For the two weeks of the voyage, Gelis van Borselen and her husband were together for the first continuous spell since their marriage. Together, that is, in the sense that they travelled aboard the same vessel.
After Hesdin, the journey to Calais had been made bearable by the logistics of travel. Nicholas had a convoy to lead, and his wife was injured and needed attention. Her maid had departed, refusing to sail off the top of the world with two nurses. Gelis travelled to the coast in the cart with the child, and slept with the child and Mistress Clémence and Pasque, who cared for Gelis too. Nicholas shared the quarters and table of his officers: Michael Crackbene, le Grant and Father Moriz.
All of these came to pay their respects, but the first two had little to say and did not return. Only the sturdy bow-legged pastor sometimes remained, passing the time with the child and his nurses whom he had already befriended in camp. She was aware that he was available if she wanted to talk. She had no wish to talk to a henchman of Nicholas. She had to build, and was still finding the bricks. She did not know, and would have been horrified to learn, that Mistress Clémence had asked Father Moriz to be her confessor.
The child had dropped readily into his old confiding relationship with her, which was exactly the same as the one he had with his nurses. Time spent with Mistress Clémence had confirmed what she could now deduce for herself: that in her absence Nicholas had been impeccable with the child, and consistently agreeable to the nurses. Mistress Clémence, true to her training, had offered no further comment on what had happened at Hesdin, and her manner to Gelis was precisely as it had been since the birth of the child.
In this at least, Nicholas had played fair: neither child nor nurses had been set against her. Only sometimes, in the knowledgeable eye and hoarse banter of Pasque (c’est un bachique!) did Gelis guess that something about Nicholas had appealed to the outrageous old dame and might, too, have touched the nurse of superior education, better able to conceal it. It was not unexpected. Gelis knew how Nicholas set about making friends.
She should have expected, therefore, that on board ship he would do what he did, which was to turn the same skills on herself. For the sake of the child, she shared as before the child’s sleeping quarters. The intimacy of marriage was therefore plausibly lacking, but in every other way he remained in public her husband and friend. When, watching the coast recede, she had found him at her side, the screaming Jordan clutching his neck, she had been dazed by the affectionate ease of his manner. He spoke to her as she had heard him speak to Tilde or Margot, or – long, long ago – to the gentle black girl whom his friend Umar had married. And Gelis, staring back at him dumbly, had had to fight an impulse to tears, because Umar and Zuhra were dead, and because he was acting.
Her son was screaming with joy. She had forgotten that Jordan had recently made his home for many weeks on a ship. She had forgotten that his father had first come to him like this, between water and air, on swaying decks, among the cords which Clémence had put up so deftly in the first moments on board.
The truth was, of course, that Nicholas was not playing fair. To Jordan, his father was the first person, the only person who belonged to a ship: the magician who might be anywhere from helm to forecastle, from the depths of the hatches to high by the flag in the rigging. And she had forgotten that Nicholas was happy at sea. Sailing out from Lagos bound for Africa on his wonderful ship the San Niccolò, she had never seen him so happy, except when she had made him so herself.
Jordan was crowing, and Nicholas was looking at her with an easy replica of the open, generous smile that he had turned, too, on Tilde and Margot, on Katelina and Marian, on Umar and Zuhra and herself. His eyes were pin-sharp as a kite’s and even held some amusement. She walked away.
Of the others on board, John le Grant saw what was happening but ignored it. He belonged to Scotland and was reasonably interested in coming back, and extremely interested in the opportunities lying ahead of him. He was not at all interested in the marital problems of Nicholas. That said, he twice received the rough edge of Mistress Clémence’s tongue for showing the child tricks with tinder and alum.
Moriz, being a priest, was here for the opposite reason. He should be in Venice, not here: there were sensible reasons why Nicholas had expected him to stay behind, apart from the fact that he knew nothing of Scotland. Both he and Nicholas knew that he was here because of what had happened with Gelis. When Nicholas allowed him to come, it had been a sign of exasperation, not acquiescence. These days, Nicholas wouldn’t lose sleep over a small German priest threatening hellfire.
The same view, Father Moriz had found, was held by the lady. She had kept him at a distance on the journey from Venice to Brixen, as she was polite on the journey to Calais and after. He was not a patient man. The first rough day at sea, when the child was to be seen drenched to the skin and whooping with glee in the grasp of Mistress Clémence or his father, Moriz marched below to the lady.
She had looked surprised but had admitted him. She had been writing, with difficulty. He helped her stopper her ink; she had already turned over her papers. She was undisturbed, he saw, by the motion. He wished he could say the same. Shortening matters, he sat down and said, ‘I am here to tell you, madame, that I am not your husband’s spaniel nor am I yours. I see you are in difficulty, and I am a man of experience. I propose therefore to offer myself as a mediator. What may I do for you?’
She secured the last of her pens and sat back, her free hand nursing the arm that was bound. ‘Difficulty?’ she said. ‘You are very kind, but truly there exists no special difficulty. Or if there did, it has been resolved.’ Her colouring was so fair that he couldn’t determine the state of her health, or her feelings. Her eyes, of a very pale blue, were not as grave as her voice.
Moriz said, ‘In my opinion, your husband has forced you to come, perhaps by threatening to deny you the boy. I am willing to speak to him, if you will tell me what to say.’
She looked at him. Something slid over the floorboards, hesitated, and slid back again. Above, there was a regular bumping. Gelis van Borselen said, ‘I am not, myself, short of words. If it seemed that a third person might help, then I should gladly invite you. But Nicholas and I understand one another very well.’
‘I am sure you do,’ Moriz said. ‘I think you are under pressure to stay.’
Gelis rose, steadying herself with one hand. She said, ‘Please don’t trouble. There is no pressure. I want to stay.’
‘Because you want this wrangling to go on?’
The motion was slackening. He rose as well, keeping his balance, trying to read her calm face. She said, ‘Ask him if he wants to stop.’
She was waiting for him to leave. He stood in thought. Then he said, ‘I have to tell you that I think he is stronger than you are.’
She returned his look, swaying in silence. ‘You think so?’ said Gelis. She watched him shake his head and walk to the door. When he got there she said, ‘Speak to Nicholas. He will tell you the same.’
Isolating Nicholas, as he must, was more difficult. The chance came on a day of light seas, and Moriz’s journey was vertical, since Nicholas was perched high aloft in the mast-basket. He showed no surprise as the priest settled beside him. ‘You’ve come to talk about Gelis,’ he said. His voice, snatched by the wind, sounded mild.
‘You haven’t thought,’ said Father Moriz, ‘that she might take her own life if you go on? She was close to it in Venice.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ Nicholas said. ‘And she won’t, any more than I should. You don’t know her.’
‘And you do?’ said Father Moriz. ‘So tell me what she holds against you.’
‘That my name is no longer Claes. That I marry too many people. That I have an illegitimate child. Godscalc surely told you,’ he said.
‘But this has gone on for three years between you,’ said Moriz.
‘We like it,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why we never quite kill one another. But those who interfere might be less lucky
.’
‘No one could be less lucky than Gelis,’ said the priest. ‘What will happen next time? Do you reduce her to her bed, or her grave?’
‘You speak,’ said Nicholas, ‘as if I meant to chain her for the rest of her life to the bed-foot. She is free to leave at any time.’
‘But without the child.’
‘Of course, without the child.’
‘So she is chained. What life is that for her, or for the boy? Or for you, for that matter? She is a good mother,’ said Moriz. ‘Don’t be stupid. Let her go, and the child. She won’t prevent you, surely, from seeing him.’ The ties of his cap flew whipping under his chin and the wind tugged at his sleeves. The mast swayed and Nicholas, shifting his grip, pulled a considering face.
‘You think so?’
‘Am I talking in the right language?’ said Moriz. ‘I am telling you: let me say to the woman that she can go, and take the boy with her.’
The light from the sails moved over their faces. ‘Perhaps you are right. So yes. Why not?’ said Nicholas.
Moriz gazed at him, full of suspicion. ‘Then I may? And obtain her promise to let you see the boy when you wish?’
‘Oh no,’ said Nicholas, glancing at him with a smile. ‘That would be too much, don’t you think? If she goes, she goes. I shouldn’t be interested in any child brought up wholly by Gelis.’
Ask him if he wants to stop. Father Moriz prayed under his breath. So that was it. Nicholas meant what he said. Gelis could take the child if she liked and depart. The offer was genuine, but Nicholas had made it in the absolute confidence that it would not be accepted.
Father Moriz said, ‘I want you to listen to me. A child with one parent, or no parent, is better off than one reared in a household of hate. Are you telling me that you and your wife will live in accord from now on?’
‘I am telling you,’ Nicholas said, ‘that we are both very good at dissembling. The child, at least, will not suffer.’
‘But Gelis will.’
‘Then she has only to leave,’ Nicholas said. His voice had become curt.
‘But she won’t,’ Father Moriz said slowly. ‘Because she, too, is bent on this extraordinary duel. Can neither of you understand it is wicked? I shall tell her to go, with the boy. I shall compel her, if need be.’
‘Do,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although I should point out that the challenge was hers, and not mine. She may even win. She has scored quite a few points, most of them visible, were I to undress. She won’t go.’
Moriz restrained his voice with some trouble. ‘So what are we to expect for the future? A reign of fear? A sequence of impossible trials?’
‘An interlude of picardesque fougousité? I dare say,’ Nicholas said, ‘she will have some such in mind, but I shall try to match and even survive it. I’m sorry. You’ve done your best. The Patriarch would have been proud of you. It isn’t your fault that the maiden turned into the dragon and sent the unicorn off with two horns. I shall try to confine the harm to ourselves.’
‘Will you?’ said Moriz.
‘I don’t aim at Père Dieu,’ Nicholas said. His voice was easy. ‘Only a small speaking part with a gridiron. You might even discover that Gelis schemes better than I do.’
‘I know how you scheme,’ Moriz said.
‘I have a Bank to run,’ Nicholas said; and looked at him, finally.
The clouds passed and repassed. The bows crashed, like a bucket slamming into a well. The shadow of seabirds slid over the sails and snatches of talk rose from the decks, and the rattle of rings, and the clank of pails, and the bleating of animals. And the shrill sound of a young, imperious voice.
Abruptly, Nicholas released him from scrutiny. Moriz turned his eyes away, more exercised than he wanted to show. Far off, a line of green, the English coast hung in the mist. Down below, the helm creaked in the grip of the big Scandinavian shipmaster whose name had been mentioned so casually at camp, and who for some reason always disturbed him. Moriz said, with sudden annoyance, ‘Who is that person?’
Nicholas glanced down at the helmsman. ‘Michael Crackbene? Not a churchgoing man. Prefers the sea to the land. Is currently the Bank’s personal pirate, retained at a basic fee topped up by booty, plus a Yule timber of furs for his Ada. He’s the reason you’re here. It’s true that he’s friendly with Andreas, but to forgive us for what Crackbene does, we need more serious help than the Fortune Books.’
Father Moriz laid a hand on the rail and prepared to get up. He said, ‘I don’t mind your insulting my intelligence and my cloth. But there is a child down there, and innocent families where you are going. Unless you come to your senses, you are going to harm both.’ He was so angry it obliterated all his dislike of heights. He had descended crook-legged to the deck before he realised that the shipmaster’s narrow blue gaze had been examining him. He stumped off below.
The last person to express his opinion on the voyage was the same Michael Crackbene. He did it ten minutes later, when his duty was over, and Nicholas had slid to the deck to stand with him.
Crackbene said, ‘The priest’ll wreck it. You said he wasn’t to come. He’ll stop your divining.’ His eyes were like Gelis’s: chilly.
‘I didn’t know I was going to divine,’ de Fleury said. ‘He’s just jealous. You’re going to Valhalla and he’s only going to Heaven like me.’
‘Le Grant is over-free with his talk,’ Crackbene said. ‘The priest is learning too much.’ Then he swore, for the leather cap he had been carrying had been lifted out of his hands and tossed to hang high on a yardarm.
‘You’re overweight,’ de Fleury said. ‘The priest is one of your truly great metallurgists. He is going to have to be told what to do when we’re ready. Meantime, we want him to think we need saving.’ He threw back his head. ‘Two ducats I’ll beat you.’
Crackbene got to the cap first, but only just. It didn’t matter: it kept the ship cheerful. Later, he and de Fleury got drunk.
Over the years, Michael Crackbene had sailed both for and against vander Poele, now de Fleury. He liked working a ship at his side. Liking didn’t mean fondness: Crackbene’s only attachment was to a woman whom de Fleury didn’t know he had married, and two children de Fleury didn’t know had been born.
It was one of the reasons why Crackbene was tolerant of this infestation of wife and nurses and child. He had had experience of the van Borselen woman in Africa, and knew she was of good, active stock, capable of making a life of her own. As for children, he spoiled his own but was uninterested in others, unless they were training for sea. He had brought one such lad back with him from Africa, and had got him a good post. He meant to tell de Fleury, some time, about Filipe. He would be pleased.
You could say that de Fleury and he were the same, for all that he was a seaman and de Fleury a banker, or supposed to be. They were both attracted by the kind of crazy, high-paying jobs that no man of sense would risk his skin for. Northern waters were Crackbene’s native habitat, but he had also sailed to the Euxine and Cyprus and Africa, and had lost a few ships, and a few crews, and more than one owner. De Fleury had near-killed him once, and so had the Turks and the Gambia. But you would come back from the dead for this game.
Even John le Grant hadn’t been told the whole story at first. Some of it had been discussed in February with the lawyers at Venice. Some of it had been planned before even that. De Fleury had known he was coming back to Scotland one day. He had left orders. And then, surfacing in Dijon this summer, he had extended them.
The present voyage had been arranged at that time: Crackbene was to charter King James’s Rose of Bremen and pick up the padrone and party from Calais in July. When, as it turned out, the Rose had been reduced to chips in an battle with pirates, a smaller caravel had been leased. The Bank, of course, had no ships of its own in the north: its roundship and caravel were both in Venetian service, and its elderly galley confined to calm waters.
Wading through the English bureacracy at Calais, Crackbene had found de Fleury’s
party installed in a house of the Staple with the priest and le Grant. The domestic tangle had evidently been regulated at last: the child was there, indisputably a de Fleury, and so was the wife, with her arm in a sling. Among the grooms and the archers, the story had been the same one that he’d already picked up elsewhere: the girl had slept with St Pol, that stupid philanderer, and de Fleury had sent for her and taught her a lesson. It matched what Crackbene already guessed, including de Fleury’s attempted fight to the death with her lover. It continuously surprised him that St Pol had survived it.
Greeting Crackbene at Calais, the padrone and the lady now looked and sounded reserved, as was understandable. In a month, the scandal would all be forgotten. The girl made a lot of the child. Crackbene deduced, without too much trouble, that the wellbeing of the child was why de Fleury had troubled to continue his marriage. Also, she was a handsome young woman, worth taming. Crackbene was satisfied, with his mind on his business, to dismiss the private problems of Nicholas de Fleury.
And the business, discussed in a private room with a view of the Ruisbank Tower, had been all that Crackbene had anticipated. Face to face, freed from the importunities of his women, de Fleury had unfolded at last the detail of the Bank’s particular venture in Scotland and John le Grant, the only other participant, had listened in silence, his white-lashed eyes round as sea-anemones; his fading carrot hair twisted in spikes. From time to time he ejaculated.
‘Danzig! Ye have a caravel building in Danzig!’
‘Bristol! It was you that captured that wine-ship!’
‘Jordan de Ribérac! How in the name did ye sell off his cargoes!’ His accent, set adrift with excitement, travelled to Aberdeen from the Ruhr in three sentences.
Finally he sat back, alight but indignant. ‘All you mentioned in Artois was putting a man of your own into Denmark, and getting a new specialist lawyer from Berwick.’
‘We have both,’ de Fleury said. ‘The first thing you need, capturing ships, is a letter of marque, and the next thing is a bloody good lawyer. If you mean to meddle with fishing rights, you need the Archangel Gabriel. Who did you say we have, Mick?’
To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 15
