Nicholas lifted his free hand. It had the silver knife in it. He said, ‘You could have used this. So could I. I could still make you a hostage. You would only kill me if you had lost your own sense of importance. You have never been afraid of me. You are not afraid of me now, or you would hardly have amused yourself with that offer. So why not let the race run its course? Surely you are certain of winning?’
The face opposite, the veined face with its swollen chins and broad brow and pursed lips slowly relaxed. Jordan de Ribérac dropped his grasp and, moving deliberately, crossed to the jug and poured wine. He filled a second cup. He said, ‘You invoke my pride. You have some wits. Yes, I admit it. Your threats are immaterial: I have heard a thousand such in my life. But I also like battle, and can enjoy it from my chair as well as in the saddle these days.
‘So, yes. I shall let you go free. You shall have a horse, and will complete your successful homecoming to Bruges, and carry my familial greetings to Diniz my grandson and his industrious spouse. Which reminds me. You have a ring of mine?’
‘It is on the table,’ said Nicholas. ‘I doubt if you will find it suits any finger but your own.’
Since Godscalc could not, Gregorio waited, hour after hour, at the gate by which Nicholas de Fleury would re-enter Bruges. So, long after dark, he was there when de Fleury, with the rights of a burgess, passed over the bridge and was permitted to make his way into the town. Gregorio waited until he was a pace or two away from the guard, and then stepped out and took his horse by the reins. De Fleury stopped.
For a moment, looking up, Gregorio was unable to speak. Then he said, ‘I have to warn you of something.’
The mask above remained a mask. Then it changed in the wavering light. The other man said, ‘First my news. Margot is well. She will come back when Gelis does. Back to you.’ He waited and then said, ‘Not in the street. There is a tavern.’
In Bruges, they were known in every tavern. But a remote corner was found, and some ale neither wanted, and Nicholas de Fleury sat, his tattered cloak cast aside and the mud drying on his torn doublet and said, ‘What?’
Gregorio said, ‘The vicomte de Ribérac came.’
‘So I believe,’ the other man said.
‘You knew?’
‘I have seen him.’
His voice, his face, everything about him was wrong. Gregorio threw out his hands. ‘Tell me. Tell me what happened!’
‘Later. The vicomte de Ribérac came?’
‘To the house. I wasn’t there. Diniz was out. Godscalc was sleeping. The servants … He forced his way in. He had heard about Lucia and Simon. He knew you nearly killed Simon; he thought you had trapped Lucia too. He accused Diniz of – of certain practices … with you, with the young men who come to the house.’
‘With Umar. Simon’s theory. I know,’ the other man said. ‘Who heard him?’
‘Everyone. Julius. Tobie. Tobie told him he was talking nonsense and Julius punched him. Or tried to. Then de Ribérac left. But Tilde had heard, too.’
‘Heard how Lucia was supposed to have died? Heard about her husband’s reputation with men?’
‘To do him justice,’ Gregorio said, ‘I don’t think the vicomte realised she was near.’
‘He did,’ Nicholas said.
‘You have seen him? He told you?’
‘In his own way. What happened?’
‘She collapsed. The baby was born. A boy. Dead.’
‘And Tilde herself?’
‘Tobie is with her. He says she’s safe now. He says the infant wouldn’t have survived in any case. Nicholas?’
The other man stirred. ‘You want to know about mine? My wife’s? Nothing but excellent news. The birth is over. Gelis has never looked better. The child is a vigorous boy. Or so Margot tells me. It is hidden.’
‘Because it came early?’ Gregorio paused. ‘You haven’t seen it? But I thought she promised to –’
‘To leave its fate in my hands? She has reconsidered, it seems. I have asked her to bring the child to Bruges in a month. I may have to leave before then. In which case she should join me in Scotland.’
‘She has promised?’
‘She has promised nothing. But she seems to be rearing the child.’
‘Seems? Aren’t you sure? Are you doing nothing to find it and –’
Nicholas de Fleury rose, knocking over the ale. He said, ‘All that can be done, I am doing. I am indebted to Margot. I think we should go.’
Gregorio rose. ‘Is it even baptised?’ he said. ‘Godscalc will –’
The other man said, ‘It has been done.’ The tattered cloak lay on the floor. He stepped over and left it.
‘He has a name?’ Gregorio said. He looked for a softening.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘Gelis chose it. Her son is called Jordan.’
Within a day, there was no one in Bruges who did not know that Nicholas vander Poele, who now called himself de Fleury, was back.
He paid, first, the lying family calls, in which he described how the poor lady Lucia died, and reconciled the van Borselens, the Gruuthuse, the Duchess Margaret in Hesdin and the Dowager Duchess in Nieppe with an account of his visit to Gelis, and her good health and witty impatience. He predicted the birth would be early, which surprised very few, and further let it be known that until then his wife wanted seclusion.
Having designed to say little to Tilde, he found himself detained by feverish questions, as if the child coming to Gelis was in some way a twin of the one Tilde had lost. It needed some skill to respond. He found he had no need to talk of Lucia or Diniz: Godscalc had mended those fences. Or so it would seem.
Godscalc, Tobie and Julius accepted the tale of his visit to Gelis, as did Diniz and Catherine, and he did not mention having met the vicomte de Ribérac, who had left town again.
The house was full of commiserating women, but he was out on business most of the time.
He went to see Tommaso Portinari, and dressed for it. Tommaso’s mouth did not open, but his clerk’s did. When they drank, it was from the gold cups. He found out what was happening with alum, and that he needn’t trouble refounding his courier service, for Metteneye and Adorne had already established one. He knew that already.
He learned that, in Tommaso’s opinion, he had been foolish to recall his Alexandria agent, with the Vatachino spoiling deals everywhere and the Ottoman army roving the sea. Nicholas had personally annoyed the last Sultan. He was lucky to have le Grant keeping this one so sweet. Nicholas should speak to young Nerio of Trebizond, and Michael Alighieri the Florentine merchant. The ducal court was full of Trapezuntines with news of the Orient and pretty perfumes and manners. It would be a change from the northern wilds and their customs.
He went to the ducal court. He sent word to the Chancellor Hugonet, and the Duke himself received him in the Caudenberg Palace at Brussels. He took care to please him, deployed his excellent Greek to please others, and left privately satisfied.
He went to St Omer, and told Astorre he had to continue in the Duke’s service or get out. They had words, but Astorre agreed to stay for a year.
He went to Antwerp on business to do with his ships, and took the chance to visit the office which Jordan de Ribérac had so inopportunely discovered. When he left, two men had been dismissed and one beaten: no more indiscretions, he thought, would occur.
In the second week of March, returning from another visit to Brussels, he found the printing machines had arrived. The space they were to occupy was prepared, but of course John le Grant was not present as planned: the reminder was irritating. So was Tobie’s absence of interest. The manuscripts to be printed lay half compiled about his room or Godscalc’s while priest and doctor attended to Tilde. Since he could not complain about that, Nicholas set to and began to collate them himself, taking clerks from the counting-house, which upset Gregorio.
When Gregorio entered his room, Nicholas assumed he, too, had come with a grievance. If he had, he didn’t produce it at once. He said
, ‘Did you hear? Adorne is back from Scotland with Metteneye. They landed and rode home tonight with a retinue.’
‘Was he limping?’ said Nicholas.
‘Good God, is that all you can say? I’m told he was,’ Gregorio said. ‘And he wants to see you tomorrow. He may have kept diplomatic silence in Scotland, but he’s not going to let you off here. You’ll have to go.’
‘I dare say I shall. If we had a book ready, I could take him a present. But I shan’t be here to offend him for long. Has Margot written?’
‘Margot? No!’ Gregorio said.
‘Then you shall write to her. It is time, I think, for my son to be born. What would be a good date? Any preference? One might say three days from now. On the fourth day, I go to the convent. On the fifth, she receives family visitors, and a week from now she comes back to Bruges, greets her friends, and we all go to Scotland.’
Gregorio said, ‘It sounds an excellent plan. I think you should write to her yourself. If she’s still where you left her.’
‘A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse. She is,’ Nicholas said.
‘But there’s no sign of the child, I should guess. That’s why you want this?’ Gregorio said. ‘She’ll have to produce it, or move it, or send word to its carers.’
‘You’re not going to write?’ Nicholas said.
‘No,’ said Gregorio. ‘Not as your agent, to Margot.’
‘Then was there anything else?’ Nicholas said.
Gregorio gazed at him. ‘Only what I’ve said before. Let it go. Find some grounds for divorce. Send her off with the child. Pick up the life you used to have.’
‘Yes, you said it before,’ Nicholas said.
‘Then listen to me,’ Gregorio said. ‘Or to Tobie. Or to Godscalc. Once you had charity.’
‘Charity?’ Nicholas said. ‘I have decided to maintain my marriage!’
‘That is not charity,’ Gregorio said.
Chapter 17
THE LIMP COULD not be disguised, although Anselm Adorne set his stick aside for the hour Nicholas spent in his presence and, if he felt pain, did not show it. Nevertheless, his eyes were deep, his thin-boned face pale. And Margriet his wife was swollen with anger.
She would not leave them to talk. She made that plain even before the meeting took place in her very own house, in the Hôtel de Jerusalem.
‘I will not go away! A youth who bedevilled all your years of office, until you had to beat him for it! An apprentice who stole the affections of poor Marian de Charetty, until out of love we had to agree to their wedding, even arrange it! A fellow who, now he is rich, will pick a fight with all who oppose him, and have them murdered too, if it suits him! Have him arrested!’
‘Let us hear him first,’ said Adorne.
‘What is there to hear? He laid a trap for Kilmirren the Younger and tried to kill him! He frightened our niece half to death! He set about you when you tried to restrain him, and then when he had gone, Kilmirren’s sister was found in the river! He is a murderer! If I leave him alone, he will kill you!’
‘Then,’ said Anselm Adorne, ‘you can hand him over to the authorities, for there will be no doubt at all who is the culprit. Really, my dear. A man like Nicholas seldom kills in cold blood. He prefers to bleed his victim of power or money. He does not like the Genoese.’
‘You didn’t know,’ Margriet said, ‘that the Fortado crew were all rascals. You only took shares in the venture.’
‘Nor was I in Famagusta when the Portuguese held out against him. But we are of Genoese blood, and his rivals. That I concede. There we are certainly opposed. But in a personal way? I think not.’
Nevertheless, Margriet van der Banck stayed with her husband, high officer though he might be, cultured though he might be, champion jouster and hard drinker though he might also be (when away from the house with his cronies), because he was her dear man, and kind father to so many fine children and had made her, in her time, hostess and companion to royalty. Her chain and necklace, carried high on her bosom, proclaimed it.
The youth, when he came, was empty-handed. Youth? Jan, her eldest, was twenty-four and this one was four years his elder and given over to Mammon, whereas Jan was learning law at Pavia and would end up serving God in the Curia, if the Bishop of St Andrews was as good as his word.
This one wore black, like the Duke did. The nice boy who used to play with her Lewisje had grown up into the self-confident merchant who had come back from Africa and driven the less well bred to mirth over the way he was chasing the van Borselen girl. Now she was his third wife and pregnant, and all the boy could think of was creating trouble in Scotland for Anselm. Causing trouble to Anselm everywhere. Wounding Anselm nearly to death.
Nicholas de Fleury was big, for an artisan. He said, ‘No gift could compensate. I brought an explanation instead.’
‘I do not think,’ said her husband, ‘that your former friend Margriet wants to hear it. She thinks I should have you arrested.’
Margriet flushed, then lifted her chin.
The young man said, ‘I should not resist you. When did I ever?’
‘When did you have the means?’ said Anselm dryly. ‘I may still commit you. If you had injured my nephew or niece, I would show you no mercy. As it is, I promise to hear your excuse, that is all.’
‘It is an explanation, not an excuse,’ the man said. ‘I have no excuse.’
He stood with a sober face and did not look awkward, although no one had asked him to sit.
‘Well?’ said Anselm. She had heard him help young people who had made a mistake. He did not do so this time. She was glad.
The young man lifted his head. She, too, heard the voices. Antoon and Arnoud, the little ones. The shrill sounds faded away. The young man before Anselm said, ‘My quarrel was with Simon de St Pol. I had made a pact, at some sacrifice, and he broke it. I meant to teach him a physical lesson. He is my superior in most forms of fighting: I didn’t think it unfair. But I lost my temper.’
‘How strange!’ remarked Anselm. ‘Your greatest weapon? That is how you win against Simon. You could have killed him with ease.’
‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ said the other.
‘Or me?’
‘You were lucky,’ said the young man. He paused. ‘I mean –’
‘You mean you didn’t really care at the time where you struck. Why did you want to follow Simon? To finish what you had started?’
‘In a sense,’ the man said. He spoke slowly. ‘Not to kill him. But not to leave it like that.’
‘To apologise? To get him to apologise? He was, I think, unlikely to do that.’
‘Nothing so civilised,’ the man Nicholas said. ‘I wanted to keep fighting until he knew that I’d beaten him. And then remind him that he couldn’t do anything about it.’
‘He couldn’t?’
‘Or I shouldn’t be so magnanimous about Henry.’
‘Henry?’ Margriet repeated, frowning.
‘Henry de St Pol, Simon’s son,’ said her husband without turning his head. ‘I don’t think I told you. He lost his temper during a tourney. When Nicholas tried to help, the boy stabbed him.’
‘And he couldn’t be seven!’ said Margriet, touched with horror.
The two men looked at one another. She became aware of a silence. Then Anselm said, ‘I observe the parallel. You think I shall not prefer charges against you, in return for the advantage it gives me?’
‘You have witnesses,’ the young man said.
‘Yes.’ She knew Anselm. When he leaned back like that, he had achieved what he wanted. He said, ‘And what primacy should I have? What degree of control? What, in fact, do you offer?’
‘As much as I have over Simon, for what it is worth. I shall try not to displease you. On the other hand, if you push me too far, you will have to revive the case and take me to law. But I shall do my best to elude you, and you will never possess such an advantage again.’
They were still looking at one another. Then Anselm tur
ned his head towards her. ‘Well, my dear? What do you think? You have heard his suggestion. Do we accept this solatium or not?’
She said, ‘Ser Anselm, are you out of your senses? He wounds you nearly to death. He asks you not to take him to law. And in return, he will try not to displease you, as if it were some sort of concession, and not the Christian duty of every soul on this earth!’
Her husband smiled. He had turned his eyes from her again. He said, ‘You have missed the point, which indeed has been made with some delicacy. Unlike most Christian souls, this one is capable of causing you. me and our children quite an amount of displeasure. Young Kilmirren shares my misgivings, or he would hardly have left Court with Henry.’
‘Simon has gone?’ the other said slowly.
‘To Portugal, it is said. Or perhaps France. So,’ said Anselm, ‘there is no need for you to go back to Scotland. And if I do not forgive you immediately, you will stay and prove troublesome here. Am I right?’
‘Of course not,’ the man said. ‘Or, if you think so, you must arrest me at once. Or – be sure I shan’t try to escape – within four days, perhaps. I should like … I should like to be free when my child is born.’
‘What!’ said Margriet. ‘The baby? You have heard? It is due? Oh, Anselm!’
‘It is due?’ said Anselm softly.
‘In a few days. I am – I was going to the convent tomorrow.’ The blemished face turned towards her. ‘You can believe me. You will see Gelis when she can travel. Or before, if you like.’
‘Her baby!’ said Margriet. ‘I have a gift. Wait. I made it myself. You shall take it to her.’ Rising, she sniffed through her smiles. In her thoughts she saw the little van Borselen girl, her face rosy, her hair round her shoulders, a babe in her arms. She was thinking, hurrying out, that Dr Andreas might well be wrong. That Antoon needn’t be the last son: that she was only forty, and could give Anselm, surely, another.
She closed the door, and her husband sank back in his chair. ‘My wound is forgotten,’ he said. ‘Although it is not a ruse you could employ every week. There is a child on the way?’
The Unicorn Hunt Page 27
