The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Gregorio didn’t speak. He could already see, approaching closer, that this was not the massive stronghold of his earliest fears, from which the men-at-arms of de Fleury would descend to spoil and harry Kilmirren. For one thing, the Semples of Elliotstoun were far too shrewd to allow him to build one.

  But it was not, either, the mystical palace he had begun to dread, riding up through the sunshine: the très riche home, born of five cultures, into which a nameless rich man might pour all his longings.

  Before him, half reshaped and still building, was the residence, without walls, of a powerful man with powerful connections. The comely range of living quarters now forming round the embryo square was of a style to lodge lords and their retinues rather than a troop of light horse. The hall and chapel which adjoined it were new and far from complete, but Gregorio saw the promise of tall windows surrounded with vine-scrolls, and colonettes and capitals that reminded him of France, rather than Flanders. Next to the hall was the tower, once the only occupant of the rise and now half restored, its windows enlarged and the space between them newly banded with ornament.

  Three floors of that were secure, they were told, and would lodge them that night. The master mason already had his room there, and the vaulted cellars served as tool-store and tracing-house, and supplemented the long thatched lodge in the yard, thick with powder, where the masons patiently sat, carving stone.

  Cochrane, when he emerged, was also coated with powder and still, absently, held a saw in one hand. Oliver Semple, as from long practice, ducked to one side when he started to speak. They were by now dismounted, and standing scattered among the giant rouleaux of timber, the new-cut stacks of stone, the piles of lime and the mountains of sand, the baskets and barrows, the canopied workspaces where men mixed mortar or sharpened blades at a forge.

  Everyone worked, and everyone looked at M. de Fleury while working, so that the great hoist turned slower and slower and the withy ladders became congested with climbers, and the bucket banged on the side of the well. The faces under the caps were friendly – dirty but friendly. Most were labourers, but one or two were craftsmen whom Gregorio recognised. A carver, a tiler, a cutting-mason already employed in the Casa di Niccolò in the Canongate.

  Members of a new army indebted to Nicholas.

  Master Oliver, raising his voice, introduced M. de Fleury and Master Gregorio his lawyer, and announced that it was proposed to drink to the patron’s good health at sunset. There was a satisfied cheer, and M. de Fleury briefly addressed them. The master mason, still gesticulating with his saw, then placed himself before the arrivals and proceeded to lead them to the four quarters of the yard in order to explain, with some passion, the curiosities of his handiwork. The light faded. Gregorio followed.

  None of this had anything to do with the Bank of Niccolò, or with Venice or Bruges, or with John sweetening the Mamelukes in Alexandria, or Astorre in Burgundy, or the trade links Nicholas was forging with Scotland. Gregorio could not guess its significance and, now, was reluctant to try.

  He felt, in the midst of despair, a distinct cordiality towards Thomas Cochrane, master mason. He had felt the same for Will Roger. He then wondered if Nicholas had selected them, or the other way round. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never feel free of responsibility until he saw Nicholas drunk. Draining his cup, he could not think, all through supper, how to explain that to Godscalc.

  The only conversations Gregorio ever succeeded in having with Nicholas were in their sleeping-chamber at night, when the other man was effortlessly caustic and he was exhausted. That night, although starved for sleep, Gregorio was driven to accost him again. ‘What the hell was all that about winter herding, and stable dung for the barley, and compulsory fencing, and pastures for ewes with their followers? You know less than I do about farming.’

  ‘I got it from Katelijne,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘Who got it, in turn, from the factor at Dean. She thinks a landowner should know about land. I’ve told Oliver to keep the Semple boundaries healthy, and leave the rough land between me and Kilmirren to look after itself. What he does in between is his business. What do you think of our champion Oliver? Better than Roland?’

  ‘Jannekin?’ Gregorio said. Young Bonkle knew trade inside out, but perhaps he had too many kinsmen. On the other hand, this man was a Semple.

  Gregorio said, ‘They both have connections. Semple has the experience, I agree. But if you’re expecting to farm, why have we been making all these digressions? Perhaps the land can produce coal, or lead, or silver, or gold, to hear some; but none of it is on the ground that you’ve bought.’

  ‘That’s why Katelijne thought I should concentrate upon farming,’ the other man said. ‘And of course I shall, after the wedding. Six shillings and eightpence a sheep – isn’t that staggering? And pease at thirteen shillings and fourpence a boll, and peat available for nothing at all. Don’t you think I should settle down here, if I survive the duel with Sersanders?’

  ‘Sersanders?’ Gregorio said.

  ‘You’d forgotten. The joust. Part of the wedding festivities. I’ve offered Paisley Abbey a window to intercede for me.’

  Gregorio had actually seen the cartoon-scroll below, with a figure on it not unlike Bishop Graham. Gregorio said, ‘If you stay, you will have the most beautiful small palace in Christendom. Those are tiles from the Maghgreb, commissioned surely to fit in that corner.’

  ‘My dear,’ Nicholas said. When feeding the parrot, he always seemed to drop into Spanish. ‘Like God, right angles transcend creed and frontier. Tiles fit anywhere.’

  ‘So the drums still beat,’ Gregorio said. ‘We had no ship there this year. But perhaps Tommaso had. Where does the news come from, with the tiles? The ibn Said? Benedetto Dei? Nicholas, tell me.’

  ‘You ask the wrong questions,’ the other man said. ‘Not where does it come from, but what does it say?’ The parrot poked through the bars, its eyes dilated, and tried to grip the piece of apple he was holding just out of its reach.

  Gregorio watched. He had never known Nicholas to speak of this, not since those first moments in Bruges. Then he understood. Gregorio said, ‘The report was true. Umar is dead.’

  ‘So they say,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘Even the child they thought had escaped. They will break the tiles out tomorrow. Native work has little value these days, and if Sersanders forgets his own strength, I should like to be remembered for good taste, at least.’

  The parrot screamed. ‘Don’t torment it,’ said Gregorio.

  ‘It is only a parrot,’ said Nicholas.

  *

  Semple’s messenger reached the keep at first light, with the news just brought over from Edinburgh. The royal bride’s fleet had been signalled, and M. de Fleury was required to return.

  Separate word had been sent to Dean Castle. ‘I hope they’ve mastered the laud,’ said Gregorio. ‘Not to mention the world’s first polyphonic beer stains.’

  He felt a conscience-stricken relief. Whatever awaited in Edinburgh, including Anselm Sersanders, it was in a context with which he was familiar, and involved business for which he was trained. Here, he felt like an amateur crossing a tightrope on the shoulders of an expert who wanted to fall.

  Chapter 21

  WITH KINGS REGULARLY dying so young, the arrangements for receiving royal brides from overseas were generally in apple-pie order. Margaret of Denmark, aged twelve, sailed into the harbour at Leith twenty years to the sunny June day after Mary of Guelders, the present King’s mother, now dead. Wolfaert van Borselen and his royal Scots wife had come in the fleet that brought Mary from Flanders. The ships that fetched Margaret from Denmark brought with her those triumphant Scots statesmen who, for ten weary months, had stayed to wring her dowry out of her father. Among them was Thomas Boyd, first Earl of Arran.

  Nicholas de Fleury, a foreigner, was not among those appointed to receive the future Queen on her landing and attend her to the Abbey of Holyrood where, in a month, she would wed. He was not a
t all interested, having long since transferred to different schemes.

  His work on the wedding was done and indeed (unknown to Gregorio) paid for. Closer than most to the superb wedding of Duke Charles of Burgundy, and aware more than most of the Continental connections, yearnings, expectations of the Crown of Scotland, Nicholas had had all the time in the world to bring to Scotland the craftsmen, the artists and the engineers who would create for the kingdom a spectacle which would not be laughed at in Bourges or Brussels or Florence.

  His work was done; his investment was made. England had brought down the Frescobaldi and the Riccardi by failing to honour their loans. Scotland had paid its dues to the House of Niccolò in another manner entirely. The wedding, in terms of cash profit, was an event of minor importance to Nicholas. In ways not so obvious, it fulfilled an essential part of the design.

  Some of it, of course, had been executed before he left for Beltrees: quiet meetings with the young Albany; with other officials at Court. Sometimes he took Wilhelm of Hall with him. The King had met Wilhelm, his new goldsmith.

  He did not mention to Betha Sinclair how often he had been received by the Earl of Orkney her father, or how many manuscripts he had conveyed to his library. The Earl had coal and salt-pans in Dysart, and soon would have more. Soon, everyone would have more. Nicholas had introduced Hugo van der Goes to Jannekin’s father, and spent time at Kinneil with Joneta’s extremely shrewd parent, Lord Hamilton. He had courted, deeply and thoughtfully, all those he knew of both sexes dwelling within the rule of the Cistercian Order.

  The journey to Beltrees followed these varied activities, and so did an aberration in the matter of sleep which threatened his pace for a while, until he conquered it. He knew Gregorio was alarmed, but paid no attention.

  Then, after their recall to Edinburgh, three things occurred.

  First, he was summoned by Sir William Knollys, Preceptor of the Knights of St John, to respond in form to the challenge by Anselm Sersanders, merchant burgher of Ghent, to a joust à plaisance in public, at a place and time to be mutually agreed.

  He was interviewed, attended by Gregorio, in the Knights’ house at Linlithgow. Sersanders was there, with the Preceptor and a priest. The priest was John of Kinloch, whom Nicholas vander Poele, now de Fleury, had once humiliated in Rhodes. Sersanders might not want to draw blood, but he had found other ways of avenging his uncle.

  The proceedings were formal. It was agreed that the event would form part of the welcoming festivities for the Danes. There would be a series of tournaments. This would be included in one of them. John of Kinloch asked after M. de Fleury’s injuries, so undeservedly incurred after the last entertainment. M. de Fleury reassured him. The priest then enquired after the lady van Borselen, dame de Fleury, and her husband responded as if neither of them had ever heard of a courtesan called Primaflora. Sir William finally sought to establish that he had suitable armour, and M. de Fleury replied that he had. This time, he had brought his own with him. It had seemed likely, after all, that something like this would be necessary.

  It was all to be expected. All that had been unexpected was the readiness of Sersanders to be associated with the Knights of St John.

  The explanation in due course emerged. Unrest in the north of England promised to escalate into a far stronger movement against the King, Edward of York. If civil war broke out again, his Lancastrian rivals might be restored to power. And the Knights, having their headquarters in England, would have less to concern them than most, for they had always regarded Henry of Lancaster as their King.

  From past experience, and from, you might add, intelligence gathered even from the sickbed just referred to, Nicholas de Fleury knew a fair amount about the Knights of St John, and those who adhered to them, and their property. So, of course, did Anselm Adorne. The very delicacy of the relationship between himself and the family Adorne gave M. de Fleury pleasure. But for the obvious disadvantages, he would have preferred it if Anselm Adorne had been here, not his nephew.

  The interview with the Knights occurred five days before the State Arrival at Leith. Two days later, a hooded woman, alone, without escort, called at the Canongate residence of the seigneur de Fleury of the Banco di Niccolò.

  The long, warm evenings were light; the lantern hung at the pend was hardly as bright, yet, as the last of the sunset over the castle. His porter, however, was discreet and so was Govaerts his steward, carrying the news to the padrone in his office. Govaerts said, ‘I imagine this is the lady that you were expecting.’

  Julius would have made a joke. Nicholas said, ‘Where is Master Gregorio?’

  ‘I believe, in the Burgh,’ said Govaerts. ‘The Prioress invited him, after the music. He has a lantern-boy with him.’

  So, in other words, someone would know when he was coming. Nicholas said, ‘Then she should come to my room. But no one else.’

  Govaerts said, ‘You are out, padrone? Or engaged?’

  ‘Whatever you usually say,’ Nicholas said. ‘And in the manner in which you usually say it.’

  After that, it would have been ironic if the lady had actually come to improve his wellbeing; but she had not. Indeed she flinched from his touch, even though the folds of her cloak must have been stifling; and he had to draw out a stool, speaking calmly, before she would sit, and then let the mantle fall back from her shoulders.

  Her face was, as ever, irredeemably plain, and dogged, and youthful. She said, ‘I require you to help me.’

  ‘Whatever your grace wishes,’ he said.

  Later, alone in the office again, he heard Gregorio climbing the stairs. His step was a fraction uneven. Nicholas set aside his pen and sat back and deployed his dimples, all to himself, in self-parody. The truth was that if Gregorio didn’t come in, he’d go and fetch him. Or something with which to replace him.

  Gregorio opened the door. It had been a good evening, that was apparent. For once, he had left off the black robe of his profession, and wore a braided brown doublet with a wide-brimmed hat which was almost flamboyant. His nose, thin as a tail-fluke, was flushed. He said, ‘I hear you’ve had company.’

  ‘She’s gone,’ Nicholas said. He knew Goro’s views on philandering. He added, ‘So how was the music?’

  Gregorio slumped in the chair with the back. ‘It might just be ready in time. I don’t know why you don’t come. Will Roger says you’re a mean bastard who won’t do anything unless he gets paid for it. Listen, Dame Betha and Phemie were there. I’ve found out the exact terms of the Queen’s dowry.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Nicholas, with surprise.

  ‘So you know,’ Gregorio said. ‘Am I as drunk as all that?’

  ‘Mellow. No, I don’t mind confirmation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Queen gets Linlithgow Palace and Doune and a third of James’s income. James receives in redeemable pawn the Norwegian Crown’s land, rights and revenues in the islands of Orkney and Shetland, thus putting out the eye of William Sinclair, who gives up the earldom, but keeps whatever private lands his family have managed to lay hands on. And in addition, William is to receive Mary of Guelders’ castle in Fife. The one beside Dysart.’

  ‘While young Albany has to receive the Earl’s daughter. That’s about it,’ said Gregorio. ‘And have you heard about Boyd?’

  ‘Boyd?’ said Nicholas. His response this time was unfeigned.

  ‘They’ve announced the first tournament. You’re due to run three courses against Thomas Boyd – Arran – before the joust you asked for with Sersanders. I’ve protested.’

  ‘Have you? Thank you. Why?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Because Sersanders will be fresh and you won’t. There ought to be parity. Not that there is. Boyd and Sersanders both grew up jousting, and you couldn’t ride a horse until – well. That is, although you’ve done a lot since, it’s not fair.’

  ‘I see that,’ Nicholas said. ‘Well, you’d better organise a great big Dane as a first joust for Sersanders. Otherwise I’ll sulk in my tent and leave the fight to my armour; I’
m training six ferrets to activate it. What’s it like to be drunk?’

  Gregorio sat up slowly. He said, ‘Was it that bad? Or that good? I have a flask …’ He laid a fumbling hand on his pouch.

  ‘That good,’ said Nicholas. He let himself smile into Gregorio’s face with its anxious, fixed stare and then, rising, crossed to the shelf where the cups were. One managed, most of the time. It was Gregorio, not Julius or Godscalc.

  Gregorio said, ‘I have to tell you. I was meant to tell you. She has a child, Nicholas. But it isn’t yours.’

  His fingers eased. The pewter slipped, but he saved it immediately. He said, ‘Now there is an alarming statement, if ever I heard one.’

  ‘Joneta Hamilton,’ the other man said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That it isn’t mine?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You knew,’ said Gregorio.

  ‘Really,’ said Nicholas. ‘As the ultimate expert in marital and extra-marital intercourse, I can claim some proficiency. I can, even yet, identify a virgin when I am lucky enough to obtain one, and know the signs of incipient or successful motherhood as well as I know what to do about it. Or if I didn’t, by God, Gelis has taught me.’

  Gregorio had turned white. He said, ‘I’m drunk. I’m sorry,’ and uncorked and held out the wine-flask. Nicholas started to move. Before his palm struck the flask Gregorio threw it himself on to the floor where it lay, the wine spreading. Gregorio watched it and then, lifting himself, walked to the door. He turned and said, ‘I didn’t mean any harm. To save you from …’

  ‘From this?’ Nicholas said.

  The door closed. He put down the cup but it fell, warped out of balance. It was as well Margot couldn’t see it. On the other hand, Gregorio had come close to abusing a privilege. That wasn’t why he was here.

  The Canongate was draped with scarlet for the Entry of Margaret of Denmark, and the houses lining Leith Wynd hung arras and cloths from their sills. The procession, from Leith, was a long one.