There was no one there but a woman who started up, her face full of pity and shock. She said, ‘Oh, my bairn. What have they done to you?’
Already, blurting the words, Bel of Cuthilgurdy recognised that it was a mistake beyond any redemption. She had looked to see, through whatever cloud, the brave and generous man who had brought them all safely from Africa, and found his schooling there, however marred by the loss of his mentor. She had attended his joyous wedding in Bruges and had hoped to find, despite all she had learned from Simon, from Jordan, from Lucia, that he was untouched by whatever had followed: that he did not know of it, or was already bringing his intelligence to work on a remedy.
Instead she saw a man whose height and frame, if attenuated, were the same, but whose dress and face were together a rebuff and a mask and an omen of danger. And behind those, the thing that occasioned her outburst.
She had never had from him the look he gave her as she ended. Then his face melted into a smile and she saw him relax. She felt she saw each muscle relax as if separately levered. She felt ill.
Nicholas de Fleury said, ‘Mistress Bel! How are you? Lucia isn’t with you?’ And he stepped forward, still smiling, and embraced her.
She said, ‘No, I’m stupid,’ and releasing herself, sat down and blew her nose violently. ‘Aye,’ she said. And then, adopting exactly his manner, ‘No. Lucia’s at home. So is Jordan. But you couldna keep me away when I heard. How is the lass, Nicholas? How is Gelis?’
He looked down at her, smiling amiably still. ‘Blooming,’ he said. He had glanced round the room. She supposed he had never seen the inside of the house owned by the St Pol in Edinburgh which, since Jordan had bought it, was in the best site in town but not extravagant in its fittings. The parlour she sat in was decent, with a good timber ceiling, a few kists, a few stools, some canvas hangings and a board with some silver and pewter laid out on it. The house itself was of two storeys only, of white-plastered timber, and thatched. And well maintained. That too was the vicomte de Ribérac, not Simon. She realised now why the other had looked round the room. He was listening for footsteps.
He was adding something about Gelis. ‘Blooming, but better without me, I am told. The birth is not till the spring.’ He had glanced again at the door. He raised his brows. ‘Simon asked me to call.’
‘He’s been out, with the laddie. He might bring Henry in.’
‘Have I time to leave?’ her guest said, in pretended alarm. He had known, it was obvious, that a confrontation with Henry was likely. Once, in Madeira, Simon had planned to take his son to the beheading of Nicholas, but Nicholas had failed to keep the appointment. He and Henry had not as yet met.
‘Aye. Ye’ll have heard about Henry,’ Bel said. ‘You’ll try to have patience.’ She could hear the footsteps now. A man’s and a boy’s. Nicholas didn’t reply.
The door opened.
It was like Simon to push his son in first. As Nicholas de Fleury had done, the child stayed on the threshold, looking within. Against the darkness behind, he stood fair and straight as an angelic judge. The hair curling about the pure forehead was fine as gold floss and the eyes were of an extraordinary blue, saved from daintiness by the well-marked brows which drew together above them. Often as she had seen Henry de St Pol, future vicomte de Ribérac and lord of Kilmirren, Bel felt her throat catch at his beauty.
Then he turned and looked at the man who had married his dead mother’s sister. In the look was hatred, and fear, and contempt. Bel drew in her breath.
Nicholas spoke. ‘Henry? I have come to shake the hand of your father. I hear you are fighting tomorrow.’
‘Who are you?’ Henry said. His nose was taut.
‘I think you know,’ Nicholas said.
The boy walked forward and stood beside Bel. He said, ‘I forget. Are you Claes vander Poele the apprentice?’
‘I see you like fighting,’ his visitor said.
‘I don’t mind fighting,’ said Henry. ‘But that’s in the breeding. You’re a timid man, my father says.’
‘Henry,’ said Bel. She put her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off.
‘Henry!’ echoed a man’s voice reproachfully from the door. ‘Did I ever say that? Surely not. Meester vander Poele has an unbroken record of conquest. My dear Nicholas,’ said Simon de St Pol, coming in, ‘I thought the time was ripe to seal our new amity. I’m told you have altered your name? Your mother’s family must be overjoyed. Wine? A grandfather and a very young aunt, I believe?’ He stood, his hand at the child’s milky neck. One saw that they were dressed alike, man and boy, to the last detail of cap and shoulder-trim, and even of points.
‘You know more than I do,’ said Nicholas. ‘I thought they were all dead.’ He took the wine and nursed it without a tremor.
‘I hope not,’ said Simon. He had a beauty, still, that women would die for. ‘Of all people, Thibault and Adelina de Fleury should dote on the coming child, should they not? Should we not raise a cup to it ourselves? Come, Bel. Henry, a taste of wine with some water. Now. A toast to the first child of Gelis van Borselen, whatever sort it may be.’
He drank. Bel said, ‘To your child, Nicholas; its safe birth, and a fair life and long. Henry, take a big drink.’
Henry took a small drink. His father said, ‘And I suppose you long for a son? I often wish I had a brother for Henry. Indeed there are times – aren’t there, Henry? – when I wouldn’t object if someone left me a changeling. But then of course I relent.’
Their guest said, ‘I should be pleased to have a son in the very image of Henry.’
‘You couldn’t,’ said Henry.
‘No, I couldn’t,’ said his uncle by marriage.
She had come hoping to prevent this. Anger at the two men overwhelmed her. Then she collected herself and entering the conversation wrenched it, with steely determination, into civilised channels.
Simon listened more than he spoke. De Fleury humoured her with minor gossip about Father Godscalc’s health and Gregorio’s growing position in Bruges; and sustained rhapsodies about the longed-for child to be born to Lucia’s son Diniz and his wife. All the news was second-hand and he spoke as if he were little involved.
Asked about his own business, he mentioned Captain Astorre and his army, on the verge of taking the field with Duke Charles. Henry came back to life all at once. He said, ‘If I had an army, I’d lead it.’
De Fleury said, ‘You could, if it were a unit like mine. Captain Astorre has been its captain for a long time, and has been in many great battles. He has an Englishman, Thomas, to help him, and a master physician called Tobias. But, of course, that is only one company. The Sire Louis de Gruuthuse – he’s famous, he’s been in Scotland – commands all the Burgundian armies, and the Duke himself often goes into battle. You’re interested in war?’
‘I’m going to lead armies,’ said Henry. ‘And be a knight and fight against other knights. And challenge them. You’d be afraid to do that. If your wife had a son, he’d be afraid to do that as well.’
‘I fought a Saracen once,’ said de Fleury thoughtfully. ‘And I’ve taken part in big wars now and then. Everyone is afraid when they fight. But I’m not sure about single combat. If I want to put someone down, I often do it in ways that last longer. It can be quite satisfactory.’
‘Gentlemen fight,’ Henry said. ‘Gentlemen marry ladies and have gentle sons.’ He got up and went out.
‘Returning to Gelis,’ Simon remarked. His eyes were bright. ‘Thinking of poor Gelis again, I ought to give you greetings from her former mistress. The lady Mary, you know? My near neighbour. Seventeen now and childless, poor lady. She wept to hear your wife is with child. March, isn’t it due? Or even in April? Her husband thought it essential, like you, to get out of the country.’
‘Thomas Boyd? So she misses him?’
‘Cries for him all the time. No one else does. The marriage only took place because the Boyds had their hands on the King at the time. Now it’s different. If I were Tom Boyd, I
shouldn’t have risked going to Denmark. A lot can happen in a few months. Or so they tell me. Do you hear from Bruges much?’
‘Often enough,’ Nicholas de Fleury said. He stirred with sudden decisiveness. ‘I’ve stayed too long. The Scottish champion has to prepare for his triumph. I look forward to that. I’ve never seen you in the lists.’
‘No,’ said Simon. From outside, clearer now, came the sounds of a distant commotion.
‘But you will win. You can have no doubts?’ said de Fleury.
‘No,’ said Simon. The door burst open and he sprang to his feet. His son Henry appeared in the doorway.
‘Father! He says –’
Bel de Cuthilgurdy got up. De Fleury stayed where he was.
A man appeared in the doorway. He said, ‘It hasna came. I’m sorry. The siller, or else.’
‘What?’ said Bel.
‘Never mind,’ Simon said. ‘Business. We’ll talk of this later. Nicholas –’
‘Na,’ said the man, planting himself in the doorway. ‘We’ll talk of this now. You’ve arms ye havena paid for. Ye say ye have, but the proof hasna came. I warned ye. I’ve come tae take it all back – and’ – as Simon made a threatening gesture – ‘I should tell ye that I’ve half a dozen lads wi’ me outside wha’ll not only tak’ your arms, Master Simon, but let your neighbours ken loud and clear why they’re doing it. So?’
‘I have paid for it,’ Simon said. ‘You scoundrel, you’re trying to make me pay twice over. I’ll not.’
‘Then ye’ll no fight the morn, will ye, Master Simon?’ said the man, and jerked his head backwards. Through the doorway, men could be seen entering the house. Simon started forward, his hand on his sword.
‘No,’ said de Fleury. His arm, mysteriously interposed, stopped Simon from drawing. De Fleury said, ‘It’s a mistake. A day will clear it. But you don’t want this made public. I’m not fighting tomorrow. Take my armour. I’ll get it back when you’ve sorted this out.’
‘Your armour?’ said Simon.
‘You’ll find it will fit you. It was never quite right for me. It’s by a good maker,’ said de Fleury. ‘At least, if you don’t like it, you can back down, and you’ll be no worse off.’
Simon turned. The man in the doorway said, ‘That’s sensible, sir. Indeed, I’ve got a bailie’s man there just behind ye who would endorse what I’ve said. Nae proof of payment, ye’ve nae right tae the arms.’
Bel said, ‘Simon, let them go. Settle it quietly later on. Nicholas will let ye see what he has, to be sure. If it’s not to your taste, then don’t take it.’
‘You can’t wear his armour!’ said Henry. ‘A workman’s armour! Ours is silver!’
Simon turned. ‘Yours will still be silver,’ he said. From red he had become rather pale. He spoke to the younger man stiffly. ‘It is a mistake, of course. I shall have it put right by tomorrow. In any case, I have friends who, I believe, could accommodate me. But if not, be sure I shall remember your very good offer.’
De Fleury said, ‘You need only come and see it. If it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fit. Or if it is unsuitable in other ways.’
He left, considerately, before the armour was actually carried out of the house. Simon bade him farewell in a distracted way and vanished indoors. The boy Henry, biting his lip, had said nothing at all.
Bel followed Nicholas de Fleury to the stairs. There she stopped. She said, ‘That was good-hearted.’
‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘But as Godscalc mentioned in Bruges, I am a fine young man, when it comes over me. Is the child beyond hope?’
‘I see no one here beyond hope,’ said the dame. ‘Child or man.’
Chapter 6
REPRESENTATIVES OF great powers visiting the smaller duchies and kingdoms took pains, as a rule, to advise their train upon matters of conduct. As a niece of Anselm Adorne, Katelijne Sersanders knew that not all towns on earth possessed sufficient burghers of wealth to sustain a permanent jousting society; that not all princes could afford the expense of a tournament. Bruges had a rich middle class: Scotland, as yet, merely a mercantile community of moderate power. But of men of first rank, it had blood as blue and fighters as good as any the White Bear had seen. So Adorne would have told her, had there been need.
As it was, she sat without scoffing at noon on the Eve of St Nicholas, wrapped in her thickest cloak against the wind that scoured down upon her from the face of the Castle, and the smoke that swirled equally round her from the braziers and bonfires round the tiltground.
To one side, grafted on to the lower ledges of rock was the long pavilion, its canvas snapping and belching, which contained, packed like cards, the Princesses of the Court – Margaret ecstatic, Mary forlorn – with nuns, attendant noblewomen, and pages about them. Behind, in a turmoil of whipping headdresses, sat the other ladies of birth: the chevaliers’ wives. And next, the men of renown who were too old or too young to take part, including the men of the Church: William Scheves, cleric and apothecary; Archibald, Abbot of Holyrood; Edward Bonkle, Provost of Trinity College; Bishop Patrick Graham of St Andrews with the Charterhouse abbot and her cousin Maarten sitting beside him. Not, of course, the King, who was taking part, with Alexander and small John his brothers.
After the black and the red came the riot of colour, of velvet and satin and fur, that represented the merchants. Old Berecrofts, but not Archie his son, who was to fight, as was young Napier. Stephen Angus, more often in Bruges than in Scotland. Haliburton and Gilbert of Edmonston, Lamb and Auchinleck.
Only the old faces were there. The rest were among the trampling horses at the edge of the field, a little apart from the gold-swagged tents of the King and the nobility, with their sons and brothers and nephews to act as esquires. John Brown was taking part, and Touris, and Lauder, and Bertram and Gordon, and Thom Swift, whose great house her uncle was occupying. And young Bonkle, and Crackbene, who had come to the convent, and the lawyer called Julius – they were all fighting, but not the head of the House of Niccolò who, her brother said, was not accustomed to jousting.
One wanted to think about that. She was interested. Herself, she was proud to see her uncle’s banner flying from one of the crowd of side-tents by the chapel of Our Lady, and to know that he and Jehan Metteneye and her brother would be breaking a lance for the town. Not for Burgundy, although it had to appear so. For the town.
She knew a lot about tournaments. Ghent, Lille, Brussels, Bruges-she had got herself taken to most of them, one way or another. Also, she had a good memory. It surprised the nuns that she knew so many people in Scotland. They forgot, perhaps, that all the merchants in Scotland visited Bruges at one time or another, and some of them settled there. Also, most people sooner or later had cause to come to the priory. Her uncle held his meetings with the town magistrates there. She had got him to tell her about them.
She wondered if it was true what they said about Crackbene and Ada. She thought it would be interesting to see, when the combatants took the field, what ladies’ favours they wore. It was a pity de Fleury the Bank wasn’t parading. Her brother had asked for a scarf of hers, on the advice of their uncle, no doubt. Perhaps Ada had offered Crackbene a napkin?
Will Roger said, ‘What are you sniggering about? Look at your music. We’re almost ready to start.’
In the Burgundian tent it was calm, but the turmoil outside – the uneven noise of the crowd, the squeal and clatter of arms, the stamping of horses – came through clearly enough, and in spite of the brazier Anselm Sersanders felt cold and a little sick, as he always did before fighting. Even when the weapons were bated, as now, a gentleman in the lists must still represent his people, must show all he has of skill and grace and courtesy and, if possible, must win.
Across the heads of the men who were attiring him, he caught his uncle’s swift smile and wished his armour were like that, well-fitting but not new, burnished but with the patina that came from many, many conflicts. They no longer used shields, but the Adorne chequer lay clearly embroidered ac
ross his uncle’s surcoat and on the strong, fringed furnishing of his horse. Within the visorless helm, the high cheekbones and long lines of the family face looked like a drawing on silver. And the scarf which fell to his shoulder was a royal one, given by the King’s younger sister, the lady Margaret.
Nicholas de Fleury’s voice said, ‘Yes, he looks very nice. So do you. Have you everything that you want?’
He leaned at the entrance to the tent, unarmed as the servants were, except for one exquisite dagger at the side of a sable-edged doublet. Sersanders couldn’t see what the jewel was today. Behind him stretched the green grass of the lists, all one hundred and fifty yards of it, and a third as wide. On one long side facing the Rock stood the mass of the common spectators, the source of a constant roar and a powerful smell of food and humanity.
Opposite them was the long pavilion for the Court. Beside that, on a platform, was the dummy unicorn with its dummy damsel, small in the distance; and smaller still, the choir of live maiden attendants, among whom his sister Katelijne was undoubtedly the liveliest. He caught the glitter of trumpets, preparing to lift.
Sersanders said, ‘I’ll tell you later if I have a complaint.’
‘Tell the good Knights of St John,’ de Fleury said. He seemed to have time on his hands. ‘I wouldn’t dare question the programme. My contribution was the unicorn. And I dressed one of the dwarves. You know your Dr Andreas is there if you need him? The lances are buttoned, but some of our friends are exceptionally good. I like the scarf.’ He was, unnervingly, using both dimples without actually smiling.
Whatever Nicholas de Fleury said, he had done rather more than dress a dwarf. Barring his uncle Adorne and himself, de Fleury must know more than anyone present about the protocol for a joust of mixed ranks. And the Burgundian party couldn’t be applied to: the tournament, after all, was in its honour.
The Unicorn Hunt Page 10
