To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 17

  ‘Or you of them?’ said the boy. Despite the damask, the jewels, and the marriage imposed on him by the state, he was only seventeen. He had spent half his childhood in Bruges, and was not interested in Gelis van Borselen or her son. He said, still to Nicholas, ‘What have you brought?’

  ‘All I promised,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let them unload it and fetch it to you. We’ll need draught oxen.’

  The lad’s throat was faintly freckled and long, the jaw-blade as sharp as a spear. He said, ‘We can stay here while it is freighted ashore. Lamb’s house, or the Wark. Did you bring them? The engineers?’

  ‘They are here,’ Nicholas said. ‘Le Grant and Moriz of Augsberg. Do you really want to wait? It’s heavy stuff, and takes a long time to move.’

  The Duke stared at him. ‘We have said so,’ he said. ‘No doubt the lady de Fleury will wish to proceed into town. The luggage can follow.’

  ‘If there are enough carts,’ Nicholas said. ‘When Duke Charles was aged one, so they say, his toys and dresses filled two travel-wagons. The household de Fleury does not stint itself either.’

  ‘You do not surprise me,’ said the Duke. He had begun to stroll back to the shore as he spoke. Nicholas turned and walked with him. Their voices floated back to where Gelis stood in silence. She heard Albany say, ‘The water is warm.’ He added, ‘I can of course swim.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ said the voice of her husband. He spoke without prefixes or titles. ‘Who taught you? If it was Whistle Willie, you’ll drown. They ululate from mountain to mountain in the Tyrol. Ululate, with two l’s. And they whistle in the Canaries. I’ll show you. You’ll hate it.’

  ‘He made a drum for you,’ said the boy. ‘And who taught you, my good sir? Is this how you address your ducal master in Burgundy?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Nicholas said. His voice, even from the middle distance, held mild surprise, and some flatness.

  She heard the Prince laugh, and saw him reach up and grip the sleeve nearest his arm like a bridle. ‘It’s, “No, Sandy,” ’ Albany said; and walked on like a king with Bellepheron tamed at his shoulder. His retinue followed, including John le Grant and the priest; leaving her standing behind with the child.

  Sir James Liddell had waited. He spoke to her, smiling. ‘Forgive them. My lord Duke holds your husband in great fondness. I am sure they will follow tomorrow.’

  She answered gracefully. Mistress Clémence was approaching, with Pasque, and the man who had given Jordan the whistle, whose name was Archie of Berecrofts. She could see now that there was a small cavalcade waiting on shore: horses and mules, and men in the Bank’s livery. She could see even that Nicholas, detaining the Duke, had turned aside to speak to them for a moment. Then they went on. She looked down at a sound and saw that Jordan was silently weeping.

  Mistress Clémence picked him up. ‘Now wouldn’t the Duke of Burgundy have been proud of Jordan de Fleury this day! I never saw a boy bow better. And where is that whistle?’ She dried his cheeks with two dabs.

  He put his thumb in his mouth.

  ‘Pasque has it,’ said Mistress Clémence. ‘And there is Pasque with the horses. Come! Let us hurry to Pasque!’

  Gelis followed. The arrival she had dreaded was over, and she had been received, with her husband. Received because Nicholas had coolly introduced them all three as a family: father, mother and child. Received because the contentious name of her child was already known, and patently tolerated by its father. Received because news of her accident had already been broadcast, inviting sympathy or satisfaction, and demonstrating impartially that whatever had passed was either atoned for or forgiven. None of it was for her sake. This small, portable Arcadia had been engineered solely for Jordan de Fleury. Bouton, he had called him.

  Her arrival was over, and none of the traps she had expected had opened for her except one – and that had dealt a blow to her self-esteem, not her arm. The little delicate girl, Adorne’s niece, had talked to her once about the doings of Nicholas in Scotland. Gelis had discounted what Kathi had said because it smacked too much of the legend of Claes, the mischievous, foolhardy apprentice of Bruges, and Nicholas had been far from that, since his wedding. His months in Scotland in reality had been ugly with incident: Simon’s sister had died; Simon himself had nearly lost his life to Nicholas, and so had Adorne. Why else had Godscalc, dying, forbidden Nicholas to return for two years?

  So Gelis had come back to Scotland, confident that for Nicholas, too, this would not be a cloudless return. She knew Scotland by now. No country could afford to spurn the foreigner come to engage in banking or fighting or trade to their mutual benefit, but such occasional visitors were treated with caution. It had been her experience. It had been the experience, too, of Anselm Adorne, of Louis de Gruuthuse, of those van Borselen lords who had come to negotiate, to serve, to impress. Provided their conduct conformed, a courteous forbearance would not be denied them.

  But of course Nicholas had not conformed, as Kathi had once attempted to warn her. Actor that he was, unpredictable as he was, foreigner as he was, Nicholas had come to this same people, and left love behind.

  Sensibly, Katelijne Sersanders applied for no special leave to travel to Leith to witness the riveting arrival of Nicholas de Fleury and Gelis his lady. She did however pounce on her brother next day when, fulfilling a promise, he brought the news to the priory of Haddington.

  There was no prospect, of course, that she would see him alone; or not until he had run the gamut of the senior nuns and the more powerful of the distinguished residents, among whom would certainly be the King’s sister her mistress. All of them already knew all the best rumours about M. de Fleury and his family, and Kathi only hoped that Anselm realised what was expected of him. At times she felt that he was the person who was seventeen and she the middle-aged woman ten years older. She noted he was wearing one of his very best hats, a bad sign.

  ‘So?’ said Kathi. They weren’t even inside the priory; his audience had all flowed into the yard the moment he appeared at the gatehouse and dismounted. She herself had come straight from the schoolroom.

  ‘So?’ repeated her brother in a voice that went with his hat. ‘How impressive, this hunger for news. What shall I tell you about first? The vital English conference just summoned for Alnwick? The distressing dispute over Coldingham Priory? The monarch’s generous offer to mediate between France and Burgundy?’ He reeked of contempt. Or would it interest you more to know that God’s darling, King David sailed into Leith yesterday, or perhaps it was only my lord Nicholas de Fleury and his wife and his son? One could hardly tell, such was the splendour.’

  ‘Was he wearing big jewels? Sandy says his son is a bastard. Sandy was going to be there,’ said the King’s sister Margaret, hopping up on one foot. ‘I wanted to go. I can swim.’

  Optimism ran in the Stewart family. Kathi gazed at her eleven-year-old mistress, thereby avoiding her brother’s eye. Anselm said, ‘The Duke of Albany was there, my lady. He and M. de Fleury spent the night at the Wark but didn’t swim, so far as I know.’

  ‘Perhaps the bastard can swim,’ said the Princess Margaret.

  ‘I think,’ said Anselm Sersanders, ‘that my lord your brother found he had made a mistake. From his looks, the boy is certainly the son of M. de Fleury. But I am sure he cannot swim. Should we pass indoors, ladies?’

  They began to walk. Kathi captured her mistress, allowing her brother to receive the full attention of the two Sinclair cousins. ‘So where is the lady Gelis?’ asked Betha, the one who didn’t write poetry. The other kept quiet.

  ‘She and the child have gone to the Canongate house. The two engineers stayed with M. de Fleury to see the cargo unloaded.’

  ‘But you spoke to them?’ Betha said. ‘You managed to ask about the Countess’s baby? And of course the lady your aunt, although she has much longer to wait.’

  She stopped, with Phemie beside her, and Kathi stopped also. You never knew, with Anselm. He would never have put such a question to M. de Fle
ury, but he was fond of their aunt, as she was. And he had made the enquiry of somebody, for he answered at once. ‘The Princess was well when they left, and the child expected by the end of this month. My uncle hopes to come to Scotland soon after.’

  ‘With the Princess and her husband?’ It was the other nun, who taught Margaret.

  Anselm said, ‘Their plans are not known.’

  ‘And Aunt Margriet?’ Kathi said.

  ‘She could be in better health but is cheerful, it is said. A courier from Bruges came to the ship just before they left. One of the child’s nurses told me.’

  ‘He has nurses?’ said the other Sinclair, called Phemie.

  ‘Apparently. They have been with the child all along. What more can I tell you?’ said Anselm.

  When she got him to her chamber at last, he was flushed and cross. ‘Women!’

  Certainly, the youngest nun had giggled too much. Kathi said, ‘It isn’t all prurience. If he stays, M. de Fleury is going to change things for this country, and also for Uncle Adorne when he comes. And it looks to me as if he is planning to stay.’

  ‘Because he has patched up his marriage?’ He sat down, causing some strips of vellum to hop on her desk. He said irritably, ‘What are you doing now?’

  She had been helping the bursar with last month’s accounts and was almost ready to sew them. Lying beside them was the alphabet-board from the school room. She picked it up by the handle and gazed at it as in a mirror with the aim of picking out simple words. ‘Because he wants it to look as if he’s patched up his marriage. Maybe he has.’

  ‘Well, you know what happened,’ her brother said. ‘She allowed Simon the ultimate privilege, and Nicholas paid her back in her own coin. Stole the child, hid it, and refused to produce it until Gelis promised to resume the marriage, adding in a bit of physical punishment to help her remember, so it seems. If that is patching up a marriage, then it is patched.’

  She said, ‘Do you believe that? Of M. de Fleury?’

  ‘The Duke of Albany believes it,’ he said. ‘Or at least, it doesn’t disturb him. But then, he’s seventeen himself, with three sons already, one of them a bastard.’

  Kathi sighed. ‘You know Sandy likes M. de Fleury. It doesn’t automatically mean the end of the Adornes.’

  Her brother gazed at her. ‘Why do you use the first name of a Duke, and the second name of an illegitimate artisan?’ He got up and taking the board from her looked at it with astonishment.

  She said, ‘Because one of them has given me leave, and the other hasn’t. Tilde calls him Cousin Nicholas and he detests it. You liked him well enough when you fell off your horse.’

  ‘That was two years ago,’ her brother said shortly. He laid down the board and started to walk up and down. After a moment he added, ‘As a matter of fact, I hardly blame him. She should never have done what she did.’

  ‘But you’re wary of him again. You think, don’t you, that Uncle Adorne is going to bring the Boyd family with him to Scotland, and that the King will have Thomas Boyd put to death, and deprive Uncle Adorne of his lands and title and send him home, if not worse; for by that time Nicholas de Fleury will be the King’s Burgundian favourite?’

  Her brother stopped walking. He said, ‘If you can see that, why keep taking his side?’

  There was no point in being exasperated because Anselm was fond of his uncle. Kathi said, ‘It’s a game. Think of it as a game. He’ll try to best you. He’ll play against anybody, even his own wife. So make your move first. Write to Uncle Adorne. Tell him not on any account to bring the Earl and Countess of Arran to Scotland. Tell him not to bring Jan. If I thought he would do it, I should tell him not to bother coming himself. Or not until this business of the Boyds has worked itself out.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said her brother. ‘You’ve just pointed out that one man can hardly bring about the end of the Adornes. Anyway, the Vatachino are here. Martin, the red-headed agent. He’ll take care of Nicholas.’

  ‘Well, fine,’ Kathi said. ‘Let him take care of Nicholas first, and then Uncle Adorne can decide whether it’s worth his while coming or not.’

  ‘You said Nicholas,’ said Anselm, diverted.

  She permitted herself a howl of frustration which split into three unintentionally at the end. ‘So help me God, but I did. I shall take my parrot and enter an enclosed order. The Patriarch of Antioch advised it.’

  ‘He was talking to the parrot,’ her brother said. After a moment he added, in a different voice, ‘Kathi? Nicholas owes you a favour. Tell him to go home.’

  ‘Tell him to go home,’ repeated Katelijne. She gazed at him. ‘Do you know what he brought in on that ship?’

  ‘Of course he’s trading,’ said Anselm. ‘Of course he won’t want to land himself with a loss. But there are rich pickings in Burgundy, surely.’ He paused. ‘Do you know?’

  Kathi picked up and unfolded a paper. It was not part of the bursar’s accounts. She read aloud. ‘Four culverin. Twenty handguns. One great cannon. Five baths with tables and canopies; a mechanical clock, and a bell.’

  ‘Tables and canopies! What!’ said her brother.

  ‘Plus fifty boxes of Secrets, packed in straw along with Heaven and Hell, fourteen haloes, twelve suns, nine choirs of angels, pulleys for Judas, harness for the Ascension, two vats of thunder and the Red Sea in a bundle of sheepskins. Also a barrel of souls.’

  She held out the paper. ‘The bill of lading. And that’s just the first page of it.’

  He took it. ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘Poisoned bird seed,’ said Kathi obscurely. She clarified. ‘The caravel put into Berwick, and word got out to Coldingham. It’s not the whole list.’

  ‘It’s enough,’ said her brother, looking blank. ‘A clock?’

  ‘And a rather nice spinet, Ada says.’

  ‘Ada?’

  ‘She’s here on a visit from Coldingham. She works for the nuns. So M. de Fleury isn’t going home,’ Kathi said. ‘And I’m not going to spy for you or for him. If I were you, I’d stick by him and see what happens. Can you bang on a drum?’

  He looked impatient. ‘Anyone can bang on a drum.’ Then, evidently reading her face he said, ‘What good would that do? I don’t want to be rolling drunk in the Castle with Willie Roger.’

  ‘It was only an idea,’ she said. She wished he understood what a glorious privilege it was to be masculine, and able to bang on a drum, and be invited to join in the lunatic making of music that took place in Will Roger’s room in the Castle. And the talk, the gossip, the camaraderie that was the portion of everyone who was allowed to go there.

  She thought of it again when her brother had finally gone and she sat alone, making tentative noises that split into three, and thinking of Gelis van Borselen seated somewhere like this, but with a broken arm contrived by her husband, and in the full cognisance of the small, clever scheme in which she had been compelled to take part. And perhaps learning as well about that tumultuous room in the Castle of Edinburgh, and aching also to be male, and free, and part of that joyous, private, vital assembly, the key to so much.

  If Gelis had music. If, like Anselm, she had not, the handicap was truly unfair. Katelijne Sersanders stared into space, filled with compassion and exasperation combined, and then laughed at her own naïveté and jumped up. For of course, unlike the Sersanders family, Gelis had no need of music. She knew what she had.

  Part II

  Autumn, 1471

  JOYOUS ENTRY AND FARCE

  Chapter 10

  IN LATER TIMES, men were to say that spring came in August that year, along with Nicholas de Fleury.

  It sounded wistful. It was not really true. No land such as this, with its powerful neighbours, its loosely knit far-flung communities, its small towns battling towards civic development could afford to be seduced into lunacy: Scotland was not Rome or Milan. The truth was a mixture, as it usually is.

  On the one hand, the chameleon M. de Fleury might initiate the younger members of the
Court into the game of Florentine football: a public disaster. On the other, he might provide useful advice to those travelling to England that autumn, to treat on matters left in contention through the Lancastrian wars. Matters such as piracy, and the family Boyd, and Coldingham Priory on the Scots side of Berwick, historically a dependant of the cathedral priory of Durham until liberated (to the delight of King James) by the family Hume. The Humes, the monks, the King were all aware that the revenues of Coldingham Priory were rich. So was the Pope. For four years, nothing decisive had happened. Resolution needed a miracle.

  It was M. de Fleury who pointed out that, this time, the delegates might expect some concessions. A reconciliation between France and Burgundy, brought together by Scotland, was the last thing that King Edward wanted. They did obtain some concessions at Alnwick, and the miracle occurred. When the belated news of Pope Paul’s death closed the meeting, the returning Scots sped to consult the Burgundian, a man who had spent part of last winter in his own accommodating bureau in Rome. The value of his past loans and his present counsel almost paid for the cost of rebuilding the site of the football match.

  Equally, the news of the election of Sixtus took precedence over the plans for the Mystery Play the King had demanded for Christmas. The King and his Council, which had been progressing rather well in the direction of independent ecclesiastical appointments, retired to replan the future, and Will Roger took Nicholas off to his room in the Castle to rehearse.

  While Nicholas sang, Roger picked up his cittern and composed (in a different key) an extempore requiem for Pope Paul in the futile hope of pushing the singer off pitch. He talked as he played. ‘Poor Bishop Patrick, he’ll never trust melons again. He was relying on Paul to forgive him all his annates and those who annated against him. Look at the music, you fool. We’re troping. You’ve missed out the tropes.’

  ‘I saw your bloody tropes,’ Nicholas said. ‘And they stink; you couldn’t sell them to Judas. Poor Bishop Patrick? What about poor Jan Adorne’s promised post, gone for a melon? The Baron Cortachy will weep into his money bags. And before you try to cover it up, I know you got some of the Boyd land. I’m going to win it off you at cards. I’m tired of this. Where’s the drum?’