The Unicorn Hunt (39 page)

He had visited the Earl of Orkney in Roslin and the Church’s mines at Tranent and the Hamiltons and the Berecrofts beside Linlithgow. He had seen the salt-pans beside the Lord’s house at Seton, and inspected the Bank’s own warehouses and lodging at Leith. He had been to Haddington, and met the Prioress Elizabeth, and heard, from behind a door, a well-played guitar which turned out to belong to Mistress Phemie Dunbar, whom he remembered he knew. He was rather thankful not to meet Adorne’s niece, who was away.

Now it was the third week in May and he knew that the time had come to curb Nicholas de Fleury, for none of his other staff would. And particularly not Jannekin Bonkle, fast integrating into the traditional merchant network of Edinburgh. Jannekin thought he
was commissioned by Midas, and however much gold Nicholas chose to throw into Scotland, there would always be more.

Jannekin therefore was not present, but safely engaged in the clerks’ room, the miniature chancery upon which the Scottish lord Whitelaw, Secretary of a kingdom, had looked once, withholding his envy. Next to that was the secure room which held the locked chests with their wealth, and spread through the house and its yards were the other chambers and workshops Nicholas had created for the artisans he had brought or was bringing. Close to the ovens was a chamber of stone for the furnace. But access to that was not easily granted.

For the rest, the house was not unlike the two mansions the Bank used in Bruges, except for the grandeur of its great parlour, and of the bedchamber in which Gregorio now sat, preparing to argue with Nicholas.

There were other differences. In Bruges, by the end of May, the worsted bed-hangings would have given place to fine say, and the great Irish bedcover removed – the bernia which Margot had bought when Nicholas first came back to Venice and which still lay here on his Edinburgh bed, with the brazier burning low at its foot.

Gregorio said, ‘Why do you stay here if you find Scotland cold? Listen to my advice. Wait for the wedding, recover your loans from the dowry, and let all but the best of these other schemes go. One single good cargo from Alexandria will give you double the profit. Kings are dangerous. If Edward of York falls, he could bring down the Medici.’

‘You think James of Scotland, just turned seventeen, is going to bring down the House of Niccolò?’ the other man asked. He left the brazier and sat down, a model of patience.

Gregorio said, ‘I think you’ve punished Simon quite adequately and made life sufficiently uncomfortable for Jordan. I think you should finish competing with them and get out, before you forget that you have a Bank and a number of partners.’

‘And a family,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘Or no. You could put them down as self-supporting. Look. I understand. I agree, to a point. But banking means taking risks, and in my view this throne is secure.’

‘And what circator did you get that from?’ Gregorio said. ‘Lord Boyd, Tom Boyd’s father, has gone south on some errand and he hasn’t come back. He could be plotting with England.’

‘He
is
plotting with England,’ the other said. ‘He’s promised, among other things, to have Chancellor Avandale killed when the
Scottish nobles sail in with his son and the child-bride from Denmark.’

Gregorio stared at him. It sounded true. It probably
was
true, given the kind of network Nicholas had undoubtedly established south of the border. Gregorio said, ‘So that the Boyds can renew their grip of the King? If they do that …’

‘They won’t,’ said the other man.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’ve seen to it that they won’t. Have you ever met the Sheriff of Renfrew? Simon’s baronial superior and neighbour?’

‘No. Why?’ said Gregorio. He spoke sharply because he knew now, why Nicholas had appeared so unduly patient. He was waiting for somebody – and probably the somebody whom he could hear arriving outside. Gregorio went to the window.

It was not a short view, such as you got from a window in Bruges. Behind the Canongate houses, the open land bumped its way past leekbeds and pastures and fruit trees to a narrow valley, and then rose beyond to a fine sunlit crag grazed by sheep. Immediately below, the paved back yards of this house and its neighbours were crammed with a jumble of stables and wells, bakehouses and byres, styes and henhouses and sheds.

Into this space, admitted by the vaulted passage that led from the highway, a small cavalcade was at this moment reaching a halt. It consisted of four liveried servants and a spare, middle-aged man in a brimmed hat and thick velvet overgown, now nimbly dismounting. The badge was the chevron chequy of Semple, evidence of the family’s rise as seneschals and bailies to the High Stewards of Scotland. And this was Sir William Semple of Elliotstoun, acting for the ancient Sheriff, his father.

William Semple knew Nicholas. Of course he did. One of the minor injuries Nicholas had inflicted on Simon – apart from half roasting him and occasioning, one way or another, the death of his sister Lucia – had been to persuade the Sheriff to deprive Simon of his outlying leased land and to reallocate it to M. de Fleury.

Julius had described the achievement with glee. Gregorio could imagine how Simon felt. He wondered whether Simon de St Pol now regretted his willing part in the vicious scheme concocted by Gelis, however little he had understood it at the time. He thought probably not. Indeed, especially not if he guessed the resulting child to be his. His elation would counterbalance, very nearly, anything Nicholas could inflict. Which was why, perhaps, Nicholas was bent on further prosecuting his plans. Gregorio could not imagine what part the eminent Sir William Semple had been persuaded to play in them.

The answer at first seemed to be none. Sir William, seated in the chair of state with an excellent cup of wine in his hand, enquired first about the King’s wedding, and the magnificent celebrations he understood M. de Fleury was advising upon. From that he moved cordially to enquire when M. de Fleury planned to view his new estate, for he hoped that he and Marian would be permitted the honour of entertaining him. And finally, he made it known that her grace the lady Mary, Countess of Arran, was presently at home at Dean Castle, and would welcome news of Gelis van Borselen and her babe.

He was a thin man, with a lean ruddy face and sparse brown hair left to curl on his shoulders. His eyes were light and sharp. Nicholas said, ‘I have to see my new factor. You approve of him?’

‘I helped Master Bonkle choose him. An experienced man, Oliver Semple: a second cousin of mine. A good rent-collector, a man who will get you a fair price for your hides and your fells and your cheeses, and strike a bargain for a stretch of good fishing, besides knowing what’s what when you’re building. He and your builder – he and Cochrane get on. Well, then. You could ride to Beltrees from Kilmarnock. There is undeveloped land further south you might look at. I do not know, of course, how deep your interest lies. But you should not fail to call on the Countess at Dean. And, of course, you will find Mistress Bel at Kilmirren. Bel of Cuthilgurdy? She is attending to the affairs of the poor lady Lucia.’

‘I thought Mistress Bel was in France,’ Nicholas said. Gregorio looked at him.

‘She was, but she has returned. No doubt there is much to arrange. The late poor lady’s house now belongs, I suppose, to her son M. de Vasquez?’

Nicholas hesitated. For a moment, Gregorio thought he wasn’t going to admit it. Then he said, ‘No, to me. Now his mother has gone, M. Diniz has no interest in Scotland. And it adjoins the land I already have.’

‘So it does,’ said Sir William Semple. ‘How pleased my old friend Jordan will be.’

‘So they are not the closest of friends,’ Gregorio said, when their visitor had gone.

‘Who?’ Nicholas had rung for his page and was writing.

‘William Semple and Jordan de Ribérac.’

‘No. Jordan doesn’t develop his land, and invests all his money abroad. Simon can’t keep good managers. If I put off the Abbot, which I’m doing, we could set off for Dean Castle tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? Why?… Where is it?’ said Gregorio, as an afterthought.

‘By Kilmarnock. Sixty miles to the south-west. We could stop with the Flemings of Biggar.’

‘Why?’ said Gregorio. ‘Or why tomorrow?’

‘Because that’s why Semple came here,’ said Nicholas. ‘I don’t mind going. And I want to see to one or two things. And to look at Beltrees.’

‘What are Beltrees?’ asked Gregorio.

‘Singular. It’s the name of a towerhouse and an estate. Julius and I thought you’d be shocked, so we didn’t send you the accounts.’

‘This is the Kilmirren land that you filched?’

‘Some of it. I’ve added a few hundred acres. All undeveloped and waste. And the tower was too small: I’ve refurbished it. It’s on a hill. It’ll be cold.’

Gregorio was silent. A project so large, and none of the accounts had been sent to him. He assumed he knew why. He said outright, ‘How long are you staying in Scotland?’

‘As long as it takes,’ Nicholas said, ‘to finish all I want to do. But you don’t need to watch me.’

Chapter 19

T
HEY SET OFF
at dawn, an impressive cavalcade, and arranged to break their journey at Boghall Castle, as Nicholas had suggested. Govaerts, sent ahead to solicit hospitality, would certainly be successful.

Robert, Lord Fleming, knew Nicholas. Gregorio, in turn, knew something of him. The lordship might be new, but there had been Flemings in Biggar for three hundred years, and half of them traded in Bruges. Gregorio wondered, in a resigned way, if there were pretty daughters or granddaughters.

It was a thirty-mile ride which yielded, as it transpired, a particular balm of its own. For once, Nicholas initiated little, and those around him could retreat into their thoughts and savour the landscape they rode through. Rushing streams; undulating valleys between soft, sunlit green hills; grey stone towers and thatched cots hazed with peat smoke; the bleating of sheep and of goats; herds of cattle filing to milk; the cry of a hawk, circling above in the blue air – all of it delighted Gregorio; filled him with singing pleasure, and then with an echo of contrition, for his partner in pleasure was not there.

The castle, when they reached it, was large and old, with a stone bridge crossing the moat. Riding over it, Gregorio carried with him the single piece of advice Nicholas had troubled to give him. ‘The old man is aged early and shaky, but son Malcolm knows the time of day, more or less. You talk to Lord Fleming and leave Malcolm to me.’

Malcolm came out into the courtyard to meet them. His doublet, creased from the coffer, was a better one, Gregorio guessed, than he would normally wear in the country, and his hat had a feather. He was short-legged and dark and probably not quite as old as he looked: the cares of managing his father must have taken their toll.
He said, ‘I had not time to warn you. Perhaps you do not object. But Anselm Sersanders has just arrived. Sir Anselm Adorne’s sister’s son.’

Nicholas reined in and, after a moment, dismounted. He said, ‘I have no objection, unless you have. I was told he was in the north. The new Observatine Friary, and Maryculter.’

‘He came south to visit his sister at Dean. You are going there?’

‘Katelijne and I are good friends,’ Nicholas said. ‘And although you may have heard of a mischance, I hope Sersanders won’t hold it against me. Besides, Gregorio here is exhausted, and I have told him too much about your good claret. We may rest here tonight? I promise there will be no unpleasantness.’

‘I was sure of it,’ said Malcolm Fleming, and led the way in.

Gregorio, dismounting stiffly, handed his horse over and caught Nicholas up. ‘What are you doing? You half killed his uncle!’

‘I know.
Tutto e fritto
,’ said Nicholas de Fleury, and emitted a wail, absently, in a whisper.

The Great Hall of the Flemings was reached by a flight of stone steps and had tall windows and a fine fireplace glowing with resinous flame in the twilight. The top of the tower was in sunlight as yet: from its battlements, Gregorio imagined, one could see half lowland Scotland and the uplands of England as well, not to mention the neighbouring keeps he had glimpsed.

In the room were no nubile daughters but two young grandsons, John and David, who made their bows and were taken away, leaving only the chaplain, who rose to be introduced. Distant laughter came from a parlour. Malcolm said, ‘My wife is absent at present, but come. My father sits by the fire, and Master Sersanders beside him.’

The room was long and, supper being just over, the rush-strewn floor was free of trestles and empty. Against the light of the fire it could be seen that Anselm Sersanders had risen, but that the old man was still seated. The carved back of his chair, tall and black, hid all but the turban on his head. Malcolm Fleming walked forward.

‘Father. Here is Master Nicholas of the Banco di Niccolò. And Master Gregorio, both come to stay with us.’

The wind-dried face that peered round the chair was that of a mature courtier, not a man of affairs. Robert, Lord Fleming, was lavishly dressed, give or take a stain or two, and the spare bones of his face were still handsome, although his shallow-set eyes had in them a look of permanent shock, or even permanent grievance. Nevertheless, he got to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, welcome,’ he said.

‘My lord of Fleming.’ Nicholas, bowing, was always a picture. Taught by courtesans, Gregorio recalled. One need never doubt the social competence of Nicholas de Fleury. Even when, as now, Anselm Sersanders stepped sideways, not forward.

Sersanders said, ‘Forgive me, my lord. I do not care to meet the man who tried to murder my uncle.’

His light-skinned face looked rather pale. It was a situation, as Gregorio had already recognised, which could explode into high farce or tragedy. Short though he was, the nephew of Anselm Adorne had much of his uncle’s grace and a great deal of his athletic ability. And whatever business brought Nicholas here, it was not going to be helped by a quarrel involving skilled swordsmanship.

Gregorio opened his mouth. Nicholas laid a hand on his shoulder to silence him. Nicholas said, ‘We need no lawyer in this. My lord, I have to tell you that Master Anselm is right. His uncle intervened in a family quarrel and I struck and wounded him in the heat of the moment. Happily, Sir Anselm has since seen fit to forgive me, but I have not yet had a chance to explain to his nephew. I should gladly pay any compensation he asks.’