Gemini (57 page)

Nicholas said, ‘They attack, or threaten to attack, every spring.’

‘But one day—and perhaps this is the time—they will succeed. And without the Knights to harass them, the Turks will go further than the toe of Italy, you may be sure. Then all Christendom will have to start up from its own petty wars and take to arms. Go to Venice,’ the Patriarch said. ‘Venice needs you. Venice may prove your best hope for the future.’

There was a silence. Nicholas said, ‘France will know this?’ He saw Moriz shift.

‘Ha! Straight to the point. I knew I could rely on you,’ the Patriarch said. ‘In my view, France has already seen an opportunity in prospect. A distant one, perhaps, but one which will affect all those little countries of which you are growing so fond. I repeat my advice. From a central position of power, you may out-broker the Medici themselves.’

‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if I did, where would I find you? Can you trust yourself to the Emperor, while your own people in Bologna and Ferrara are supporting Milan?’

‘First this deference, and now a touching care for my family! Now I feel old,’ said the Patriarch. ‘I remember the Emperor’s first visit long ago to Bologna, and his childish delight in the spinneries. You dealt in silk. You remember, of course, meeting Queen Carlotta in the days of Sante Bentivoglio, the last ruler of Bologna—the springs of Porretta did him little good, poor fornicating fool: he died three years after. His successor is a much harder man, and a rival to the Marezzi silk merchants, who are always falling out with their German creditors. There is one in the Emperor’s prison just now, whom I was supposed to liberate.’

‘And have you?’

‘I have promises. If they turn out as usual, the man will be released after three years, on payment of four thousand florins of ransom. But the silk merchants will thank me. And the Pope.’

‘And then you will go where?’

‘Where would you like me to go?’ asked Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Ah! Do not trouble to answer. The Franciscans here would no doubt say the same. I have an idea or two. But if you were to settle in Venice, you would hear before anyone.’

Nicholas left, with Moriz, soon after that.

On the way back: ‘He was already walking with difficulty,’ Moriz said. ‘I have never known a stronger man, but he is nearly seventy, and has tramped the world for his faith. Like any sane man, I could throttle him, but I revere him as well. That timber merchant’s son from Bologna has devoted his life to his faith, travelling further than soldier, or seaman, or merchant, without money or comfort, sustained by his belief in himself, and his Order, and his God. If I were God, I would wipe half the saints off the calendar to make room for that one untidy priest.’

‘I, too,’ Nicholas said. He was silent. ‘You are telling me something. Should I go to Venice?’

‘It will not prolong his life,’ Moriz said. ‘But if you wish to go, go. You have paid your debt in Scotland, from all that I hear.’

It was a short walk, and Julius arrived home soon after. But by then all the necessary news had been exchanged, and Nicholas had listened to what Moriz had to tell him about Bonne.

‘You are going to see her? I am glad. I visit her regularly but Julius, as you know, revolted against everything that reminded him of his wife.’

‘And she?’

‘She is well enough. That is, you pay for her keep, and she is fed and sheltered and trained by the nuns. But she is a young woman now, and is no longer quite so content with captivity. She never speaks of her mother. I think she resents her. This is natural.’

Walking, Nicholas had said, ‘In her last moments, Adelina claimed that Bonne was not her daughter.’

‘That she was your daughter and Marian’s. Yes, I know. She never speaks of that either. If one asks her what she remembers before her mother married the Graf, she says she does not remember. Nor is it possible to tell by her age. She may be sixteen, as her mother once claimed.’

‘Or eighteen, as Marian’s daughter would have been, had it lived. They say at Damparis that it died,’ Nicholas said.

Moriz said, ‘Your lady, Gelis, was told so as well.’ His voice was gentle, for an opinionative dwarf from Augsburg. He said, ‘For what it is worth, I see nothing of you in her. More, I do not think your wife would have borne a live child and failed to tell you. But, of course, she may have been led to believe that it was dying or dead, and it survived.’

‘But someone would have told me,’ Nicholas said. ‘Surely. Surely.’

‘I think so,’ said Moriz. ‘You have chosen the generous part, to take
the burden of her upbringing, so that Julius remains only her nominal guardian. He should be grateful. But if he closes the business, a decision must be made about Bonne. I am unlikely to stay here for ever.’

‘I know. I shall see her,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I hope Julius changes his mind. I shall send him all the business I can.’

‘It is not business he wants,’ Moriz said. ‘It is admiration, and courtly society, and money.’

Then they were back, and Julius, arriving, filled the rest of the day with adventures that reminded Nicholas, once again, of the wayward delights that had once made up their lives. Then next morning he left, with Julius’s embrace round his shoulders and Julius’s words in his ear. ‘I miss you, you young lout. Give me a month or two, and I shall surprise you yet.’

A
S FOR
B
ONNE
, Moriz was right: she did not look like Nicholas. Entering the Abbess’s room in her demure robe, hands folded, long brown hair overlaid with white lawn, she could be seen to be tall, but to lack either Marian’s bright colour or his own clownish pits. Her eyes were blue, and her frame was sturdy rather than graceful. She did not look like Adelina either. She did not look like anyone he knew.

Under the Abbess’s eye she answered his questions with a certain crisp brevity. From the Abbess’s expression, Nicholas deduced that she was deemed to be on the borderline of impertinence. He asked leave to walk with the girl in the cloisters, and it was granted. He was a generous patron.

Alone, she allowed the irony in her voice to be heard. ‘I am sorry. I hear you purchase my clothing, but I am not sure for what purpose. You have bought my wardship and marriage perhaps? For yourself, or a friend? And if so, might I meet him?’

‘You would rather be out in the world, Bonne?’ he said.

She said, ‘What should I say? I would not have you think me ungrateful. But there is a certain difference in age.’

‘Then for a young, well-landed nobleman?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Perhaps. Or an old one,’ she said. He looked for mischief, and found only continuing irony. He did not know whether to be grateful or not. It was not Marian’s style, or even Adelina’s. He remembered Felix sounding like this, copying the pawnbroker Cornelis his father. Resentment and anger lay underneath.

He said, ‘What do you want?’

She stopped. ‘Now there,’ she said, ‘is a question I have never been asked before.’

‘So you have had a long time to think of the answer. What would you have said to your mother,’ Nicholas said, ‘had she asked you that, now?’

‘She never asked me that either,’ the girl said, and began walking again. ‘I thought you knew her. She was a nobody. A selfish, ambitious nobody.’

‘And who are you, Bonne?’ Nicholas asked.

‘The Graf’s daughter,’ she said.

‘No,’ Nicholas said.

She rounded on him. ‘You have proof? Do show me.’

‘I am told there is proof,’ Nicholas said. ‘But perhaps it would be enough to ask how often the Graf’s family come to visit you? Did you tell them your mother was dead? Did they reply?’

‘I think the Abbess will be expecting us,’ the girl said. Her voice shook. ‘Is this how you usually court a bride? With aspersions on her birth?’ The cause of the tremble was fury.

‘Most husbands will expect either candour or a well-documented lie. I am sure you are mistress of both, but I am rather short of time. Discarding myself as an applicant,’ Nicholas said, ‘do you wish to be married, to be independent, or to continue in the embraces of Christ?’

‘I do not wish to be sold off to an unknown,’ she said. ‘But since you are so short of time, I shall not try to explain why.’

‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ Nicholas said. ‘When you have a clear-cut plan, speak to Moriz. Or one of the nuns would be prepared to advise you, I am sure.’

She glared at him.

He smiled. ‘Bonne. Don’t be silly. It’s not hard to guess how you feel, but you must stop sulking sometime, and think of your future. We are only here to help you, and you shall marry, if you wish to marry, only someone who has your approval. I may not come again, but you can reach me through Father Moriz. Does that seem reasonable?’

Her cheeks were scarlet. ‘Oh, it seems reasonable,’ she said. ‘You are paid to broker my marriage, and when I have been sold off, my costs here will cease. You don’t really wish to know what I want.’

‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘To be a superior prostitute, like my mother,’ she said.

This time, Nicholas stopped. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is not allowed. One, because it is not true. And two, because she is dead.’

‘What difference does that make? She was always dead to me,’ Bonne said.

He spoke to the Abbess, and left the convent without talking further to Bonne: child of unknown parentage; alleged daughter of Adelina de Fleury, who was barren, and someone unknown.

He did not believe she was his child and Marian’s. Meeting her, he had been conscious of nothing but pity mixed with impatience. He felt responsibility, because Adelina had reared her. He hoped that Julius would recover and take some interest in her future as well. He sensed
nothing else: not the tender warmth that had been there from his first moments with Jodi, nor the ache that stayed with him still, through all his agonising dealings with Henry. He would deal with Bonne with his head, not his heart.

Returning to Paris, he paid a call to a monastery just outside Brussels, and another to a religious complex in Lille, by which time his baggage horse was carrying a very large crate. In between, he made his last visit to Bruges.

It was hard, in the end, to tear himself away from the Hof Charetty. It was hardest of all, perhaps, to take leave of Gregorio, who had witnessed Marian’s marriage with such cynicism, and had stayed to see her buried with such love. The unskilled swordsman Gregorio, who had once fought Simon for him; whose wife had cared with compassion for Jodi; who—in his precise legal way—had weighed up Nicholas with greater accuracy than anyone else now in Bruges.

Nicholas had said nothing to Gregorio of coming to Venice, and Gregorio himself did not refer to it. Applying Father Ludovico’s theory, Nicholas preferred to think that Gregorio would have acted the same way whether he had been happily married or not. Gregorio was older than Diniz. Gregorio, regardless of self, did not approve of the notion of Nicholas settling into the middle ranks of Venetian society and drifting there for the rest of his days. Gregorio had always expected too much.

S
ANDY WAS IN
Paris, but not packing. With him was Hearty James, the King of Scotland’s half-uncle, sent to hold diplomatic talks with the King, find out what the hell was happening, and bring Sandy back. He seemed to think it was Nicholas’s fault that he hadn’t come back long since. James Stewart of Auchterhouse, Earl of Buchan, was called Hearty James because of a certain absence of frivolity in his nature. It is no joke to be only half-royal, with six sisters.

He was feeling in an even less jocular mood now. In the absence of Nicholas, Sandy had finally made up his mind. He was not going home. He objected, as a Scot of royal blood, to the servility which prompted his brother to make an ally of the enemy England. No one pointed out that Sandy’s royal Scottish blood was half Flemish, or that his grandmother (and Buchan’s mother) was English. It would have made no difference anyway. He was staying in France, all expenses paid, and the King had offered him a wife from a dish full of Bourbons. Wolfaert had picked one. Everybody in France had a Bourbon. They made good middle-range brides, without skimming off the best cream. Hearty James was furious. Wolfaert had once married his sister.

It was not at all clear what, beyond staying in France, Sandy intended to do. The King sent many warm messages to his dear cousin of Scotland,
and begged him, once again, to remember how close was the friendship between them, and how France would benefit in her dark hour, were his serene highness to end the English peace and attack the bastards instead. (These were not the terms used.) Were this to happen, it was hinted, a happy reconciliation between the King and his brother could be guaranteed.

The King was also gracious to Nicholas, and hoped to see him return. He knew that he could rely on M. le comte—ah, no, it was still M. de Fleury?—to explain what the Duke of Albany saw so clearly: the hurt to Scotland’s pride, her reputation, her glory, perpetrated by this pusillanimous peace.

Sandy said goodbye, in a word, and Nicholas attached himself, and his crate, to the Earl of Buchan’s departing retinue. The voyage to Scotland was undertaken in silence: gloomy on Hearty James’s part, and contemplative on the part of that European manipulator
Monsieur
de Fleury who, justifying all the Patriarch’s strictures, was increasingly thinking of mattresses.

T
HIS TIME, WITH
a royal prince at his side, there was no hope that Nicholas could enter Leith unobserved. The King had sent a cavalcade with his own Guard to fetch them. Henry, his chin elevated, his gaze straight ahead, was among them.
If you’re about to be hanged, I don’t know you
. They were then delivered, at a fast trot, to the Castle, Hearty James being accorded royal honours, and the Burgundian who fled to France with the Duke of Albany with pointed suspicion. His crate, being unwieldy, was to follow along with his baggage.