Queens'' Play by Dorothy Dunnett
The Hôtel-Dieu in the Place Louis XII had an orchard behind. They crossed from tree to tree like Saurians and pelted each other with apples until, from shed to storehouse to attics, they took to the rooftops again. There, the youngest pair made a discovery, and two more, exhilarated with exercise and drink, knelt with them and cheered loudly and sardonically at a lit window whose light suddenly went out. In the shadow of a gable end Thady Boy landed softly and rose to his feet. Stumbling, Stewart was beside him. ‘Where now? D’Enghien’s ahead of us. And St. André.’
‘There’s not the least hurry in the world.’ The liquid cadences comforted. ‘Let you take breath a little. My life for you, in a little short while it will be either d’Enghien or St. André who’s ahead of us—but not both, a mhic; not both.’
Four o’clock on a weekday morning was no unusual time for the public roaster to begin his work. Red in the scented glare, with grease spattering his apron and sweat spreading in his neckcloth, he worked half-sleeping over the crackling spit, while a thin-shanked child in cotton shirt and bare feet cranked at the treadle. And inside his shop was the last clue but two.
For all the attention he paid, he might have been deaf to the noise outside his door as the crowds surged and swayed, moving with the dark figures, jumping and scrambling far over their heads. Heavy as it was, the wagering among the contestants was nothing compared to the money which had changed hands in the streets. Half the Scots Guard off duty, as Stewart well knew, were among the brawling, struggling mass down below.
Lying hidden in the shadows beside Thady Boy, Robin Stewart prayed only that he might reach the castle and the last clue before Laurens de Genstan. It was the happiest day of his life.
Jean de Bourbon, sieur d’Enghien, was the first to force open the steamy roof-light on the roaster’s house and drop cautiously through.
There was a shelf running high along the wall, from which in the daytime hung the sides of beef, the sheep and the poultry bought and waiting to be cooked; and below that, a table on which d’Enghien and his brother Condé could step without touching ground and thereby infringing the rules. D’Enghien, his curling hair plastered over his dirty face, silk doublet gaping and hose ripped and blotched black, green and white from lime and tar and moss-grown copings, was aware that St. André and St. Genstan were almost on him and in no mood for waiting.
As the roaster tipped a pool of hot fat over the meat, put the ladle carefully down, wiped his hands on the limp stuff of his apron and turned, the young man hopped from table to stool, from stool to dresser and from the dresser to the neighbourhood of the fireplace. Built into the stonework, ridged and scored by the honing of generations of knives, was the salt recess. In it was absolutely nothing but blocks and boulders of drying salt.
The roaster, porklike arms akimbo, his round beard a wet fuzz of grease, watched him without sympathy. ‘You seek some papers, monseigneur?’
Above, the roof-light rattled as St. André attained it.
‘Yes, you fool. They should be here. Where are they?’
The roaster turned his head and the boy, who had stopped cranking, mouth open, hurriedly began again. He turned back. ‘They were put in the fire. What a pity. An accident.’
‘An accident!’ Behind, there was a scuffle. The Prince of Condé, as tattered as his brother, was back on the shelf, gripping the roof entrance fast shut against the onslaught of the two men outside. Urgently d’Enghien harried the roaster. ‘Can you remember what it said? What was the clue?’
His red face blank, the man gazed up. ‘I have a bad memory.’
Feverishly, d’Enghien dug into his purse. Gold gleamed. ‘What was the single word, then? You must at least remember that?’
The roaster caught the coin, bit it, and allowed himself a brief smile. ‘The word was Obédience, monseigneur.’
‘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 thin sickle of rope could be seen, up which the victors must climb. There was the means of victory; and there at St. Lomer was the crux of the race. For whoever crossed the rope first ha
A long time ago, the crowd had discovered Thady Boy; or Thady Boy had invited the attachment of the crowd. In the last stages of the race, the excitement was frenetic. The whole of Blois was a network of light. Catcalls, screams, jibes, encouragement and insults were flung at them all; but Thady Boy received the compliment of laughter.
None of them now was either fresh or sure-footed. After a chase equal to a hard climb at speed up the most difficult mountain he had ever attempted, Stewart’s knee muscles were on fire, his shoulders ached and his heart burned in his chest. Thady Boy could hardly have fared better, but his inbred sense of the ludicrous never failed. Someone far below played a guitar, and he trod a half measure with a chimney. Of the three clocks they had passed, none was ever straight, timely or decent again. Shutters were for swinging on and roof gardens for plucking and bestowing, nymphlike, on unsuspecting persons below. One angry gentleman, complaining from his window, was mysteriously smoked out of doors three minutes later by his bedroom fire.
As window after window in the quarter lit up and opening doors threw their light golden on the running Blésois below, hands waved to the dark figures slithering by. Someone reached up a hot sausage on a stick, and a trio of tousle-headed kitchenmaids, kicking bare heels at an attic window, passed up and tossed them a stolen bottle of wine, and received three kisses, at speed; and three more, alarmingly, from a hilarious Stewart.
Thady and his partner drank the wine as they scrambled on, St. Andre and de Genstan two houses behind. Then they were among the Benedictines’ sloping roofs and ahead of them was the squat, foursquare tower of St. Lomer.
It was an outside climb, vertical from base to belfry, with no unbarred window which would admit them. Nothing they had attempted so far had been a tenth as difficult. It was Thady who, speaking soberly for once, insisted that they should be roped together. ‘Lean inwards, keep your hands low and use my footholds Let me make the pace. If you’re worried, use the free rope to belay yourself and give a shout. Forget the audience. A hay ladder is all they could climb.’ He smiled suddenly, a carefree, friendly, uncalculated smile; then turning, black head upflung, began the ascent.
Sometimes in nightmares, Stewart re-created that climb. The tower was three hundred years old, and its weathered fabric offered crevices; but by the same token nothing—gutter or stringcourse, cornice or coping stone—could be taken for granted. A parapet, firm under one foot, might crumble under the other; a louvre break beneath the fingers. To the upturned faces in the street, the two climbers moved infinitely slowly. To St. André, leaping and stumbling over the remaining roofs, it was faster than he thought possible. Eyes stinging with sweat, he strained to watch every foothold. When he and Laurens climbed, it would be quicker. Then the other two had to find the word to be memorized, and the clue, and disentangle it. If he or de Genstan could so much as lay hands on the funambulist’s rope before it was cut, they stood a chance. No Scots Guard, no Irishman, however mad or however drunk, would cut it while St André was crossing, and send the King’s friend to die on the rocks.
Shoulder to shoulder with Laurens de Genstan he climbed the rooftops that cluttered the south shoulder of the church, and the crowds at the foot of the façade, with its three great doors, its arcades, its twin towers and rose window, surged round to watch. Then reaching the sloped roof of St. Lomer itself, the two men scrambled to the base of the tower and started to climb.
Between Thady Boy and Robin Stewart the rope hung slack. The fat man was moving gently, testing foot and handholds half seen in the dark, and Stewart crawled up after, paying rope in or out, the night air cold on his body. Directions, clear and precise, came now and then from above. Once Thady Boy, secure on a ledge, was able to lay hands on the rope and draw the Archer bodily up to his level. Breathing was difficult; the cramp in his fingers, the stitch in his side, were agony; but looking down was no hardship. The church of St. Lomer rose like a lighthouse from a silting of faces, winking, glinting, shifting in the radiance of lantern and torch. Their own shadows, grotesquely, had climbed the first twenty feet of tower before them. Now they were in darkness above the black equator of night. Across the hollow was the cathedral on its hill, and the crooked down-running streets they had just toilsomely left; and beyond the chimneys, the flat black pool of the Loire, the houselights from the bridge caught there trembling.
He had taken his eyes from his leader to look at it; had failed to watch Thady’s movements and to match them with precautions of his own. The first he knew was a crack of a stone at his ear which disappeared chattering into the void. There was a quick movement, then the sound of a breath sharply drawn and then held. The linking rope whipped and swayed.
He looked up. Faced with a space of sheer wall, Thady Boy had done the only thing possible. He had flung the free end of his rope to noose a stone crocket high above his head near the belfry, and bringing his weight to bear slowly on the doubled rope, was climbing the open face with its help.
The crocket bore his weight. It was the rope which, fraying on some unseen neck of the spire, had given way, bringing him slithering down to the fine ledge of his starting point. And under the sharp impact of his foot, the stone had broken.
Horrified, Stewart watched. Thady Boy had saved himself, for the moment, by throwing himself inwards, hands flat on the wall, feet arrested in inadequate cracks; but he had almost no purchase, no belaying projection within reach and no safeguard but the remaining intact rope linking his waist with Stewart’s. And Stewart, cramped like a moth himself to the stonework, nails dug into crevices, could not support another man’s falling weight.
Lymond knew it too. Economically, using as little as possible of his vanishing store of balance, of energy and of time, he cut the rope between himself and the Archer.
Thought that night came godlike to Robin Stewart; dilemma and master plan appearing from nowhere printed themselves on the wax tables of his brain. In the half minute before the fat man fell, he knew exactly what he must do.
There was a barred window on his left, just out of arm’s reach. For a moment, each in turn had rested on its sill, looking longingly at the inaccessible staircase inside. Stewart had no time to wonder if the stone was rotten there too, or if the bars would hold. To reach it, he must leave hand and foothold and jump: a jump of life and death, with below him the gaping chimneys and the blue slates and the waiting bricks of the streets.
He turned his back on Thady Boy and leaped. As his bony hands, like a grip from the tomb, closed hard on the cold bars, his feet swung free over the void; then his knee found the sill, his shifting elbow the bar, and ramming body and arms like some iron throttling plant within the lifesaving cangs and cavities, wearing the window like a harness, he spun the dark rope through the night, unfolding the coils he had held spare in his hand, sending the hemp hissing along the stone surface level with Thady Boy’s head.
In his turn, Lymond took the life-or-death chance as had Stewart. Loosing all his inadequate, sliding grip, he watched the dim rope coming, and jumped.
Stewart braked his fall. The bars, though he didn’t know it till later, squeezed his arms black; and the rope running harsh through his hands left raw flesh, whipped and bloody, behind it. Then came the drag at his body he was waiting for, the pulsing strain at his waist rope as the man below swung and span at the bottom arc of his fall. Stewart braced his aching body across the width of the window and gave his whole strength as an anchor. And the bars held.
The rope had stilled. Then, as if his ears were unstopped after deafness, Stewart heard a roar rise from the sunken radiance of the streets, and the strain on his back and pelvis lifted. Thady Boy had found a foothold and, using the rope as sparingly as he could, was climbing back up.
Presently, black against the black night, the unkempt head appeared at his feet; the light, acrobatic bulk gave a wriggle and a twist, and Thady Boy, breathing hard, was sitting beside him. Thady snorted. ‘Dear God, is that all the di
Then they were climbing again. As he watched the Irishman above him moving steadily, delicately exploring, there stirred in Stewart something life-giving: a surprised gratitude for what Thady had tried to do; a fierce pride in what he himself had done. Strong, confident and free, for one evening envious of no man, Robin Stewart followed his leader up and into the belfry.
By the reaction of the crowd St. André also knew that something had occurred. The route he and de Genstan had chosen gave them no very clear view; but seeking footholds presently round a corner he realized that in spite of the setback the other two must be already inside.
Fingers bleeding, bruised and grazed by the stone, he was quite unaware of discomfort; only of the need to reach the belfry fast … at the very worst, before the rope-crossing from church to château had been completed. He gazed upwards, impatient of the noble Franco-Scot labouring in his wake.
Above his head, trailing, abandoned and God-given, was a length of rope. Upwards it wound, above his head, as far as he could see, and disappeared, if it ended at all, not far short of the belfry itself. In two steps he had reached it and, firmly straddled, had tested it with one hand and then both. Then, slowly and cautiously, he began to edge up.
It bore his weight without difficulty. After a moment, accepting the calculated risk as calmly as in battle, he brought his feet to grip the rope also, and climbed up.
Far below in the street they watched it; saw the free end whip beneath him and the rope sway and jerk over the uneven stones of the tower. Far above their heads, something moved in the night air, something mighty and echoing, as if a hollow wind had passed over and, passing, sucked in its breath. It came again, a shaking of the air, a word spoken a universe away by an awful and inhuman tongue.