archie said nothing, she finished what she had to say. ‘If you need him, Nostradamus is in Paris.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ said Archie. His voice had sharpened.

  ‘In passing,’ said Philippa smoothly. ‘Which reminds me. Archie, what happened on your last night in Lyon? Master Nostradamus said I should ask Mr Crawford.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ said Archie Abernethy. He paused. ‘Well, I wouldna ask him the now or you’ll get a right nippit answer.… Ye ken Master Blyth’s lady’s banged out the house and left him for good? Leastways, she hasna come back again.’

  ‘No, but I’m not surprised,’ Philippa said. ‘I don’t need to ask what Master Blyth is doing. Is anyone looking for her?’

  ‘Mr Hislop. He likes a problem,’ said Archie. ‘I’m told Lady Culter wants to speak with her.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Philippa. She felt her nose growing red. After a moment she said, ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Marthe won’t let Lymond down publicly, I’d swear, however much she attacks him in private.’

  Archie didn’t say anything. She wondered how much he knew, or suspected. Enough, certainly, to know that it was a question of Lymond’s birth and Sybilla’s honesty. He had no means of discovering anything else. Her face must have reflected her thoughts for Archie’s voice, striking through them, said suddenly, ‘I take it you have no good news to give him then?’

  And recognizing the question for what it was, Philippa said, ‘He knows all there is to know, and none of it is good. Archie, he isn’t lacking in character. In the end, he has to learn to support it. I am sure he will.’

  The wise eyes, unflinching, stared into hers. ‘There is a man in him that could support it,’ Archie said. ‘True enough. But it is maybe a man the world could do without. I don’t know. I wasna in Russia.’

  Chapter 9

  Sera connu d’adultere l’offence

  Qui parviendra a son grand deshonneur.

  It had been tempting on a scale positively Biblical to confide in Archie, and it was with some wistfulness that Philippa watched him leave after that interview. But for all practical purposes, he and Francis Crawford must be considered a single person, and on one matter she had made up her mind on the day she left the rue de la Cerisaye.

  While there was hope of settling the matter in any other way, Lymond should not be told of Bailey’s threat to his family. The misconduct he had uncovered was far more serious than any Archie could have envisaged. Misconduct of such a kind that, whatever strength of character Francis Crawford might possess, he was at this moment barely keeping his balance in face of it.

  If affairs went according to plan, she would not need his help in any case. If they did not, she at least would not be blinded by passion into taking some action which would throw secrecy to the winds and Sybilla into the hands of her persecutors.

  It made no difference why Sybilla, of all civilized women, had so abominably betrayed her marriage. Or why she had chosen to set down in black and white the name of the man who had begotten her two younger children. It was done, and it was for those who loved her to protect her and her family from the consequences.

  But not—whatever happened, not by trusting Leonard Bailey. He might sell Sybilla’s papers to her. He might sell to the Lennoxes. Most likely of all, he would cheat, to wring from the situation the maximum money and the maximum injury to the Crawfords.

  The obvious course was to move quickly, and cheat before he did.

  So Philippa, from the moment she left the Hôtel des Sphères, put her intelligence, her imagination, her considerable energy to work with one end in view: the tracking down of the two sets of papers containing Sybilla’s confession.

  T
here were copies in France, and in London. In whose hands? Someone empowered to reveal the contents if Bailey met an unnatural end. Someone, then, with authority.

  What sort of agent would Leonard Bailey trust, sufficiently moral or sufficiently wealthy to be immune from bribery? She did not know the name of Bailey’s bankers, but she did know Francis Crawford’s, who paid to Bailey each month the fee he had claimed for his silence.

  She sent a page to invite the Schiatti cousins to supper.

  In twenty-four hours she had the name of Leonard Bailey’s bankers in Paris and London and the information, extracted she understood by alcohol rather than violence, that a package, with instructions and password, had been confided by Mr Bailey to their Paris house recently. She also had, drawn upon her own funds in France, the sum of ten thousand pounds in Venetian ducats.

  She had a day and night watch set upon the Hôtel des Sphères, operated by a number of cheerful gentlemen of questionable reputation, found for her by some good friends in the stables. This served a number of purposes. If, for example, she could stop Bailey sending out instructions, she could postpone if not prevent any little hitch occurring, such as Bailey deciding to sell the papers to Lady Lennox. Or Mr Crawford receiving a similar offer, and half or wholly killing Master Bailey so that the whole mechanism of publication was set in motion.

  She attended a long, polite discussion on procedure between the Cardinal of Lorraine, the Queen, the King’s sister and his mistress, and then arranged for the Schiatti cousins to attend a contest of jeu de paume. During the ensuing tête-à-tête she related a highly credible tissue of falsehoods which brought her, to her momentary shame, instant promises of manly succour.

  Gino Schiatti, the older and wealthier, was going to borrow the Paris documents for her. Marco Schiatti, the better scribe, was going to write a persuasive letter to someone in London, which she proposed to enclose in a still more persuasive letter of her own to Sir Henry Sidney. In this, she did not intend to mention Lymond’s name or to lie; but merely to say that the loan of the papers was a matter of life and death to a friend of Diccon Chancellor’s.