The Unicorn Hunt (42 page)

The company retired. Gregorio, procrastinating, climbed the stairs some time after his bedfellow, and entered the room they were to share with reluctance. ‘
¡Buenos días, caballero!
’ remarked a sly voice at his shoulder. He whirled.

The parrot. He had forgotten. He had forgotten the scene with the hat. He had forgotten Nicholas de Fleury, the comedian.

He was there too, sitting crosslegged on a stool, wearing his ruined hat and a length of pink bed-curtain. He was nibbling a fig, and there were others in the palm of his hand. He and the parrot were staring at one another. The parrot, Gregorio was thankful to see, was in its cage.

‘Well hurry up, I need you,’ said Nicholas, still gazing at the cage.

‘I’ll get the ladder,’ said Gregorio with a surge of relief.

‘Don’t think you’re being funny: it may come to that. No. You’ve got a mirror. Hold it up to the cage and let it see itself.’

‘What with? It bites!’ Gregorio said. He pulled out the mirror and stood. ‘Where are my gloves?’

‘Never mind your execrable gloves,’ the other man said, his eyes fixed on the parrot. ‘You heard it. You understood what it was saying. It was talking Spanish. It was meant for me. It was talking in a style we both know, and using phrases we both remember. Go on. Whose?’

Gregorio sat down, holding the mirror. ‘Ochoa de Marchena,’ he said faintly.

‘Ochoa de Marchena, Spanish shipmaster of the
Ghost
, which disappeared off the African coast with a cabin full of African parrots and hats, and a cargo containing three mule-loads of African gold belonging to us. Yes.’

‘His parrot?’ said Gregorio.

‘His voice,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘So let us re-create the cabin. So let us hear what he has been sent to say.’

The answer was nothing. The night wore on, the figs were shared, the parrot fell in love with its reflection and continued to utter endearments to its new friend but said nothing else except once, when it repeated
Holy Virgin!
in the voice of Nicholas, several minutes after mistaking his thumb for a fig.

Gregorio said, ‘We were wrong.’

The parrot’s friend took off toga and hat and removed an ostrich feather from behind his ear. He said, ‘It’s Ochoa’s vocabulary. It’s Valencian dialect.’

‘African parrots are grey,’ Gregorio said. ‘Grey and red.’

There was an unexpected silence. The other man said, ‘So they are.’

Gregorio looked at him. He said, ‘I was wrong, wasn’t I? I thought you had some deep plans for Scotland. But you do really fancy laying hands on the gold. And that business about the Tyrol, and their power-hold on the highways to Italy, and their nuisance value to Burgundy and to the Germanies and to France … You are going back. You’re not staying in Scotland after all, are you?’

‘And that’s what they call logic in Padua?’ The padrone’s voice was different from the comedian’s. The padrone said, ‘I’m interested in the Bank, but I employ other people to polish its door-knob. If the situation in the Tyrol looks promising, if the Vatachino become a little too vivacious in Rome or the Levant, if the parrot comes up with a name and address – I have you, don’t I, to go back and deal with it?’

Gregorio felt himself flush. He said, ‘What were you doing with the King’s uncle?’

‘I wish I could shock you. But we were discussing the Boyds.’

Gregorio picked up the bed-hanging and threw it over the cage. The parrot swore. ‘How much did you tell him?’ he said. ‘Hearty James doesn’t care for the family, but his niece and Tom Boyd are married. He’ll warn her.’

‘He has,’ the other man said. He settled back into bed, clasping the feather. ‘She came to me later on for advice. If – for some undisclosed reason – she found herself having to pay a short trip to the Continent, would the van Borselen be prepared to receive her?’

‘And you said?’ Gregorio asked.

‘That Henry van Borselen was old; and Wolfaert’s new wife was a Bourbon; and my own wife was in delicate health. But …’

The feather twirled.

‘But?’ said Gregorio.

‘But that I was sure that Anselm Adorne would be happy to have her. So what about Beltrees tomorrow? I have to leave early: I want to call at Lucia’s old house, and then Semple’s. You could come, or you could meet me at Beltrees. Bring the parrot, why not.’

Lucia’s old house was called the Little Hall of Kilmirren. Lucia’s property had once been part of Kilmirren, until Diniz had sold it to Nicholas de Fleury. The paperwork for that was complete, but the company lawyer should know, surely, what the place looked like. Also, according to Semple, someone he was rather fond of was there now. Gregorio said, ‘I don’t know. I ought to come with you.’

‘Then come with me,’ said de Fleury, and threw the feather away.

Riding north through the long, sunlit morning, Gregorio wondered what other visits his partner might have paid, secretively or otherwise, to this countryside, and what he made of it. Marsh and peat moss, lakes and patches of timber, small turf and wattle settlements with their churches and keeps, makeshift fords, dirt
roads deep in mud – none of it, surely, could appeal to a man brought up in towns, used to the rich buildings, the comforts of Bruges, of Venice, of Florence.

The wild mountains of Trebizond had been set about with precious churches and monasteries, and the marble halls of the lords of Byzantium. Nicholas de Fleury, with Loppe at his side, had fought and worked in the sugarfields under the hot sun of Cyprus, but had lived in a sumptuous home, in a land still touched by Gods, where pillars, arcades, amphitheatres dazzled the eye, and painted treasures breathed in the shadows. In Africa, destitute of all but the means to survive, there was still Timbuktu.

Kilmirren lay in this green, empty land with its small towns and its rolling land contoured with cloud-shadows. The Bretons, Normans and Flemings who came here in centuries past found a country not unlike the one they had left and, settling, married into the families that they found here. So the St Pols must have come. But now, such settlers must be aware of two worlds. A man of land and power in France, Jordan de Ribérac seldom came to Kilmirren, and the lure of high living and chivalry called Simon, too, from the land and the mundane duties that went with it. Yet he would want it, for Henry. A man without land was at best a tradesman, a mountebank.

Which brought one to Nicholas de Fleury. But for Simon’s denial, Nicholas, son of Sophie de Fleury his first wife, could have hoped to claim all this land in due course. He had dropped the claim. But since then, he had been given reason, if any man had, to return the injury Simon had done him.

From what Julius said, he had already inflicted on Simon – and received – as much punishment as the quarrel warranted. Lucia’s death surely had not been intended, but Katelijne, who had been there, had little to say about it and Julius, who had a great deal, had not been a full witness. Nevertheless, but for the quarrel, Lucia would not have died, or the child Henry been drawn into trouble. Before others were hurt, de Fleury should bring the feud to an end. Instead, he bought land.

He could have no feeling for Kilmirren, or Scotland. At best, you could say that its language was one of his tongues; that he had merchant acquaintances; that he could make himself acceptable now and then in court circles. Set against all the rest the world offered, it was nothing.

But he also had a wife and, now, a family. Owning Kilmirren – all of it – he could do what Jordan de Ribérac had done: instal an agent, and take his comfort abroad, as a landed man with possessions and title.

Jordan would never sell. Even threats against Henry would not make him. So Nicholas de Fleury would have to acquire Kilmirren in some other way. As the son of Simon – but how could he prove it? Or as the survivor, of course, as, one by one, his family continued to die.

Gregorio caught his first sight of the castle at noon: a keep with rambling accretions, set in a large, irregular yard with high walls. Naturally it was empty: the vicomte away; Simon and his son safely dispatched overseas until Henry’s misdemeanour was forgotten. The personal staff had gone with them. Gregorio wondered which lordly household had the training of Henry at such times. Anyone, probably, would be better than Simon. He reined in, finding he had come upon clusters of low, turf-roofed houses too scattered to be called a village. Twenty people and as many children had come to watch them pass, and dogs began to run at their heels. Chickens squawked and a pig stood in his way.

The de Fleury men were well trained, and rode carefully. The glance of their padrone was equable, but he did not stop. It was known they were coming: the Kilmirren steward had even offered the hospitality of the castle, in the vicomte’s absence. An acceptance, however, would have alarmed him. All those who served Kilmirren would know who this man was, and what their lords thought of him. A mile away, Gregorio could still feel their gaze on the back of his neck.

Then they came to a fence and a hedge, and a kitchen garden well hoed, beyond which was the Little Hall, the two-storeyed building which had been the home of Lucia de St Pol y Vasquez.

Nicholas de Fleury dismounted. A burly man strode from the doorway – Oliver Semple, second cousin to Sir William. Gregorio had met him in Edinburgh. Semple said, ‘I brought two grooms. The stables are still in good order. And good day to ye both. Ye do well?’

‘Well enough,’ his new employer said. ‘Master Gregorio has found the ride rather long. Perhaps you and I should talk first, and he could wait for us in the parlour. Is there someone there?’

The factor said, ‘How did ye guess? Ah, Sir William. Aye, Mistress Bel, her of Cuthilgurdy, rode round. If it pleases ye, there’s enough in my hampers to serve the lady as well.’

‘How extremely provident,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘We shall see you later then, Goro. Tell the lady we shall not be too long.’

Bel was alone. She looked exactly the same: round as a melon in a thick gown for riding, with her pepper-grey hair bound into a
stoutly ironed selection of napkins. Her skin was like unbaked dough. It had never taken the sun, even in Portugal, when he had first met her as companion to Lucia. Even when, sick and gaunt, she had arrived back with Diniz from Africa. Her face stayed the same, and her spirit, and her gravel voice saying, ‘Well, Goro!’

His eyes were wet, hugging her. It had been a long time since she left Bruges for Scotland, and the news he had had of her from Julius was odd: once closer than most, she had seen almost nothing of Nicholas. And the occasions on which she had seen him were disastrous – the first, the stabbing by Henry, and the second, the drowning of Lucia. She had seemed, Julius said, to hold Nicholas responsible for everything, including the weather. Julius did not take old ladies seriously.

Now Gregorio set her down and sat down himself. There was a brazier, lit presumably by Semple’s orders. Nicholas felt the cold. Bel said, as if he had spoken, ‘Let Nicholas be. I ken why he sent you. I want to hear your news. Where is Margot?’

‘With the child,’ he said. ‘You know of the child?’

He was speaking quickly. At the same time, he remembered something that ought to come first. He said, ‘At least – you know the bad news, as well?’

She looked down. She said, ‘No.’ It was all she said.

He looked at her anxiously. ‘Mistress Bel? I’m so sorry. About Tilde.’

Her chin lifted. ‘Ah, Goro, I’m a stupid auld callant. Yes, I kent. Aye, I’m famished with sorrow. They’re young, they’ll have bairns in plenty. But the lassie would grieve.’

‘We all did. It needn’t have happened. It needn’t have happened but for that vicious old –’ He couldn’t speak Jordan’s name.

She said, ‘I can guess. Lucia might hae given him the benefit o’ the doubt, and so will I. But the good news is that Gelis is delivered?’

‘Of a son she has called Jordan de Fleury.’

She was silent. Then she said, ‘So tell me, and fast.’

‘Nicholas hasn’t seen him,’ Gregorio said. ‘You understand, the child came early. The news was delayed. There was a birth-feast for him later, of course, and Gelis should be back in Bruges now. Bel, speak to him. No one can.’

‘About what?’ she said. And as he didn’t reply, ‘No. All right. She is withholding the bairn. All is not well with the marriage. He is here, instead of in Bruges. Is that why he is here?’

Gregorio said, ‘I don’t know. No, it has something to do also with Simon. It must. But Simon isn’t here; Nicholas surely can let
his schemes go. He has to stop the vendetta with Simon and go back. He has to go back for his own sake. And hers.’

‘And the bairn’s, wouldn’t ye say? She’s named him Jordan de Fleury. Why?’ Her eyes were directly on his.

‘To cause the deepest hurt,’ Gregorio said.

‘The which that would do. Aye. And if ye all ken so much, Master Gregorio, whyfor are his friends not urging the man to go back themselves? What can I do, unless I hear the hale story?’

‘He won’t listen to me. No one else knows what has happened but Margot. And I’ve given my word not to tell.’

‘Then Nicholas is a lucky man,’ she said. ‘And she’s a lucky woman, your Margot, whatever you may think o’ it all. The differ being that Margot deserves it.’

He looked up. She had never removed her eyes from his face. He said, ‘
Umar
is luckier than he is.’ Then he heard footsteps on the stairs, and she dragged her eyes away as Nicholas de Fleury and Semple came in.

The factor went to pour wine. Nicholas put down the papers he was carrying and stood still, like a crossbowman judging his target. Bel of Cuthilgurdy said, ‘You’ll have come for your rent?’

The factor wheeled, flask in hand. Nicholas said, ‘I didn’t know, when I bought Lucia’s land, that you had a house on it. I understood you stayed with her here.’

‘Times I did. Times she wanted company. She had a furnished bedchamber, too, at the castle. You’ll find a good mattress there, and some taffety skirts and a mutch cap and some preens and an Inglis brown gown in a kist, if you think that they’ll suit you.’

‘Diniz sold me the land,’ Nicholas said.

‘And his Madeira land too?’ Bel said. ‘With his one babe cut off, he’d be easy persuaded. He didna come with you, I see, to visit the grave of his mother and, of course, collect a few rents in the bygoing. It must have been a real trial to you both, rearranging her money.’