‘To swim?’ said that unprepossessing child guilelessly. ‘I can stand on my head.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Jerott morosely. ‘Why in hell did you come?’
The brown eyes within the damp, dun-coloured hair inspected him narrowly. ‘Because you need a woman,’ said Philippa finally.
‘And I’m the nearest thing to it that you’re likely to get. It was very short notice.’ She stopped short on the stairs and said, in the voice of discovery, ‘You’re afraid of him!’
Jerott’s expression was affably menacing. ‘And you think that because he’s an old friend of your mother’s he’ll spare you. He won’t.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Philippa. She wasn’t actually listening. They arrived at ground level and took up their stance behind an arrangement of towels, from which they had an excellent view both of the pool and of the man known to most people, briefly, as Lymond.
Francis Crawford had seen them. What he thought about it was unlikely to be visible, through a long-practised sophistication of response. His voice, conversing softly with the controller, did not falter, nor did his hands, dealing the cards. The game drew to a close, in Master Zitwitz’s favour, and a pile of gold gulden changed hands. The older of the two nuns, sitting beyond the controller, made a shy comment and the fair-haired man answered, his hands busy with a fresh game. The cards flipped. His nationality, which was Scottish, showed in neither his face nor his voice, which he had raised a little to carry over the noise of laughter and music and splashing: he detained the board and held it steady as two girls, pursued sluggishly by an elderly senator, curvetted past.
The farther nun, the plain one, leaned forward and said in Spanish-accented English, ‘We were two years, sir, in Algiers before we escaped in October, Our sufferings may be imagined. Moors, corsairs, heretics cast out of Spain.… Turkish Spahis strut in the streets and because the Pasha is a puppet of that accursed of God, Sultan Suleiman, Christian prisoners are treated like hogs. Have you seen——’
A handful of gulden slipped, sparkling, into the water and there was a wallow as several hands urgently sought them. They were now playing passe-dix, and the black-haired lady’s husband had joined them. The black-haired lady suddenly giggled. Righting the board: ‘Banker’s share, I believe,’ said Crawford of Lymond courteously. ‘I beg your pardon, Sister. You were saying?’ Gold—a large amount of gold—changed hands.
The colour was high in the plainer nun’s face. ‘I was saying—have you ever been at a ganching? Seen a man’s feet roasted black in his shoes? Needles driven into his fingers? Have you ever seen a friend flayed alive with such art he took three hours dying, and his skin then stuffed back to its life-shape with straw? Have you ever seen half a man cauterized on a red hot brass shield so that he lives a little time longer? Medicinal baths!’ said the older nun bitterly. ‘What can hot baths do for our scars?’
Her voice, at the sharp pitch of hysteria, carried even to where Jerott and Philippa stood. The decorative lady, paling, recoiled into the arms of her husband, and her husband, a stout soap-broker from Munich, expressed his displeasure. ‘There are women present,’ he said.
‘So there are,’ said Francis Crawford gently, and throwing a ten, passed the dice into the capable hands of the household controller. ‘Not a fashionable topic. Why not come back after dinner?’
Onophrion Zitwitz, arrested, the dice in his fingers, put in a question. ‘You speak of horrible tortures. But women and children surely were not subject to these?’
The young nun answered. ‘They have other uses for them,’ she said bitterly. ‘I was a slave in the corsair Dragut’s own palace. I saw his women—Spanish, French, Italian, Irish. I was at the branding of all his poor children. To some women, degradation like that is the worst sort of torture.’
There was a small silence, in which Philippa’s epiglottis popped like a cork. Beside her, Jerott’s breathing faltered in the same moment and resumed, shallowly, as he went on straining to hear. The steam drifted, lazily, and there was a little fuss as an old lady was carried out, overcome by the fumes. The viol, which had paused for its rest break, resumed softly, some distance away. Lymond, who had received some gold coins from both Zitwitz and the soap-broker, was counting them. The soap-broker’s wife stretched her legs idly under the water.
After a long moment: ‘She might have been Queen of Ireland, she told me, that black-haired Irishwoman,’ said the young nun sulkily. ‘And the golden child on her knee.’
There fell a weighty silence again, filled with the rattle of dice. A small crisis in the passe-dix arrived and departed. The soap-broker threw, followed by Zitwitz, followed by Lymond, who still appeared to be abstractedly considering his money. He threw less than ten, and confronted by the controller’s outstretched hand, turned to the younger and prettier nun who had last spoken. ‘I’m sorry, mi bella, but I need my loose change.’
The nun flinched. The older sister, leaning over her, exclaimed, ‘Sister Anne has no money! What are you saying!’ The soap-broker looked outraged.
Francis Crawford’s voice was quite peaceful. ‘That she has twenty gold pieces trapped under her foot.’
Master Zitwitz suddenly said, ‘Ah!’ Both nuns had gone patchily scarlet and white. The older one said hoarsely, ‘You are baiting us! I shall appeal to the Cardinal!’
‘No need,’ said Lymond. And bending, he caught Sister Anne by both ankles and hurled them up over her head.
Whether she had purloined coins under her feet was not at that moment immediately evident. Her shout, and the tidal wave which went with it, brought each flaccid bather horrified to his feet. As Sister Anne floundered: ‘Now, by God!’ said the broker, and lunging, tripped over the large form of Master Zitwitz who, head dripping, had come up for air. ‘You were right, sir!’ said the household controller. ‘She had stolen——’ Then the broker’s shin cracked on his neck, and the waters closed over Master Zitwitz again.
The merchant’s wife suddenly giggled and Lymond also broke water, smoothly. The older nun, her feet pulled from beneath her by some unknown agency, disappeared likewise in a whirl of steam and a blizzard of water. Combers, running from side to medicinal side of the pool, overturned trays, wine, food and the more sportive bathers: the merchant, who had discovered why his wife giggled, advanced on Lymond through the water with dreamlike slowness, a pewter jug in his hand.
Lymond ducked. An attendant, running behind, seized his upflung arm, and Lymond, bending smartly, somersaulted him into the pool. He dodged another and watched, admiringly, as the controller, a majestic figure rising mother-naked from the depths, seized another by the liveried waist and delivered him into the arms of a Cardinal. Someone seized the soap-merchant’s wife, who was now laughing incessantly, and there was the sound of cloth tearing as she passed down the length of the pool.
Water leaped and spewed over the tiles unheard in the clamour of voices. Forms, pink and uninhibited, appeared and disappeared above the boiling arena: the viol, screaming, disappeared in a fountain of spray. Lymond, ripping out timber partitions from the seats and using them alternately as weapon and shield, was upholding his rights joyously against soap-broker, attendants and Church, Master Zitwitz aiding him stoutly, when he saw that the two nuns, struggling through the many-tongued steam, had found their way to the steps.
Philippa and Jerott Blyth saw them too. Standing, restrained by Jerott’s arm, not knowing whether to screech or to squeal with shocked laughter, Philippa saw the older nun climb out of the pool first, terror stark on her face, her draggled cotton clutched fast about her. She glanced at the dark-haired man and the girl, once, and then made for the robing-room like a sack of hysterical turnips.
Sister Anne was not quite so agile. As she clambered after, Lymond’s strong hand closed on her ankle, and she stopped, gasping, and turned.
Against the swirling fogs of battle behind him, Lymond’s lustrous blue eyes surveyed her with an air strictly practical. Ignoring the hubbub approaching, he changed his
grip, pinning her hard with her back to the ladder, and, lifting finger and thumb to her chin, ripped the thin cotton bathrobe in two pieces from collar to hem.
They sagged sodden apart, while the blue stare slid over her. The nun said nothing. Then Francis Crawford, grasping her arm, looked up and straight into Philippa’s powerful stare.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Lymond. And the nun, twisting herself from his arms, clambered over the top of the stairway and bolted.
For a moment in time, Francis Crawford halted, looking at Jerott, arrived at Philippa’s side. Steam, exquisitely apt, coiled round all his bare body, and the twist of linen encircling his waist. ‘Did you see that?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Jerott.
‘Good. Come and see more,’ said Lymond, and shot off after the nuns to the robing-room. Philippa followed, slowly, her lips pressed together to stop her chin wobbling, until Jerott told her to stay where she was.
Afterwards she remembered that Lymond had flung open the door of the women’s changing-room just as some old woman pelted out, screaming. Then everyone went in, except herself, and there was a lot of shouting, and after a time an enormous pink man, whom she recognized as the card-player called Zitwitz, dressed in a white muslin chlamys, emerged and crossed to her. ‘You are Philippa Somerville. Let us sit down.’ They sat, beside the ruins of the pool, on a cold, marble bench.
‘I,’ said her large and unusual companion, ‘am Onophrion Zitwitz of Basle, controller of gentlemen’s households. You may address me as Master Onophrion. There has been a sad event, and your friends have asked me to stay with you until it is settled. The two unfortunate ladies are dead.’
After a glottal interval: ‘Dead!’ exclaimed Philippa. ‘How?’
The well-groomed, large-featured head inclined thoughtfully. ‘How, by a knife. The throat of each had been cut. By whom, it is not known. The rooms were empty, but there are several doors. The woman who found them had just come in by another.’
‘Why?’ said Philippa, asking her last question; and the controller stroking his august nose, eyed her before answering.
‘As to that … it is known that the poor ladies were masquerading. They were not, for example, nuns.’
A faint radiance, beginning at the nose, slowly began to inform Philippa’s face. ‘Then perhaps Sister Anne really purloined the money?’
‘She did.’
‘They were thieves?’
‘They were more.’ Master Zitwitz the household controller gave a brief cough. ‘Under the robes, I must in all fairness inform you, both the young lady and the older one were painted.’
‘So that’s why …’ said Philippa, and seizing her drooping, mud-coloured hair, tied it briskly together under her chin. ‘But how did Mr Crawford suspect?’
‘I gather,’ said the controller austerely, ‘that their toenails were orange. In greater detail I did not feel it necessary to inquire.’
He chatted to her, for which she was grateful, until Jerott returned and took her back to their inn.
It was some time later when Francis Crawford was able to leave the scene of the turmoil, and later still when, by arrangement, Jerott and Philippa arrived at the Engel to dine with him.
Crossing the lamplit snow, Jerott was silent. He led Philippa upstairs, knocked on Lymond’s door, and shoving it open demanded grimly, ‘How many batzen did it take to smooth over that little incident?’ Philippa, smiling at the big Moor Salablanca who came to slip off her cloak, knew his anger to be defensive. Her feet were cold. She smoothed down the creased folds of what had been her best farthingale, and wished the buckled hemline showed less, where it had shrunk.
Lymond, standing totally dressed in front of the fire, waited until the door had closed behind Salablanca and then spoke with precision to Jerott. ‘You are not here, I take it, because you have palsy, running gout or worms in the belly, but to interfere in my affairs. When I wish to be followed like a bitch in season, I shall tell you so.’ The arbitrary blue gaze switched to Philippa. ‘And where does your mother imagine you are?’
Only three months since, back in Scotland, he had called her his friend, although she was English and he Scots. That was when he had matched his wits against the man called Graham Reid Malett, whose nickname was Gabriel. And although he had prevailed, Gabriel had escaped and fled overseas. Philippa said, temperately, ‘My mother thinks I’m with Lord Grey’s wife in London. I was, but I got to Guisnes, and Mr Guthrie took me to Nantes, and Mr Blyth brought me here.’
‘How benign of them,’ said Lymond. ‘I understood that, in my absence, Mr Guthrie was mustering my company at Sevigny and that Mr Blyth was taking it to the French camp at Hesdin. I have, after all, accepted the King’s hire and paid you to fight.’
Jerott Blyth pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly to Philippa. Below the smooth tan, his skin was carnation-coloured from the obstinate jaw to the fall of his splendid black hair. ‘Unless, of course, your mother’s dear friend is proposing to throw you out in the snow.’ Erect and hostile, he faced Francis Crawford. ‘The company is already on its way to Hesdin under Alec Guthrie and Adam Blacklock. By my own request I was relieved of the command.’
‘I am enchanted to hear it,’ said Lymond. ‘You are now free to take the girl back to Hexham, starting tomorrow. If you will ring the bell nearest to you, I believe they will bring us some food.’ He wore dark velvet over dark, toning satin, and a ring of some price on one hand.
Jerott made no move to the bell. ‘We are surely agreed,’ he said, ‘that Graham Reid Malett must be found, and when found, must be killed. He’s evil; he’s dangerous. He’ll never forgive us for what we did to him in Scotland. He will certainly kill you if he can.… You know what else he can do. I demand,’ said Jerott staunchly, ‘to take my share in the execution. I am staying. And if you think you can make Philippa go back to England, good luck to you. It’s more than Guthrie or I managed to do.’
Francis Crawford of Lymond, Comte de Sevigny, walked slowly towards them. He lifted the small brass bell from the table, rang and replaced it, allowing the unflattering stare to move from Philippa’s unwashed brown rats’ tails to Jerott’s prickly splendours. ‘But I’m not going to kill Graham Reid Malett,’ said Lymond. ‘So you might as well pack your godly emotions into your bronze chariot and get back to Malta, don’t you suppose?’
‘And that’s a bloody lie. You’re going to kill him all right,’ said Jerott Blyth. ‘Unless he kills you first. He found you today, didn’t he? Or his agents did. They could hardly help it with your coat of arms painted all over Baden.… You were meant to believe those nuns and go to Algiers, weren’t you? Are you trying to tell me that wasn’t Gabriel’s work?’
‘Oh, Graham Malett arranged it,’ said Lymond. ‘Through our ardent friend in shell-pink, I believe. The nuns were killed when he saw their little deception had failed.’
‘And a fine death you’d have met in Algiers if you’d fallen into the trap.’
‘Yes. Expensive, of course,’ said Lymond. ‘After all, if he could have the two nuns killed, why not simply cut my throat here? Think of all the wages he’d save.’
‘No,’ said Philippa reflectively. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud; and scarcely knew indeed that she had done so: it was a problem which interested her. ‘Having to fly from Scotland meant a frightful loss of face for him, surely. After all, he used to be a Knight Grand Cross of Malta fighting for Christ, and now he’s a renegade without standing in Malta or Scotland. He’s a lot of old scores to wipe off before he kills Mr Crawford. If I were Gabriel,’ said Philippa, her brown eyes accusing, ‘I’d want to humiliate him first. I’d taunt him: I’d shame him. And then I’d kill him, I think.’
She looked up. Above her, Lymond had come to rest by her chair and, arms crossed, was studying her face. ‘Pigged, I see, with a full set of teeth,’ he observed. And, echoing Jerott, ‘So why in hell have you come?’
Philippa’s gaze, bright and owlish and obstinate, held his to the e
nd. ‘To look after the baby,’ she answered. And disconcertingly, after a second’s blank pause, Francis Crawford flung back his damp head and laughed.
Opening the door after tapping three times, Master Zitwitz, the duke’s household controller, was a little put off by that laughter. He coughed, sonorously, and banged again on the door since, although he was inside the room, none of the three already there appeared to have noticed him. Then Lymond turned, and recognized him at once. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘We were having a little reunion. It’s Master Zitwitz, without whose powerful defence I should have lost my virtue to a soap-merchant’s lady. Sir, you fought like Zeus demolishing Titans: I am your debtor.’ There was a shadow of amusement still in his voice. Philippa, a pain in her middle, sat watching them both.
‘M. le Comte, it was a privilege. I have seen many gentlemen enjoying themselves with a game of cards or a fight, but never a performance of both so aristocratic,’ said Onophrion Zitwitz. Below the opulent features, hairlessly moulded in pink marzipan, the controller’s large body was dressed in sober brown short coat and breeches, with the smallest curled feather in his flat, matching cap. His voice, a musical light tenor surprising in that solid, Swiss bulk, became modestly hesitant. ‘In fact, my winnings being something considerable, I have ventured to show my appreciation. The dressing of meat in this inn is better than in most, but I should not call the roasting-shop proprietor a genius: he needs to be supervised and he is prodigal, prodigal, with the inferior spices. So I took the liberty … you have not yet dined?’
As in a trance, his three auditors shook their heads.
‘Good. I have taken the liberty of preparing your supper myself. This afternoon I chose the butters, the meats and the cheeses; I have made the bread and prepared the pastries. You have not tasted, I think, the roast venison we make in the castle, just moistened with wine, and with our black cherry sauce? The duke, I sometimes think, does not fully appreciate it. He is an old man. I choose his wines and select his clothes and make up his herbs and his physics, but my talents, I fear, are not used to the full. Not at all stretched.’