Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
He had got so far when the yard gates burst open. The push d’Harcourt gave him almost unbalanced Lymond, but he held hard to the peeling wood of the fence and then, against all the thrust of d’Harcourt’s arm, half fell, half jumped down inside the yard once again. He said, ‘You can’t climb with one hand.’
D’Harcourt said, ‘You fool! You fool …!’ And as Lymond resisted his attempts to push him away, the other man broke suddenly loose and ran straight into the oncoming enemy.
Lymond heard it happen: heard his scream in the midst of the clash of steel: d’Harcourt must have had a knife also, and he must have used it. In the dark, whatever their orders, no one’s men at arms were going to be especially gentle with that. Then he heard another sound, a long bubbling moan which he had heard too often to make any mistake about. And, turning, Francis Crawford moved silently from the sound and, finding the place d’Harcourt had shown him, pulled himself achingly up, and over the top. He did not know how big the drop was. But he lowered himself until he hung by his fingertips, and then jumped.
It was a little farther than he had hoped. He arrived sprawling on the cobbles, and then, rolling over, collected himself. The men were inside the yard, arguing. In a moment, having slain his protector, they were going to renew the hunt for himself. He found he did not greatly care. Breathing in long, retching gasps he stood for a moment where he was, his head resting against the too-high fence, his mind on Ludovic d’Harcourt. And only slowly became aware of something else: a rumour of scent; a perfume which was not that of clove-gillyflowers, or herbs, or sweetbriars, or the white double violet which comes twice a year.
He said, his eyes closed, ‘Beshrew Loose Ladies in the Night. You use your scents like a Turkish concubine. I wish you would throw them away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Philippa said. ‘You are standing under a lamp. Where are you going?’
‘A boat for Greenwich,’ Lymond said. He stared into the darkness. ‘They have killed d’Harcourt.’
‘I heard,’ Philippa said. ‘He came for me. Give me your hand.’
And as his spread hand was taken, and he felt her other hand on his arm, authoritatively pushing and steering, he said, ‘You know?’
‘That your headaches lead to blindness? Yes, I know,’ Philippa said. ‘But be quiet. Or they will hear us.’ And after that, she did not speak again for a very long time.
He did not therefore know which wharf she finally took him to, or how she found the boat into which someone pulled him. There seemed to be several men rowing and, from the conversation and the wind on his face, a small sail, which lent them suddenly an extra impulse of speed, tipping the boat so that he was turned over, on the sacking someone had put under his head.
He had not been quite conscious but he awakened sufficiently to think that the vessel was riding too smoothly to be going against the tide. That meant that the full span of a tide, with a little over to allow for the turn … that meant that, at worst, six hours had to elapse before Jenkinson’s fleet could lift anchor and set sail from Gravesend. And perhaps more. The tide still seemed to be running strongly. He
said, not knowing how far to project his voice, ‘What time is it? Philippa?’
And Philippa’s voice said, ‘I’m not sure. But the helmsman thinks you will do it. If you will lie still, I am going to lay a dripping wet handkerchief over your forehead. The smell I can do nothing about. But it will perhaps drown my scent.’
He could not remember saying anything about her scent. After a moment the promised wet handkerchief did arrive, and water ran down into his hair. It was another sensation, if it did not signally help. He said, ‘Have you enough money?’ because he did not wish the sum he carried to be known, and she said, ‘Yes. We have reached an agreement. They will take us all the way to Gravesend. Will that do, or did you want to be put off at Greenwich?’
The barge at Greenwich might even have gone. And he did not feel capable of explaining to an irate captain and his escort and rowers, precisely what had happened, and that he himself had had no part in the attack on them. He said, ‘All the way,’ in the kind of encapsulated speech which had proved most successful lately and went to sleep. Or so he supposed.
When he wakened, how much later he did not know, the motion of the boat was much rougher, and he could feel it labouring against the kicked waves of the contrary tide. He said, ‘How much farther? What time is it, Philippa?’
And Philippa’s voice, from the same place, said ‘It is nearly the turn of the tide. I can see a group of masthead lights, lying down river. It will be dawn soon, and we can wave.’
His eyes closed, unsolicited, with the relief of it. Philippa said, ‘How long do these attacks last?’
He said, still with closed eyes, ‘Not so long, as a rule. I had a blow on the head.’ And, reminded of something: ‘Philippa? Do you know who sent the boat which took me from the royal barge? Who else besides Alec and Fergie doesn’t want me to go back to Russia?’
He heard her change position. And when she next spoke, it was apparent that her back this time was to the rowers, and her voice was lowered as well. ‘The French Ambassador,’ Philippa said. ‘And the Queen’s sister, the lady Elizabeth.’
He had no need, any longer, to speak in monosyllables. The thunderous weight was lifting; his head ached, but he was able to think, in some manner. The sense of Philippa’s presence returned: soon he would be able to see her. Lymond said, but not as he had said it once before, ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I went to Michiel Surian,’ Philippa said. ‘The new Venetian Ambassador. I met him before, when I passed through Venice with the child.’
‘His name is still Kuzúm,’ Lymond said.
‘I am becoming used to it,’ said Philippa curtly. ‘We are not all able to arrange our changes of sentiment quite so quickly. I called on Surian and told him of the lady Elizabeth’s concern that the King of France’s good name should not suffer as a result of anything found in the Earl of Devonshire’s papers at Padua. The Ambassador was most sympathetic. I was to tell the Queen’s grace’s sister that there was not the remotest cause for anxiety. All the relevant papers, he revealed, had been extracted by the Council of Ten before the casket ever left Padua. There followed a good deal of talk.’
‘But at the end of the talk?’ Lymond said.
‘He gave me the documents. That is, the papers affecting France and the lady Elizabeth. I took them to John Dee. And John Dee sent the clockwork owl to Madam Elizabeth. She sent it back last week, saying she had no desire to keep it, but that she wished to know of any piece of my property which I was discarding, that it might come to her. And in the owl’s belly, where we had put the papers, were the ashes of the letters, and a glove, addressed to
the new mapmaker from Scotland.’
‘A happy conceit,’ said Lymond blankly, ‘I seem to attract them.’
‘I left it with Dee. It should be with the rest of your baggage.’ He could hear her prepare to ask the next question. ‘Did you find your gold?’
‘If you had waited,’ Lymond said, ‘you would have seen.… We appear, from what I can see, to have launched a combined attack, you and I, on the worthy ministers of France and Venice and Spain. While you were making heartless use of the Venetian Ambassador, I had already warned King Philip that the Doge had taken Courtenay’s more treasonable papers. King Philip didn’t want a rush of opinion against his wife’s sister either. I felt sure he would find and suppress them.’
‘Not for nothing,’ said Philippa flatly, ‘have you and Master Dee between you the best espionage network in Europe. If Queen Mary dies, Philip is preparing to marry Elizabeth.’
‘He must have been puzzled,’ said Lymond restlessly, ‘when the Venetian Ambassador helpfully made him a gift of all Courtenay’s missing correspondence, and it proved to make no mention whatever of Elizabeth. Do you suppose they think we have been in collusion?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ Philippa said. She sounded abstracted. After a moment she said, ‘Are you feeling better? It is much lighter now.’
‘And …?’ said Lymond. He was beginning to recognize the signs of deceit. ‘And there are two boats this time, following us. We are quite close to the ships,’ Philippa said. And now he could hear the edge of anxiety in her clear voice.
‘How close? Do they have hackbuts?’
‘I can’t see.’ After a moment, Philippa said, ‘I have tied a white kerchief to an oar. I think the
Primrose
might see us.’
‘The tide?’ said Lymond, sitting up. While they had been speaking, the motion of the small boat had altered.
‘It’s slack water. Someone is waving from the
Evangelist
. And the
Primrose
. The
Primrose
…’ She stopped the quick, chattering commentary.
‘What?’ Lymond said, overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion and anger at his helplessness.
‘She is weighing her anchor.’
Behind them, a hackbut spoke, like the single bark of a dog, unmistakable through the coarse orchestration of their sailing. ‘Is she moving yet?’ Lymond said.
‘No.’
‘Is she towing her pinnace?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then,’ said Lymond, ‘can you get me at least to the pinnace? Or are the other boats coming too fast? In any case.… Wait: What will you say when they question you?’
Philippa considered. ‘That you told me this was a French ship,’ she said.
‘Called,’ said Lymond curtly, ‘the
Primrose
?’
‘It isn’t quite light,’ Philippa said. ‘I could be imposed upon very plausibly. I am afraid,’ as a ball whined suddenly just over their heads, ‘that we shall have to take to the water.… Or no. Here we are.’
There was the little shock of two boats touching, and they came into the shadow of something so high that it made the wind eddy, and shut off the light he could sense now, dimly through his eddying, thickly masked sight. Hands grasped his elbows and, as another hackbut spoke, he found his balance with one hand on the gunwale of a pinnace which began to move as soon as he was on board, sheering through the water in a sweep which rocked him staggering, as hands high above hauled on the lashing, and brought the pinnace to her parent ship’s side.
There was a soft hiss, lost suddenly in the greater noise of deep water pouring; and above, a glare in the mist of his sight as a sail broke out, and lifted the ship suddenly into surging motion. The pinnace, made fast from above, continued to ride jarring against her straw fenders and Lymond, moving slowly, ranged her starboard side with one hand outstretched until he found what he wanted: a rope ladder hanging waiting, down the
Primrose
’s tall sides.
A gun sounded again, but half-heartedly. The noise of men’s voices from below and behind started to dwindle. Philippa had said nothing more or even, that he had heard, wished him God speed. Lymond paused, with one hand gripping the damp, knotted beard of the rope
and choosing vaguely the direction in which he supposed her boat to be resting, smiled and lifted one hand.
He hoped, putting a certain insouciance into it, that she would be reassured that his sight had returned and wished, with some grimness, that he did not have to do what he was about to do entirely by sense of touch. But since there was no alternative, he grasped the rope firmly with one hand and then with two, and confided his blind weight to the crumpled, swaying, interminable ladder.
His sight cleared as he reached the top, in the way it did, suddenly, and he grasped the stanchions and managed without trouble the manoeuvre from ladder to deck, with many hands helping until he stood presently safe at the top, seeing dry and clean and swelling above him the wings of the new sails, pink with the high spreading radiance of sunrise.
On either side the smooth river, filled with the dawn, and rushing against the green English banks, with the scent of hawthorn reaching out over the water as the scent of the little cinnamon rose reached out over the waters in Muscovy, when one dropped anchor after the days of strain and hunger and deprivation; of fogs and white, sheathing ice and the growl of the whirlpool which, sometimes, one fed with oatmeal and butter. After the days of testing and trial and companionship, with Jenkinson, whom he might dislike or whom he might find tolerable; and Best, who was a good, harmless fellow; and Buckland, who knew his job and would be content, now and always, to tread the new road another had mapped for him.
He would have to soothe Nepeja’s mistrust and regain the confidence of the Russians serving him. He would have to be careful not to offend the new pilot of the fleet with remembered advice, or warnings from other times: for Jenkinson, this voyage was one of discovery, and he had others and more strange to make. And then at night, with borrowed paper and pen, he must try to recover, as clearly and meticulously as he might, all that he had learned of value to Muscovy: all that he had been shown; all that he had read; all he had been told. The contents, however meagre, of the books he had not been permitted to bring. The advice, however ill-understood, of all the men of skill he had consulted. And then, back in Moscow, for this lonely and passionate man, he would construct a nation.
Francis Crawford looked up at the sails, his face quiet, his eyes clear and bright, and saw for the first time, flying free from the masthead, the long, silken banner bearing the lilies of France.
*
She wept slowly for the deception, as the pursuing boats closed in behind her, and the men called, who were not the minions of the
French Ambassador or of Madam Elizabeth, but the officers of King Philip, who had sought Francis Crawford in vain through all the dark streets of London, to bring him succour and help him to the wish of his heart: the hard journey across time and history which would take him to Muscovy.
They called from their boats and she answered, though not as she said she would answer. When asked why she had allowed a ship bound for France to take Lymond, she complained that she had been told the French ship was the
Primrose
. And they believed her, she gathered. Nor did they query the number and style of her oarsmen.
The French on board that brave, painted caravel would make Francis Crawford welcome, for England had closed its gates on them, as on him. Awaiting him, he would find all his possessions, privily loaded by secret and powerful hands; and the four men: Guthrie, Hoddim, Blacklock and Hislop who, like herself, had conspired against him and had defeated him, through the strength of the bond he had spent two years attempting to sever.