Queens' Play (24 page)

It was, in fact,
Renommée
, nestling with its clues in the carved frontage of a draper’s house in the Place; and when the next, in the Rue du Palais, turned out to be
Justice
, Stewart saw what he meant.

Ballagh had been right also about the horseplay. They were all on top of one another again, and it was both drunken and rough. Ropes were hacked at without mercy for those suspended; gutters kicked down and tiles dislodged; elbows, knees and feet brought brutally into play. Stewart, tripped up neatly from the shadows, had a fall of twenty feet, ultimately and safely ended in thatch. De Genstan, who perpetrated it, was caught, as he ran along an exposed upper gallery, by the contents of some sleeper’s slop bucket, hurled with a soft Irish benediction full in his face.

Stewart himself saw it, his eyes shining. Outside himself at last, he had no fear. Even when hurtling down among the chimneys he had an absolute belief in his own salvation, and rose unharmed and unshaken.

It was as well, for a new challenge was appearing. As much as a steeplechase now, it was hide and seek. Their brains were well matched. The subtleties of the acrostics gave them pause more than once, but only briefly. The real test was one of agility and ingenuity and pure stamina.

And here, taking over as the Constable’s nephews, the Colignys and the de Guises—tripping each other up, exploding into laughter, clattering down the rooftops on tin trays and pelting one another with eggs from some long defunct nest—began to lose the sharp sense, of contest, were Jacques d’Albon, Marshal de St. André, and de Genstan his partner. Courtier, diplomat and fighting man, hated by the King’s father and most dearly loved by the King, St. André was trained to an inch, sinew, muscle and brain. As windows lit behind them in street after street, as the spectators, the admirers, the rabble coursing below them along the route roared their acclaim; he began to press forward.

Many of the locations properly vacant in the daytime were far from so in the middle of the night. Ten little girls in a convent dormitory giggled, squealed, or hid under the bedclothes, as one by one, the window was darkened by six or seven gallants, each in turn dropping to the floor and subjecting the fireplace to a search. The Mother Superior arrived running as the last well-muscled leg shot round the shutters and, trapped in a fog of hysteria, did not find until morning the discarded shift blatant on the highest finial of all.

It was about this time that St. André and de Genstan passed them and Thady Boy, who had prepared for the circumstance two streets ago, cracked a jar of rose attar and lobbed the contents at the Marshal as he went. The crowd yelled; the victim swore, choking, in rivers of pomade; and Robin Stewart laughed till he cried.

Then it was their eleventh call, in the market square near the quays, with the Loire running black under the arches of the bridge. Above and behind them loomed the high town they had left. They were nearly home.

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.

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 had only to cut it, and the last clue was theirs.

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.