The Unicorn Hunt (6 page)

The beach was far longer than she had imagined. It ran glistening and yellow-grey into the distance, where a cloud of silvery spume announced the approach of a massed group of riders, vying with one another in and out of the surf. The drumming sound came from their hooves. The other roar, from behind, came from the frenzied throats of the waiting Leithers, laying off wagers. The riders came nearer.

They were not commoners. You could tell that from quite far away. First, the colours showed through the watery mist: crimson, azure and tawny, golden and black. Then the stuffs of the hats, the pourpoints, the gowns and the doublets: velvets, satins and taffetas, winking with jewels among the great dashes and drips of salt water. No one stopped them ruining their clothes, which surprised and
then pleased her. She had thought Scotland was a poor country. Then she saw that they were children.

She revised her opinion in a moment: there were grown men and women among them; pretty women and handsome, high-coloured men. But the two leaders were barely fledged: boys of reddish hair and complexion, mounted on horses the like of which she had seen only once or twice even in Ghent; horses with the long-shafted bones, the dark muzzles and eyes of the Arab. The harness of both was of silver. Their whips working, the rivals glared and strained, their pale-rimmed eyes stark with endeavour. The younger, a boy of no more than her own age, was winning.

They were the only ones of their kind. Behind them, the horses were Flemish and the riders in their twenties and thirties, although she saw a boy she put at ten or eleven, and a red-haired girl-child on a pony. She got to her feet and stood beside her brother. The race hadn’t quite finished.

Their uncle’s voice said, ‘Do you recognise the boy in the lead? Alexander? He lived at Veere until he was ten.’

Katelijne knew all about Veere in Holland. The lord of Veere was Henry van Borselen. His son had married a Scottish princess, and Alexander the princess’s nephew had been sent to her household in Flanders for training.

Accordingly, the boy in front, if the same, was Alexander Stewart of Scotland, Duke of Albany, Admiral of Scotland, Earl of March, lord of Annandale and of Man. And the older boy striving to beat him must be – was, from his looks, his dress, his annoyance – the older brother of Duke Alexander. In other words, James, Third of the Name, monarch of Scotland. Katelijne said, ‘No wonder they let him get his clothes wet.’

Alexander won the race. The King, flexing his whip, rode aside while older competitors, red and blue, green and black, clustered about him. After a moment he broke away from the group and, accompanied by the blue and the black, walked his horse to where others awaited him. They formed a company, and began to ride off. The men in blue and black came back again. Those who were left on the strand wheeled about, their horses tossing their heads. The man in black remained in one place, but replied smiling to the nobles and gentlewomen who curvetted about him. Alexander, cursing his excited horse, could be heard expressing an opinion.

Now that half the courtiers had gone, Katelijne could see and hear better. The prince spoke, and a man in green took out a whistle and played a a flourish of notes by way of comment. The man in black said, ‘You don’t really want to go on?’ His voice was
drowned by others opposing him. He added, with a certain patience, ‘The horses are tired.’ The smallest, the red-haired girl, was shrieking demands.

‘Anselm?’ said Katelijne. Behind, a man in burgher’s dress had joined her uncle and Metteneye. It was almost certainly Master John Lamb, their host. Adorne was introducing Maarten. She said, ‘Anselm?’ again.

‘Yes?’ said her brother. He was drifting backwards and watching the strand. Play was being resumed. This time, the participants were lining up in two teams, four to a side, and people were scattering back to make room for them. The rest of the riders, dismounted, joined the spectators.

The wagering had started again. The teams were hopelessly uneven – children’s teams, with the red-head and the boy of eleven in one, and Alexander of Albany in the other. The spaces were filled up by those who had already taken the greater part of the action – the men in red and green, black and blue. The eighth player was a handsome woman in velvet.

Katelijne said, ‘You know why I’m here?’

Her brother grunted. He hadn’t wanted her to be sent to Scotland. She knew that; but also accepted, without resentment, that she was a nuisance at home. And it was a privilege among Flemish families of rank to offer a child to serve a foreign princess. Her uncle Adorne had just left a daughter in England. Gelis van Borselen and her sister had both held positions in Scotland. All the same …

At last, her brother had taken the trouble to observe where she was looking. He said, ‘The red-head? You think that brat is Albany’s sister? The one you’re coming to serve?’

‘He called her Margaret,’ Katelijne said. ‘I was told she was eight. I was told she was bright and adventurous. I think I’m going home.’

Her uncle, approaching, had overheard. He said, ‘No, you’re not. You don’t need her, but she needs someone like you.’

‘If she survives. What are they trying to play?’

‘Tzukanion,’ her uncle said. He spoke rather slowly.

‘What?’ said her brother.

‘It’s a game horsemen play in the Orient. They use long switches like that, and a ball. Each team tries to push the ball over the other team’s line.’

‘How do you know?’ said Katelijne. She wasn’t jealous of his knowledge; just interested.

‘From cousins. You ought to know. There have been a lot of
Adornes in the Levant,’ her uncle said. ‘And tales come to Bruges.’ His face, normally composed, had become neutral, as if he were back at home, judging a dispute between traders. He added dryly, ‘Your little lady will come to no harm. Two at least have played it before.’

Long ago, Katelijne had learned to trust her uncle Adorne, as had her brother. Watching now, she saw that he was right. Roaring, screaming and whacking, all eight amateur players of tzukanion were joyously slamming the ball. Two, however, were experts, sitting easily in the saddle, swaying and swooping to one side or the other, and connecting each time, stick to ball, with a sharp and satisfactory click. The athlete in red, and the acrobat, the actor in black.

She had no sooner distinguished it than one of them hit a lifting and powerful stroke which sent the ball whistling over their heads and beyond beach and crowd into acres of bushes. There was no possibility of recovering it.

As neat a way as any of ending the game. The air was filled with catcalls and laughter and the sound of coins changing hands. The angry shrilling of the child Margaret’s voice halted them.

‘They should stop her,’ said Katelijne.

‘In public,’ said her uncle, ‘it would be difficult.’

‘Then they should find another ball quickly. Oh dear, but no. But no. Anselm, that wouldn’t be fair.’

‘What?’ said her brother.

The man in black, facing inland, was pointing. The man in red, following his finger, turned his horse and began to trot up the beach and towards the rough grass of the links. He came close, so that for the first time they clearly saw his brown hair, his firm nose and jaw, and the set of his straight double-velvet-clad shoulders.

They recognised him. He saw them at the same time and, with a pleased smile, reined in beside them. The pleasure sprang as much from self-satisfaction, one might suspect, as from joy at the sight of his neighbours from Bruges.

‘There you all are,’ said Julius of Bologna, the handsomest manager of the Banco di Niccolò. ‘We heard you were coming. Tedious, isn’t it? We ought to be finished soon. Where are you staying? John Lamb’s? I’ll tell Nicholas.’

‘Your Nicholas?’ said Adorne civilly. ‘Vander Poele? Is he here?’ His niece Katelijne, below general notice, noted that he betrayed none of the amazement that her brother showed, or Master Metteneye, who nine years ago must have been acquainted with Nicholas, apprentice to the Charetty company, which – she had been told – employed Julius, too, as its lawyer.

The same Julius produced a casual grimace. ‘Do you think I’d be here unless Nicholas was? That’s him over there. Bonkle bought him a house, and he likes it. He’s out of his mind. If you had what he has, would you come here to spend it?’

Adorne said, ‘It depends. Perhaps Gelis wanted to come back to Scotland. A bride enjoys meeting old friends.’

Julius glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘He’s gone and picked up a ball. Excuse me. We’ll have to go on.’ He pulled a face and, wheeling again, tipped his feathered red hat at them all. Then he spurred dashingly off.

Metteneye said, ‘Those were rubies.’ They were speaking, as always, in Flemish.

‘They were not, certainly, sprays of honesty,’ Adorne said. ‘The man in black must be Nicholas. I thought him thicker. And certainly black is far from his usual choice. Or, indeed, his usual pocket. What ball?
Katelijne!
’

Katelijne had guessed what ball the riders were going for. Before even her uncle exclaimed, before Anselm her brother had moved, she had set off to scamper back through the sand to the links. The man in black, mounted, arrived just before her, scattering the few grazing heifers and causing the half-dozen foot-players to stumble aside from the hole over which they were poring. Two of them shouted, and one lifted his stick at the horse.

The man in black plucked it out of his grasp and broke it over his knee. Then, gathering his reins, he swept his own stick in a low, graceful arc, and settling it outside the ball, whipped it showily out of their reach, while the mare between his knees swerved and followed, in visibly perfect control. The ball, chipped into the air, fell ahead and was securely caught, with a smack, between the two open palms of Katelijne.

For a moment, she stood her ground as the rider swooped to her side and drew rein. She let him begin to lean down, before she lifted her palm and threw the ball back where it had come from, at the feet of the shouting, hurrying golfers.

They looked down at it, and at her. The man in black said in French, ‘You would like to join in the game?’ He was at least as old as her brother. His sleeve smelled of brine, and horse, and scent, and his doublet was made of plain black silk, sewn, embroidered and pleated. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes were as large as those of swan-seduced Leda in a painting she had not, when a child, comprehended.

‘Isn’t it over?’ she said.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I fear that it is.’ He had hardly shifted his gaze.

She whirled. Behind her back, the man in rubies, the man Julius in red, had ridden up and, bending, had scooped the ball again from its owners. Feet disputed, and voices. Then Julius, laughing, turned his horse, and with ease punted the ball across to the black rider again.

This time, she was on the wrong side to catch it. She picked up her skirts and ran forward none the less as the red rider thundered behind her, and the golfers, silent and dogged, pounded after. Ahead, the man with the whistle played a cadenza of notes with one hand and, when the black rider glanced over, beckoned. The black rider, his horse in motion, bent in a mist of cold scent to dispatch the ball in his direction.

The stick had just connected when his horse pecked, staggered, and all but threw him. The ball, knocked awry, flew instead towards the child Margaret.

The black rider, with a muted exclamation, righted himself. The golfer who had thrown the stick at his horse ran to his side, hooting with righteous joy, and squealed as Katelijne reached up and thrust her arm in his and held him tight. ‘Long live the game. No quarter!’ she called to the black rider. And ducked like he did as the ball, hit by the child, came hurtling back to the links.

It was stopped in mid-air by the club of another golfer.

The youth Albany jerked his stick upwards in rage and then lowered it sulkily. The golfing party, spreading out, lobbed the ball laughing to one another, to the cheers of the spectators. Katelijne chased panting among them, sometimes close enough to touch the ball herself, or even kick it. She glimpsed her brother, not quite taking part, but still grinning. The black rider, arriving without apparent effort, collected the ball, drew back his arm, and hit it sweetly out to the strand, to fall between the Prince and Princess of Scotland, who had not been smiling at all.

The girl got to it first. The boy said, ‘Stop. You’ll let the fools have it,’ and, when she paid no attention, drove his spur into the flank of her pony, which reared. The child screamed. Ignoring her, the boy rescued the ball and struck it carefully and accurately towards the expert player in black. The girl, still screaming, drove her pony against her brother’s fine-bred, magnificent Arab with such suddenness that, leaning low at the end of his stroke, he was flung from the saddle. His sister then bent down and began hitting him with her stick.

‘Well, well,’ said the man in black, and took careful aim. Katelijne, running towards the fallen youth, saw the practised stick hit the ball just as she caught Alexander’s loose, distraught horse
by the reins. This time, the ball went nowhere near golfers or riders. It simply flew over the beach and, far, far away, plummeted with a splash into the sea. Where, being made from the very best boxwood, it floated.

On the beach, there was a single, fierce moment filled with juvenile fury and adult approval. Then the child Margaret screamed, ‘No!’ and whipped her pony straight into the estuary.

Katelijne was nearest, with Albany’s reins still in her grasp. She forked her skirts with one hand, put a foot in the stirrup and, springing into Albany’s saddle, pushed the priceless mare into the sea. Behind her, she heard another horse following.

On the links and the beach, the spectators saw it, as did the golfers, leaning panting on their clubs, and the six remaining members of the tzukanion teams, wheeling and calling. Julius, in red, was the first to throw his horse forward, followed by Jamie Liddell of Halkerston, Albany’s officer. The boy, the whistler in green and the young woman followed. The youth Alexander, sprawled on the sand, scowled at the rump of his child-sister’s pony, veiled in spray and clogged with a load of wet velvet.