‘He is dead,’ Simon said. ‘My man has seen him.’
‘Your man?’ said Gelis. She saw his eyes flicker. She said, ‘Has your father done this?’
‘The vicomte? No, of course not!’ he said. ‘The vicomte is in Ribérac, with my son.’
And then she knew it was true.
She found she was standing. Someone – Mary – was trying to lead her upstairs to her chamber, but the King considered that solitude in first grief could be cruel. He wished the lady Gelis to remain with her friends, and gave her his wine. Presently, he asked her if she thought the warm waters might even be soothing. He led her to the small tented pool, and he and Mary seated her tenderly in the warmth, and set wine before her, and fruit. Mary held her hand and talked, irritating her. She closed her eyes and leaned back, thinking of Jodi. Thinking of Hesdin. Thinking of Sinai. Thinking of the rain through an African night.
After a while Mary withdrew, leaving her maids. A little after that, it became very quiet and Gelis saw, opening her eyes, that the maids had gone, and there was only Little Bell, on a stool in the corner, drawing slow, yearning notes from the lute. Only Bell and his master who, seeing her stir, said, ‘Come. The water has cooled. Here is a seat by the brazier.’
He held a great towel, and leaned a hand to help her step out. She saw his face, and remembered. She said, ‘Sire, this is work for a servant.’
‘It pleases us,’ said the King. He set her before him and, opening the towel, wrapped it about her. He did not release her. ‘It pleases us to make you warm. For we think, despite all your grief, that you have had a cold bed to lie in for some time. Is that so?’
His arms tightened. He was not very tall. She felt his fresh cheek at her neck, altering as his lips moved. His hands smoothed down the folds of the towel and then, parting it, traced the clinging lawn over her belly. His fingers began to pinch up the fine cloth.
She had lain in a cold bed for a long time. The fight was over, and self-denial was no longer a buckler, a weapon. She knew now that she had been right to regard it so, for her heart was already racing, and the tide rising, prickling her skin. Death and mating. Young as he was, James had known that one led to the other.
Lovers spoke. Lust had no need of a voice, only of signals. He loosed his hands for her turning and then set again to what he had been doing with his fingers. The towel dropped. His lashes were sandy and his lips, a little parted, were pink. The lute had stopped and Georgie Bell, carrying it, had gone to the door.
He had gone, not to depart, but to answer a scratch. Voices murmured. The King stopped and turned his head, angrily. The lutenist said, ‘Lord?’
All the young man’s pent-up breath exploded in anger. ‘What?’
Bell’s face was red. He said, ‘I am sorry, my lord. But Lord Beltrees is waiting to see you.’
Interrupted desire has a peremptory pain of its own. The young man’s hands dropped, his face whitening. Gelis struggled to breathe and then, stooping, pulled up the towel and strained it about her. The King said, ‘You are mistaken.’
‘No, sire. It is the sieur de Fleury, just come in from Leith. He says he will wait.’
‘Does he –?’
‘He would also like to speak to madame. But he says he will wait until the King’s grace has completed his bathing.’
He is alive. He is here. The rest meant nothing.
James turned. Looking at his flushed face, Gelis thought that, from anger and lack of control, he meant to resume. She realised that if she resisted him, he probably would. For a moment she did not know, any more than he did, what she wanted. Then she made herself passive and waited, and James, his breathing slowing, stepped back. Then she saw the whole of what Simon had intended; and further saw that Nicholas had fathomed it, and was making his indifference known. He will wait until the King’s grace has completed his bathing.
He is alive. He is here. It has made no difference.
The King had scented deception as well. It was a common hazard, this kind of conspiracy. And it was hardly credible that Simon’s man should have seen Nicholas dead, and Nicholas should be here, at such a moment, alive. The King looked at her narrowly and saw, could not fail to see, a physical distress matching his own. His face softened and, bending, he set his lips to her breast. Then he released her and went.
She dressed slowly. Her body ached, and once she caught herself in a sob. She heard the King speaking outside the door, his voice metallic and cold. He was expressing his relief at seeing Lord Beltrees in health. A false report of his death had disturbed them. The dame de Fleury had taken it badly, and was only now in a fit state to join them. No doubt he would wish to speak to the lady alone in her chamber, and tomorrow, give them his news.
She heard Nicholas answer, in the familiar, unmistakable voice. She pinned her hair into its caul and walked out of the room to the antechamber where the two stood: the King regal despite his soaking red hair and damp robe; Nicholas tall and collected, dressed in cloth more suitable for the deck of a ship than an audience. She could not look away from him. He was recounting something, it seemed. The King’s face, listening, had already lost its angry suspicion. She heard Simon’s name and a word of medical provenance. As she came forward, Nicholas glanced at her, and stopped. Then he said, ‘Nobil-donna,’ and continued as if she had not been there.
‘I am sorry, my lord, but I cannot stay. There has been a disturbance at Haddington. But what I have said, I will stand by. Anything of mine is my lord’s, except that which might harm him.’
‘She did not tell me,’ said James. He was staring at her.
‘She did not know,’ Nicholas said. ‘She was already carrying my child when she lay with the lord of Kilmirren. But she has been barren ever since. His affliction prevents procreation in himself and in all with whom he has intercourse. Any woman upon whom the King’s eye falls is naturally bewitched: I cannot blame my lord of Kilmirren for what has happened, although it is true that his family bears mine a grudge. I can only express my great sorrow.’
‘You did not try to interrupt,’ said the King.
Her husband’s lips moved in what could have been a smile. ‘I thought the deed done, and would not wish to have appeared grudging.’
‘It was not done,’ said the King. ‘Would I take advantage of a lady at the moment of her bereavement?’
‘There are those who would,’ Nicholas said. ‘I should have trusted your grace. But the outcome is happy.’
‘Except for the gentleman of Kilmirren,’ said the King. Despite the freckles, he looked older than twenty.
Nicholas was looking at her this time. His voice in that last speech had sounded more normal, but his face remained blank of all expression. She said, ‘I hope I am loyal to both my lord and my King. My lord, you spoke of a disturbance in Haddington?’
Again, he spoke to the King. ‘I heard only just now. An accident, but none of the royal children is harmed, and our own son is untouched. There is no need, I think, to alarm the Countess tonight, but I feel my wife and I ought to ride over. If, that is, it is thought that the Countess would not object.’
‘An accident? In the Priory? We shall send someone at once,’ said the King.
‘My lord,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tomorrow will do. If there is anything to be done tonight, I shall do it. I hope I have your trust.’
The King agreed, flushing.
They did not speak on the journey to Haddington, because Nicholas made it impossible to do so. Their escort galloped beside them, torches streaming. She saw they were Govaerts’s men. She wondered who had sent word from Haddington, and how they had known he was back. She was ready, tonight, to credit him with frightening powers.
No ordinary human being could have activated from afar this single damning stroke against Simon: a sickening sexual conspiracy which traded on the King’s naïveté, his own supposed death, and the precarious continence their duel had imposed on her. He had had her roused, she was sure, quite deliberately. He had been prepare
d for, had expected, consummation. Any skilled doctor could have dealt with a pregnancy. His talk of disease was untrue, but it would be believed, for it was all too verifiable that Simon was sterile. The handsome Kilmirren would now be a leper, a public procurer, a man who could be accused of attempting to end the royal line. But she would escape, as Simon’s innocent dupe. She had been the King’s choice. She had believed her husband was dead. But of course no one would lie with her either, ever again.
That night, arriving in Haddington, her eyes deep, her head throbbing, Gelis van Borselen found herself for the first time afraid of the future.
It was three hours from dawn. The porter admitted them. The chapel was lit, but the Priory itself lay dark and silent, as did the guest-quarters. She ran to her rooms. Outside, Mistress Clémence met her with a candle, signing for silence. ‘The boy is asleep. All is well.’ Her eyes moved beyond, and Gelis saw that Nicholas was standing behind her.
Gelis said, ‘Lord Beltrees has just come. What happened? We were given no details.’
The woman said, ‘A wagon broke free and rolled down a hillside. Three of the children were struck, only one of them seriously. Jodi received no harm at all, but sleep will help him. I shall tell him you are here in the morning.’
Nicholas said, ‘You are right. We shall hear more about it tomorrow. You must be tired. And in case he wakens, here is something to put by his pillow.’
It was a large, perfect apple, still attached to its stalk, with a leaf. Mistress Clémence received it with a slight smile. ‘He said you had promised one. He shall have it.’ She turned and waited, her hand on the door until they left.
Nicholas said, ‘Where is your room?’
Gelis said, ‘There. Do you want to talk?’ Her limbs ached and she shivered.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of a subject I could bring myself to talk about. Go to bed. We shall speak, if we have to speak, in the morning.’
They had been apart for more than four months, and the last time they had met, he had broken every fine thing in the room. She had been told he was dead. She had been on the point of giving herself, out of desperation, to somebody else when she had been halted. And he knew all that, and had perhaps even arranged it.
Until now, she had never doubted that this was a war that she wanted to win. Now she was terrified. She said something, and went to her room without looking back.
*
Tied to a more juvenile mistress, Katelijne Sersanders was unable to get herself out of Edinburgh until the entire cavalcade of the King’s sisters swept off to Haddington the following morning, spurred on by Mary’s anxiety and held back when ‘she collapsed into tears. The Countess would not believe the two children were well. She would not believe it until she saw them.
Her sister Margaret, whom they called Bleezie Meg in the stables, hurled herself at Phemie when they arrived at the Priory. ‘Where did it happen? Are they dead? Show me!’
Phemie said to Katelijne, ‘I’ll show her. I think you are wanted inside.’
‘Who by? Never mind,’ Kathi said. Everyone in Edinburgh knew that Nicholas de Fleury had returned, and had found his wife and Simon de St Pol at the Castle. He and his lady wife had left during the night, and St Pol, they said, had gone back to Kilmirren. It was observed that Archie of Berecrofts had got his son Robin back from the war, and must be glad of it.
She was thankful about Archie and Robin. As for the rest, she refused valiantly to speculate. All she knew for a fact was that, concerned for the boy, Nicholas and Gelis had come here to Haddington. She had no trouble now in thinking of him by his first name.
Phemie’s remark had been a warning. Thoughtfully, Kathi walked over the yard towards the guest-quarters. A man in a stained gown emerged and stood, his sparse hair blowing about his pink cranium, his pale eyes screwed up at the sky. Kathi cried, ‘Dr Tobie! You came!’
She was so pleased to see him that she had her arms round his neck while he was still staring. He choked, and held her off, and then hugged her, hooting himself. ‘Katelijne Sersanders. You’ve got smaller.’
‘You’ve got fatter,’ she said. ‘Oh, Dr Tobie!’
He said, ‘Is this a welcome for me myself? Or do I have a feeling it isn’t?’
She said, ‘It is for you, if you wanted to come. Everyone likes to be needed.’
He put her down, but kept his arm round her waist. He said, ‘Ah yes. But not everyone that’s needed is wanted. There’s the devil of a mess going on here, and I don’t know what it is. I’ve been with him for two months and he won’t talk.’
‘Why didn’t he come?’ Kathi asked. She was leading him in towards the parlour.
‘He couldn’t. The vicomte de Ribérac kindly stopped him. At second-hand, with six thugs.’
She halted and looked at him. ‘Simon de St Pol told the King that Nicholas had been waylaid and robbed. He said killed, at first.’ Margaret, who gleaned everything, had told her. She added, ‘Apparently Gelis thought he was dead. You know that Simon has been harassing her? Have you heard all that yet?’
‘No. I haven’t seen Gelis. I know something happened at the Castle, but Nicholas wouldn’t say what.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Kathi. ‘Well, you can’t treat a dumb patient. I shall tell you all the rumours. You will repeat none of them, please, and you will kindly forget anything I say that turns out to be irrelevant. But the first thing you should know is that Simon de St Pol seems to have left in disgrace. He is not thought to be returning to Edinburgh. And if that is correct, something truly awful has happened which might stop the persecution from Simon, but which will probably bring the vicomte on the next ship. And if the sire de Ribérac hired six bullies last time, he’ll likely hire sixty next, and make sure that they finish the job.’ Then, calming, she talked.
Her doctor friend was very quiet at the end. She said, ‘Don’t say you want to go home. You haven’t a home. Your home is with Nicholas.’
‘He doesn’t think so,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t think so when he is tired, and hardly recovered from whatever happened to him, and when he doesn’t think he wants to share secrets. Sick people don’t always think clearly. You’ve told me that often enough.’
‘I didn’t think you believed me,’ he said. ‘At least, if St Pol is away, as you said, we may be free of some risks. I can’t prove it, but I don’t think that cart was an accident. Would the child not be safer in Edinburgh? Or does the termagant nurse have the last say?’
Katelijne clapped her hands. ‘You have met Mistress Clémence! You are going to disagree over child-rearing, and you will end up like everyone else, by doing just what she wants. If she thinks it best to stay here, she’ll stay here.’
‘That was Mistress Clémence?’ said the doctor.
‘She comes from Coulanges,’ said Kathi. ‘Coulanges on the Cisse. So does Pasque. You have to meet Pasque.’
‘Certainly, I shall have to become better acquainted with both of them,’ said Dr Tobie. ‘Especially since – would you believe the coincidence? – the attack on Nicholas took place near Coulanges, and he was nursed in the house of her relatives.’
‘Of course I believe it,’ said Kathi. ‘He would have gone there to investigate Clémence, and the vicomte’s men would simply have followed him. He does that. He was probably having you watched all the time you were in Gobbio. We heard the Countess died after having her son. I was so sorry. Tell me about it.’
She listened, for as she thought, he had been asked to go back. Dr Tobie had been a good servant to Urbino. She wondered if he had the detachment and constancy to make his destiny with Nicholas, and not suffer by it. She thought that – like Diniz, like Gregorio – what he needed most was a wife. They talked for a long time, as close as they had ever been, and parted happy.
For Nicholas, the day was merely a continuation of a sleepless night during which his abused body, unused to the saddle, had stiffened, and his mood further jaundiced by the sight of Katelijne and Tobie, united
once more, talking in the yard overlooked by his casement. His grandmothers. He wished that Tobie would go, and that the girl would find a husband and be done with it. He dressed and, while he still believed he could handle it, went to see Gelis.
She was always beautiful. That was the paltry aspect of this war they were waging which, by Godscalc’s decree, was already two years longer than he had ever desired. The tragedy was that real time was passing: years in which others would have been content to ask for less, to take with gratitude what was there, and be reconciled for the rest to the third-rate, or to consolation elsewhere. But even if he had been willing, and he was not, she would never agree. Pride would forbid it, until she was forced to cede in her chosen arena. Until she was given pride of a different sort.
So it was terrible, as it always was, to see how lovely she was. And being Gelis, she had scorned to dress modestly, in the peccant wife’s role, but wore loose silks which trailed from her chair, and had left her hair straying, unbound. It was half grown again, as Kathi’s was. They had both played boys in their time, but only one of them was playing the woman.
She said, ‘I have had two separate visitors this morning. I didn’t know Tobie was here.’
‘And the other?’ he said. He did not want to sit down, and now need not. He made his way to the window and leaned there.
‘Katelijne. You were badly injured at Chouzy, but you were not left for dead. Tobie says Simon must have known that.’
‘Did you think it was all my plot?’ Nicholas said. ‘I wish it had been. Simon merely waited until he heard I had come back, and then timed it all accordingly. With your help.’
‘I am always glad to help,’ Gelis said. ‘And how successful we have been, both of us. Simon is banished from Court, and the King will be your abashed friend for ever. So it was all inspired opportunism, the disease story? How disappointed Simon must have been about everything.’
‘I expect it was a shock,’ Nicholas agreed. ‘I was intended, I suppose, to stride in and skewer you both through the kidneys, while Simon skipped off and got out the wassail cakes.’
To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 65
