The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  The others fell silent. They had hoped for a town perhaps, where a ducal officer might have been summoned. Or even for a simple encampment, for much can be made to happen under cover of night. Instead, what straddled the pass was a fortress. An old one, its walls broken and cracked, but still high enough to thwart even an optimist. Within, from the sluggish smoke rising, there was someone newly in residence.

  John said, ‘I’m going to do something. There won’t be a chance once we’re inside.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘And if you try it, I’ll kick you unconscious.’

  ‘You’ve got a plan. Tell it. You know your plans never work until I’ve checked them,’ said John le Grant. Father Moriz gazed ahead, looking solemn.

  ‘I haven’t time. Here we are,’ Nicholas said.

  All the while they were being pushed through the gates, and untied, and beaten across the filthy enclosure to the dungeons, Nicholas thought of the fuss Julius would have made. He missed Julius and his outbursts, on occasion. John’s outbursts were, of course, not outbursts at all. Then their captors left, and the dungeon door closed and was locked, and everyone looked at him hopefully.

  He said, ‘All right. I’ve got the dice. Let’s get comfortable. Then I’m putting up ten Rhenish florins as prize money.’

  One of the young men-at-arms said, ‘My lord, how long …?’ and stopped when Ederic, Nicholas’s manservant, looked at him.

  Nicholas said, ‘An hour. If it’s over that, I’ll double the prize money.’ No one asked how he was going to measure the hour.

  The wounded man was not badly hurt, but had bled a lot. Dionigi was lame. Those who were fit crawled about helping to bind up the cuts of the rest. The roof was so low that one bracket-candle lit the whole chamber. There was no food and no water, but the straw on the floor was at least fresh.

  He was quite good, himself, at measuring time. John, he knew, was even better. Just short of the hour, by his reckoning, they heard footsteps approaching, and the door opened upon several men. One of them held something out. The man said in German, ‘Whose is this?’

  Nicholas did not reply, but waited for Father Moriz to glance at him. Father Moriz then spoke. ‘It belongs to this knight. To the lord Nicholas de Fleury of Burgundy, guest of Duke Sigismond.’

  The speaker in the doorway looked from Nicholas to the priest. He said, ‘Diese ist der Orden van der Schottische Einhorn.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Father Moriz.

  ‘But you are German,’ said the man in the doorway. It could be seen now that he was young, and wearing a sword under a stiff leather jacket.

  ‘From Augsburg. That is so,’ said the priest. ‘Master John here also speaks excellent German, although he is Scottish. And Sir Nicholas has some of the language. We should like to meet your lord and remedy this mistake.’

  Nicholas continued to look as if he had some of the language. He was pleased as well as surprised. He had expected to have to do some of that himself. He was also pleased and surprised for other reasons, in spite of the cold.

  The man said, ‘I have orders to take the Collar’s owner upstairs. The two German-speakers will, please, accompany him.’

  ‘And the others?’ said Father Moriz. ‘They require food, drink, medical help …’

  ‘It will be seen to,’ said the man. He set the door open, and Nicholas walked out with Father Moriz and John.

  It was like another occasion. That time, they had all been in prison together – Tobie, Diniz, Astorre, as well as John. That time, he went to meet death and found something else. Death was never the worst that could happen.

  The dripping stairs of this castle were nothing like those of Zacco in Cyprus. Fortified though it was, it had been built and was used as a hunting-lodge: he could hear dogs yapping and growling and had seen the good range of stables. The man in the leather jacket walked ahead, but two armed servants followed. It was a steep climb and a long walk through tortuous chambers thereafter. Feeling had come throbbing back to his shoulder and beat in his head. The side of the priest’s face was bruised, and John le Grant limped.

  It seemed to Nicholas that he was exaggerating the limp. He felt alive in spite of the pain, and expectant, and wished in a sudden blind flash that he were free, as once he had been, to savour all that was happening. Then their conductor stopped and knocked on a door, and spoke to the person who opened it. It closed, then opened again. This time, the man in the jacket led the way forward and bowed. ‘Your grace, the knight of the Unicorn Collar. Sir Nicholas de Fleury; his priest; and a Scotsman named John.’ He bowed.

  The room they had entered was of moderate size but warmed by a brazier, and the plaster walls were draped with patterned hangings and lit by wax candles in good polished sconces. The furniture, though solid, was equally good: a pair of stout coffers topped by tapestry cushions, a set of shelves on one wall bearing dishes of pewter and silver, a number of cups and a vessel of wine. There was a prie-dieu in a corner, and a basin and ewer in another, with a rack of plain towels. The master chair stood by the brazier, and the board beside it bore two heavy books and some sewing on a table-carpet of green cloth. The occupant stood by the window surveying them.

  ‘Your grace,’ Nicholas said. He heard John draw in his breath. He spoke to a woman.

  She was nearer John’s age than his: past her middle thirties, and already too stout for her height, although her hair still showed red under the old-fashioned double-peaked headdress. Her sleeves were fur-edged and trailed, and her high bosom was pinned with a brooch made of rubies. The stones were formed in the shape of a lion; the same as that worn by the men who had brought them.

  ‘My grace, is it?’ she said. ‘It seems my nephew’s making mair free than he should with his unicorns. What for was that Collar?’

  Le Grant’s face had turned red. Nicholas said, ‘For getting your niece’s husband out of the country. You may not approve.’

  ‘Thomas Boyd?’ said the woman. ‘Oh, deary dear. Oh, deary deary dear.’ She walked forward slowly. ‘Were ye hurt just now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Most of my party were injured.’

  ‘Sons of Belial,’ she said. ‘They were to ca’ canny. I told them. Jack, go and see to it.’ The man in the leather jacket hesitated, then went out. The lady of the chamber who had opened the door closed it and sat just inside, her eyes lowered. She was not young, but handsome after an older fashion. Her mistress said, ‘Jack Lindsay. His father came out with me and married a German. It can happen to anybody. Well, come to the fire: you look as if ye need it. I’ll get my physician to see you. Does the priest not have Scots? Where are you from?’

  ‘Aberdeen,’ said John le Grant, thus addressed. He walked forward. ‘Your grace.’

  She said, ‘You don’t know who I am. He does.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is Father Moriz, an expert in smelting. He does speak English. And John le Grant, mining engineer, navigator, gunner. He has worked in Germany as well as Constantinople. John, this is her grace the Duchess Eleanor of the Tyrol, lady wife to Duke Sigismond and father’s sister to James, King of Scotland.’

  There was a silence. The Duchess took the big chair and picked up her sewing. ‘So you didn’t tell them. Well, I have to say the Duke was forgetful as well. He’s away. I wouldn’t exactly know where, but of course he’ll hear how ye mistook the way and got into trouble, and send to Brixen to have ye all join him. In due course. News takes time to travel.’

  John le Grant said, ‘This isn’t Brixen? Your grace?’

  ‘Dear me, no,’ said the Duchess Eleanor. ‘That’s seventeen miles to the south. We’ll go there directly. No, you’ve wandered. It’s the guides. You can’t get good guides nowadays. Do you like soup? My cook makes a good soup. You go off and get yourselves seen to, and we’ll talk properly when you’re done. You’re not very old.’

  Nicholas turned at the door, where the man she called Lindsay had reappeared, followed by her lady-in-waiting. Nich
olas said, ‘I’ve aged lately, your grace.’ She smiled as they filed out.

  She had told him just enough to let him settle everyone’s doubts. First his men, cramming down ale and venison and thick, filling bread in a bare room which, though draughty, wasn’t a dungeon, and had pallets already brought in for the night. By then, even the injured looked brighter.

  ‘We were in the wrong valley. But we’ve had some luck from it. These are the Duchess’s men, and she’s here, and she’s anxious to do everything she can to make up for it. We’re off to Brixen, her own castle, soon, and then the Duke himself will send for us.’

  The men accepted it. Niccolino always fell on his feet.

  Once the ale had taken effect, he found a place where he could talk to John and the priest and the three men of his own household. They were sober, as he was. Donat started before he could speak. ‘That guide was bribed! Those places he led us to!’

  ‘Bribed, of course. By the Duchess, one supposes,’ said Father Moriz.

  ‘Of course.’ Nicholas looked across at Donat. ‘Your back hurts. So does my arm. She thought it necessary. She’s a capable woman controlling a twenty-year marriage to a self-indulgent, indolent profligate.’

  ‘They say,’ remarked John le Grant, ‘that he has a bastard for every week of the year.’

  ‘And they had one child, who died. He also spends money. On the mistresses. On gambling. On new castles – Sigmundsburg, Sigmundseek, Sigmundsfreud, Sigmundskron, Sigmundslust, Sigmundsfried. On birds and horses and dogs for the hunt. On the advisers he favours, and the men of culture he likes to sustain. He has already sold off all his father’s land in the Confederate States, and now has mortgaged Alsace and the Black Forest.’

  ‘To the Duke of Burgundy,’ Ederic said. Ederic came from Antwerp.

  ‘An encroachment the Swiss don’t appreciate. The cantons are nervous of Burgundy and have the best fighting men in the world. The Tyrol sits between, and can’t afford to pay mercenaries for anything. Sigismond thinks the Duke of Burgundy will lend him troops to protect him or – madly – attack the Swiss if he wants to. The Duchess doesn’t think the Duke will. The Duchess thinks that the Tyrol needs help. Not soldiers; not at once, anyway. But investment. A way to realise its own wealth, so that no matter how much Sigismond spends, there will always be more.’

  ‘Silver,’ said John le Grant. The priest’s face remained undisturbed. The remaining three looked uneasy.

  ‘And copper. More valuable sometimes than gold.’

  ‘And the use of your Captain Astorre and his army?’ It was the priest.

  ‘They possibly think so.’

  ‘You sound as if you’d had a talk with the lady already. This was the meaning of your conversation upstairs?’

  ‘She will call me back,’ Nicholas said. ‘When my broken head and the drink should have done her work for her.’

  ‘She sounds an astute woman. Why has she stayed with the Duke?’ This time, it was John.

  The priest said, ‘Ah, no. Why has the Duke stayed with her? That is the nub of it.’

  The rest of the men had started to sing. Against the noise, Nicholas talked, and the others listened, the priest and the engineer addressing one another and him, their voices considered, vehement, thoughtful. They were all flushed. Presently the man in the leather jacket came back, and walking over to Nicholas required him to follow. If you listened carefully, you could hear the thread of Scots under the German.

  John le Grant spoke to Nicholas in rapid Italian. ‘Maps, remember.’

  The young man turned. ‘There are some maps,’ he said shortly in the same language. Below the Italian, too, the Scots lay submerged. If he was James Lindsay’s son, then he was full cousin to David Lindsay, Earl of Crawford. Thinking, Nicholas followed him back to the Duchess’s chamber. This time there was no one in attendance, and Lindsay, after introducing him, left, closing the door.

  Eleanor of Scotland sat unchanged with her embroidery, a cup of wine at her hand. The embroidery had materially grown. She said, ‘Pray be seated. Nowadays, I prefer to talk business in German. I am told Flemish is not unlike.’

  ‘We can speak German, your grace,’ Nicholas said.

  She looked up. Her skin was uneven and ruddy, and she had the long Stewart nose of her father. Her mother had been English and royally connected. Her father, caught at eleven, had lived a prisoner for eighteen years in England. A generation later, one of her sisters had been Queen of France and another had married Wolfaert van Borselen. Few statesmen had observed the shifts and changes of power as narrowly as Eleanor of Scotland.

  She said, ‘I hear you have an interest in mining, and a certain amount of bullion to invest.’

  ‘That is so,’ he said. ‘A considerable amount, if our surveys prove fruitful. What you have on the banks of the Inn may be as fine as the alum at Tolfa. But it requires to be expertly mined.’

  ‘Alum?’ she said. Her needle worked.

  ‘Other minerals are heavily taxed. Crude mines may be less attractive than newly dug shafts. Good ventilation and drainage cost money. And so do my experts. Indeed, even alum has problems.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ she said.

  ‘To hunt,’ he said. ‘With your permission, this time. My men are experienced. If there is no quarry worth our joint attention, we shall tell you. If your grace will give leave.’

  She said, ‘I shall do better than that: I shall come with you. You will find no better terrain than this in the north, although, of course, there is fine sport to be had about Trent. We shall put off our journey to Brixen. We shall hunt. And then, if you have a proposal, you shall put it to my husband’s adviser. You have heard of Antonio Cavalli?’

  ‘Was he not in Scotland?’ said Nicholas. He might have been more straightforward had he known how much she knew. He had heard, at Dean Castle, all about Antonio Cavalli. He had heard all about Eleanor of the Tyrol. And what he hadn’t learned there, he had learned at court. The Scottish Court, and that of Brussels.

  She was answering, undisturbed. ‘Master Cavalli stayed with my niece at Kilmarnock. The lady Mary, Countess of Arran. Your wife served her once. You say the Countess has left Scotland with her husband?’

  Her voice remained mild. Nicholas said, ‘She was attached to him. Had he stayed, the King your nephew would have been forced to execute him. Instead they are both free.’

  ‘If in exile,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘At least,’ Nicholas said, ‘exile can be revoked, unlike death.’

  She said, ‘For one? Or for both?’

  Nicholas said, ‘I doubt if the Earl of Arran would be allowed to return. His lands are too valuable.’

  ‘You expect to acquire some?’ she said. ‘Or have you lost interest in Scotland? Having poached, so I am told, our good goldsmith Wilhelm of Hall?’

  ‘I have an office there,’ he said. ‘And a house in the Semple district of Renfrewshire. A little land seldom comes amiss.’

  She stitched. She said, ‘My father is buried in Paisley. The monks still have their fustian sent from Ulm. The King my nephew would like us to send him cannon.’ She looked up.

  ‘Guns are fashionable,’ Nicholas said. ‘But, of course, their utility depends on the skill of the casting.’

  ‘A badly cast gun killed my brother,’ she said, and stuck the needle finally in her work. She rose. ‘As you know. You have been luckier today. I am going to give you some wine. Your arm looks painful.’

  They had put it into a sling. He got up as well. ‘It will be stiff tomorrow, that’s all. Don’t trouble. I drank something below.’

  She paid no attention, crossing to the board and pouring with her own hands. Her heavy robe smelt faintly of horse. He thought of other women of power in his life: the brave and delicate mother of the Persian prince Uzum Hasan; the noseless grotesque in Cyprus who had given birth to the beautiful Zacco; Bel of Cuthilgurdy, if you liked, whose influence came not through a son or a grandson but by way of a peculiar strength of her ow
n.

  Eleanor of Scotland was not a woman of Bel’s kind although, coming back, she dropped into Scots as she put the cup in his hand. ‘Drink it. It’s a receipt I keep for sair heids. Whiles, it seems that every princeling in Europe sends his bairn to the Tyrol to be reared, and a good smack or a physic does wonders. I’m told ye’ve begotten a knave on your wife?’

  ‘A son of six months.’ The outer voice answered. The inner voice contradicted. A son of eight months, eight months by now. If it was a son. If it was anything. Four teeth in a smile. Kicking. Or crooked. Or dead and decayed in the earth.

  The wine was strong, with something herbal in it. He added aloud, ‘We are delighted.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. An heir. My niece the Countess was very taken with Gelis van Borselen. I should tell ye that the wine will put ye to sleep in ten minutes, so you’d better finish it off and get gone. I’m not a great believer in conversations over the grape. Besides, I’ve a harder head than you’d expect. I’ve had practice.’

  He got up. Her unsmiling face appeared made of red granite; her eyebrows were black. He realised that it was her eyebrows that he should have been looking at. The dread left his mind, and he laughed.

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Well, we’ve got one reaction that you meant. Let’s see tomorrow if we can find one or two more.’

  Next day, riding out at her side, he felt restored and a trifle light-headed. He did not remember going to bed, but deduced that his lapse had not only been condoned by the rest but appreciated: no one much liked being with a man who was afraid to take a drink. He wondered why, possessing such a helpful beverage, she had not tried to make better use of it. It put him in her debt. That was probably why.

  He knew now where they were. The purpose of this great party – horses, hounds, huntsmen, women and men of her court and her household, with their packhorses and tents, their wagons of necessities and provisions – was to comb the mountains for game, it was true. It was also to bring before him all that the Duchess wished him to see.