The Unicorn Hunt (20 page)

By then the King’s sister had entered the Great Hall with her train, inevitably mired, dragging behind her. Katelijne said, ‘They are unpacking it all.’

Her uncle said, in Flemish, ‘We can do and say nothing. You have helped as much as you could.’

He watched, since observation at least was open to him. Eventually all the King’s party had made their hilarious way back to the warm, the filthy Great Hall. And below dirtied glorious arras, upon blemished cushions of silk and velvet and leather, served on embroidered snagged linen, aided by dented exquisite silver and lit by ill-hung, precious candelabra, the banquet was served.

Nicholas arrived at the end, with his keys. Arrived, in person, in the centre of the Great Hall, without warning from gate-keeper or porter; without discreet interception by Argyll or by Whitelaw to prepare, to explain, to excuse what the Princes had done.

Anselm Adorne saw him enter and stand, his sable cloak held at one shoulder; his other hand, finely gloved, hanging idly between the black hem of his doublet and the gilded leather below.

Far down the table, Simon glanced up and saw him, and his face changed. Adorne, ceaselessly observant, saw Nicholas de Fleury’s dense gaze rest on Kilmirren for a moment, then move. It travelled slowly over every part of the vast room, from the dishevelled tapestried walls to the broken Venetian glass, the smeared salvers and magnificent salt-cellars on the strewn tables; and then extended to the diners, their servants beside them, whose inconsequential chatter and laughter began slowly to dwindle, and then resurrected itself, vaguely, in gleeful whispers.

Adorne said, ‘The wine. What was in the wine?’ At the top table, the Princes lay back in their tasselled chairs while the elders about them sat up, and tried to recover their gravity.

The wine, warmed, had been spiced. With what, Adorne could not say, although he had tasted something like it before. He was conscious that even his head, legendary in Bruges, had been affected.

Metteneye said, ‘Lamb’s house in Leith. The same spices.’

The same spices, before the night on Leith strand. The same spices, supplied by de Fleury.

Perhaps he exclaimed. The altered eyes of the same Nicholas de Fleury met his and then passed beyond, with the same level, measuring gaze. He showed no horror or anger. You might have thought him indifferent, except that in the real world, no merchant, no banker would tolerate this scale of capricious behaviour. The statesmen about the King must realise that. The King, the young people, the people perennially young like Simon of Kilmirren perhaps took it for meekness. The humiliating meekness of Claes; of a small, subservient merchant, afraid of offending his betters.

A rustle ran through the room. And even as it ran, Nicholas said, ‘My lord. I intrude. I see you have keys of your own.’

The King sat up. Finding an uncle’s hand on his shoulder, he shook it off. He said, ‘We did not expect you to make of the simple journey from Berecrofts a task as long as your travels in Asia. Did you expect us to await you all night?’

His voice was indignant. Nicholas, between the two arms of the trestles, did not advance any nearer. He said, ‘The fault is mine, my lord King. I would have unpacked and furnished the Palace myself, had I known you wished to purchase so much.’

The King glanced at Bishop Graham, and away. He said, ‘Purchased? We have merely ordered a view of your goods, many of which are damaged, or below those standards common to Scotland. We shall tell you, in due course, which if any we propose to keep for ourselves.’

‘My lord is gracious,’ said Nicholas.

‘You have, I hope, no complaint?’ said the King. Below the table, visibly, he received a kick from Alexander his brother. A rustle of laughter ran round the room.

‘My lord King, on the contrary: I excuse myself,’ Nicholas said. ‘And would ask you, as a favour, to receive from me without charge all those items you have identified – all those items which are not entirely perfect. Would it please my lord to accept them in loving gauge gift from a servant?’

‘He’s gone crazy,’ said Metteneye.

‘Has he?’ said Adorne. The subdued laughter had increased.

‘Are you serious?’ said John, Earl of Atholl, his manner ponderous. ‘It is an offer of exceptional generosity.’

‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘Provided, of course, his grace can make use of them. Perhaps they are not to his taste.’

He did not look at Bishop Patrick, but the shaft had pricked its target, Adorne thought, his apprehension shot through with passing amusement. But apprehension was what, increasingly, he now felt. Nicholas de Fleury was not nowadays a subservient man, and if he
courted humiliation, it was for a purpose. The result, for the moment, was a murmur of subdued derision: the expression of a contempt which had its roots in disappointment. They had wanted an explosion, all those spoiled young men and their companions. It would have salved any pangs of conscience they might feel, or would feel in the morning.

Adorne began to consider not only the morning, but the immediate future. The tapers burned now, and the shutters were closed against darkening skies full of snow. This well-dined company would never travel home safely tonight. He tried, discreetly, to catch the Bishop’s eye, and found it unnecessary. The King said, ‘Perhaps M. de Fleury has supped less well than we, and would join us at table. Unless the Master of Works thinks we have had pleasures enough, and should leave before nightfall?’

‘I beg,’ Nicholas said, ‘that the King’s grace would not dream of delaying his departure. Although there are plumdames and nuts just arrived, which I had hoped to tempt him into tasting, and, of course, the merchandise to select. Or if it would please him to stay, there are beds and pallets enough to serve most of his company. The blankets are still in the chests.’

‘And all, of course, for sale at moderate prices, allowing for damage and use,’ someone said, without troubling to whisper. De Fleury gave no sign of having heard that, or the laughter that followed it. Or of noticing the pleasure mixed with contempt on the face of Simon de St Pol, as he listened to the patronising voice of the Court, deciding to spend the night on M. de Fleury’s new beds in the candlelit luxury of the King’s half-built Palace of Linlithgow.

Kilmirren himself got up shortly, and moved to where a place had been cleared and set for de Fleury, while the new sweetmeats were served. He saw that Julius, the Bank’s manager, had been recruited to unpack them. He had been on his way to Blackness, and did not appear to relish the task. Simon said, ‘Does your Bank complete many such deals? I now see the need for your journey to Africa.’

‘It had some advantages. Do you want to buy anything? I have a few bales of dun cramoisy; a compt board; a hood set. Or a fine silver stoup with twelve stops?’

Simon looked, hazily smiling, round the echoing room. ‘Hitherto unused, I am sure. We are all well beyond the twelve stops except you. I have no doubt you feel yourself safer.’ He looked round. ‘What was it you said of wine, Dr Andreas? Makes man joyous, aids Nature in its course, and delays the onset of old age? Or was that marriage?’

‘I should hesitate to pronounce on marriage,’ Dr Andreas said, ‘although I am somewhat interested in the wine. I suggested to the young ladies that they refrain from indulging.’

Behind him, Katelijne Sersanders was surveying them. The woman Euphemia sat beyond her. Simon, smiling at them, said, ‘It is the heat of the fire. You noticed the fire?’ They could not fail to have noticed. The hearth, big enough for three stone arcades, could and did burn whole tree-trunks. The blaze today contained something else.

It was Dr Andreas the alchemist who replied, while his unemotional gaze rested on Claes. ‘Indeed, I observed something novel. The black stones, of which the late Pope Pius made mention. There is coal locally, and the King can afford it?’

‘Others, too,’ Simon said. ‘Already, some of us burn it. Soon there will be more. You yourself had hoped, Claes, to appropriate coal-bearing land? But the Hamiltons, it seems, felt some misgivings.’

‘The time ran out,’ Nicholas said. ‘I hear it went to somebody else.’ He looked up enquiringly, as Simon drew breath.

‘To me,’ Simon said. ‘To me, a friend. Does that not soften the blow? I paid a good deal, of course. But when I export, you may be sure I shall give you special rates. Joneta is pleased.’

‘Joneta?’ The voice was that of the Sersanders girl, Katelijne. Simon gave her another beguiling smile, answering. She was pretty.

‘Joneta Hamilton of Kinneil. Sir James’s natural daughter. She acted as my intermediary.’ He smiled again, differently. ‘I believe you tried to engage her interest, Claes? Once or twice? On the day of the tournament? She told me all about it.’

The eyes of the girl Katelijne switched between Claes and himself. The girl said unexpectedly, ‘The King calls him Master Nicol de Fleury.’

‘And I call him by his real name,’ Simon said. ‘I have advised the King to do the same. The King’s grace, my dear Claes, has charmed us all, while you have been away, with his readiness to be advised. Have you told Claes yet, demoiselle, of your uncle? Of Sir Anselm Adorne?’

She flushed with pride, he observed. She said, ‘It is for my uncle to mention it,’

‘Am I to know?’ said the man he was taunting. The man he couldn’t completely expose as a lout, or he could do some damage. But then, Simon could inflict some damage, too. And as a target, Claes was … irresistible.

It was Anselm Adorne himself who came over, hearing his name. Claes rose, as he had not done for Simon. Adorne said quickly, ‘I wished to tell you myself. For love of his cousin of Burgundy, the King has seen fit greatly to honour me. It is a token deserved by our country, not myself.’

‘But, no doubt, is none the less welcome. Let me think,’ Claes said. ‘You have received sword, baldric and spurs, and been proclaimed Guardian of Scotland?’

Adorne winced. He said, ‘I cannot apologise for what is no doing of mine. I have been created a knight, yes. And a councillor to the King. It is a nominal office.’

‘But will bring its own rewards. In land, I trust?’

‘In
coal-bearing
land?’ Simon intervened jocularly. He didn’t mind someone else baiting Claes, provided he had a share.

‘It has yet to be decided,’ Adorne said. Understandably, he sounded repressive. It would not look well if two Burgundians fell out in the royal presence. And Adorne was an able man, who had not failed to profit from the absence of Claes. As had Simon.

‘Oh, dear. Well, don’t mourn,’ said the object of their attention. ‘The God Mercury, protector of merchants, will compensate me. There is a move afoot, I hear, to dash outdoors and commit riotous enormities. I shall come, to have something to remember you by. And you, M. de St Pol? Or don’t you like bloodshed by torchlight?’

‘It depends who is shedding it,’ Simon said, laughing. It drew no reply but a dimpling smile.

It had stopped snowing by then, but far off to the west, the steward’s big horse had foundered and he had had to transfer to one much less powerful, while two of the husbandmen had dropped out. Bel rode still, with the Broughton man, and young Wodman. There were no spare horses now, and darkness was coming.

It was like another ride she remembered, for endurance, but that ride had been in terrible heat, not in cold, and she had been ill then, and was strong now, although sick with fear. And that ride she had survived because of one loving man, who had carried her in his arms. Because of Nicholas.

Later, much later, when it was full dark, and new-fallen snow lay glimmering over the shire from Linlithgow to the sea, the wine-warmed company of James of Scotland and his companions called for their hunt-servants, their horses and hounds and, assuming their furs and their boots, took up their weapons and rode out,
laughing and calling, to commit the riotous enormities their pedlar had spoken of.

He rode with them, cloaked in sable-lined damask; his face white and black in the light of the flambeaux; his voice ringing. Euphemia Dunbar said, ‘The wine was strong.’

‘It is not the wildness of wine,’ Adorne said, ‘but, I am assured, an explosion of spirits induced by the end of the Kilmirren feud.’

‘The end?’ said Mistress Phemie. ‘Well, of course you must know. Otherwise I should have felt some solicitude for him tonight.’

‘For whom? For
Nicholas
?’ exclaimed Anselm Adorne.

She looked at him with her wise, uncomely face, and made no reply. It was his niece who enlightened him. It was Katelijne who said, ‘Don’t you hear it?
His
voice; and the voice of the dogs?’

Man and woman, they both looked at her then; and Andreas, riding beside them. Her eyes, her over-bright eyes were lamps, and the chameleon expressions flickered over her face, quicker than thought. She said, ‘I think this is to be the night of the duel. The duel that wasn’t fought at the tournament.’

‘And you want to interfere?’ Adorne said.

She lifted her chin. ‘There is no one to arbitrate.’

‘Is one of them without honour?’ Adorne said. ‘Or a murderer? Dr Andreas?’

The physician said, ‘I have no advice to give you. I gave M. de Fleury the same reply, early this evening, on a broader matter.’

‘He asked you his fortune?’ said the woman.

‘He was apprehensive,’ suggested Adorne.

The doctor looked at him. He said, ‘Very few men feel no physical fear. He is one, or has become one.’

‘Nicholas?’ said Adorne.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dr Andreas. ‘He has many skills, developed through boyhood. It is unlikely that you or anyone else have ever understood the real man. Or, at least, anyone in his world now.’

Chapter 9

T
HE SNOW WAS DEEP
for the hounds, but once over the rise north of Linlithgow, the land was flat, and all you had to do was make sure you stopped before you reached the long selvedge of mud by the estuary.

Not that it would matter if the young devils ran straight out into the water: the dubs were firm enough, and even the edge of the spring tide was freezing. It would give them a shock, that was all. And meanwhile, between the salt-pans to the right and the mouth of the good river Avon away to the left, they could beat the ground as much as they wanted, until they got cold. The master huntsman had in mind to get them all back to the Palace before three short of midnight, and himself into his new Flemish draw-bed with a cummer or two and a rug and a flask.