To Lie with Lions (101 page)

They looked at him.
‘Merde!’
said Astorre.

‘Why?’ said John.

‘Someone, no doubt with a French accent, has persuaded the Emperor that a greater Burgundy would threaten the Empire. Frederick wants the matter dropped now, and brought up at a Diet next year.’

‘Mother of God! Does the Duke know?’ Julius said.

Nicholas glanced at the hour-glass. ‘Not yet. Hugonet will break the news. Then the Emperor will send his official regrets later tomorrow. The day after that, the Duke will be called to the Palace for the final leave-taking, at which he will be shown every honour. I quote.’

‘That’s Thursday!’ Julius said. ‘He’s leaving on the day he was
supposed to be crowned! My God. The Cathedral. The robes. The hangings. The carpentry. The provisions …’

‘And all we’ve done,’ said John slowly. ‘Nicholas! The choirs? Everything gone?’

‘Not at all,’ Nicholas said. ‘Move them around. The street decorations can stay; everything else can be stuffed into the Palace for the Emperor’s reception on Thursday, barring the crown and sceptre and banner, of course. At least the Duke’s leave-taking should be spectacular, and the Emperor will have to foot all the bills. You can start on it tomorrow. Today. I have to go to the Abbey.’

‘The Duke’ll be mad,’ Julius said. ‘But I suppose that you feel you must go. And you’ll want to arrange what to do about Gelis.’

‘That was in my mind,’ Nicholas said.

He had sent her a note, asking her to receive him on Wednesday. Today. Even now, he had not broken the embargo: merely stated that he had been forced to alter his plans. She would realise why, soon enough. Soon enough, the whole of the Burgundian court would explode, like Hekla, scorching everyone within reach. He didn’t know what would happen after that, and he didn’t want to wait to find out. He wanted to come to the end of this conflict, this mission, today.

Her note, agreeing, came just after dawn, brought by a man who had had to shoulder his way through the crowds in the streets. The news was out. He couldn’t go out yet himself, although his own arrangements were well in hand: he had seen no point in going to bed. Now, he had been warned, he had to wait for an audience with the Emperor. He supposed he was about to be thanked and even paid for all he had done these two months, on secondment from Burgundy. For the sake of the Bank, he must comply.

The moment that he entered the Imperial chamber, he realised that he was wrong. The gifts were there on a table: a pair of silver-gilt goblets, a sable-lined cloak, a pouch, a paper folded with the Imperial seal. The Emperor sat in his chair of state, preparing to deliver them. But the man at his side was Ludovico da Bologna, who specialised in demands, not in thanks.

This time, it was the Emperor who, after the presentation, after the praise, sought to know the precise position of the Banco di Niccolò in the war against the Ottoman Turk.

Nicholas had replied, as he was expected to reply, that he was a servant of Burgundy, and that Burgundy was constrained by the threat from King Louis.

‘It is understood,’ said the Emperor. ‘But does it seem to my lord of Beltrees that Burgundy’s power, augmented by the might of the
Bank, will be directed against the Most Christian King of France? Or will it be required to waste its strength on small issues, from which the Bank might draw rather less credit?’

The voice of Sigismond of the Tyrol. The voice, even, of Eleanor of Scotland, his wife. Nicholas said, ‘Highness, I understand the issues. I have to consider what will best serve the Bank. It had been my hope to return to the East representing both the Empire and Burgundy. That hope has gone.’

‘Does it seem so?’ said the Emperor. ‘My friend the Patriarch appears to think differently. He thinks the Duke might be willing to allow us to retain your services for a little.’

‘For the sake of the future,’ said the Patriarch. His crucifix, big as a stirrup, reflected the unshaven part of his jowls, and his grin. ‘You could take your wife and child with you. Consult them. Consult monseigneur your illustrious Duke. My lord Emperor merely requests that you give him your reply by tomorrow. He offers you material rewards, which will be made explicit. I offer you rewards at a throne higher than his.’

Then they had let him go, and he could leave for St Maximin. He spoke to Astorre, and gave his papers to Julius. He had already visited all his team. Anna said, ‘But you are coming back?’

Nicholas said, ‘I think it is likelier that you will all come to St Maximin. There may be ill feeling. One will have to choose one side or the other.’

She had smiled, shaking her head. ‘I don’t mean to suborn Julius. But I did hope that the two courts would become one. Will you tell Gelis that, whatever happens, I wish her all happiness?’

‘I hope you can tell her yourself,’ Nicholas said.

It was John who forced a bodyguard on him, and insisted on accompanying him to the Abbey. He was right. The people of Trèves, after eight weeks of idle soldiery and rocketing prices, had lost patience at last and, crowding the streets, were shouting abuse at every foreigner. Once, it must have seemed that the Great Encounter was going to bring a flood of prosperity to the Electorate and its capital. Now, having exhausted its supplies and its patience, the princes had cancelled the finest free show of them all, and left the citizens to the Burgundians’ anger. There were no trumpeters on the Porta Nigra today.

If the atmosphere in the city was ugly, that in the Abbey precincts was one of boiling rage. Everywhere men stood in groups, and shouting sounded from casements, while servants and wagons crowded the courtyards, as the great households slowly began their dismantling. In all this, there was no likelihood whatever that
Nicholas would be received by the Duke. He could try to see Hugonet. He dismounted.

John said, ‘Are ye worried? About the bairn and your lady?’

Nicholas said, ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve seen them myself. Why not go and find Tobie? I’ll come later.’

Hugonet was asleep, but had left word to be wakened if Nicholas came. He sat, grey-faced, on the edge of his bed and listened. At the end he said, ‘I spoke to the Duke. I recommended that, as the Duke’s loyal servant, you should be allowed to remain at the Imperial court if invited. You are not, however, to take your men-at-arms, or promise them elsewhere without sanction.’

‘The Duke has my word,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am grateful.’

It was done. Everything was done, but for one thing.

At his door, Pasque let him in, full of lustful delight over the morning of drama. She was alone, but for the Lady. Mistress Clémence had gone to the herb gardens, and Master Jodi was asleep in his room. Nicholas sent her back to her charge. Then he spoke Gelis’s name, and her voice replied from the parlour. He had only to open the door, and walk in.

Five years. It was a long time for an estrangement. But for Godscalc, it would have been three, and he wouldn’t have gained what he had gained; and lost what he had lost. He stood, and thought of Gelis on the other side of the door, waiting for it to open. Now, the moment of truth; no longer the fencing, the irony. He pressed the latch, and went in.

She stood facing him, motionless as a painted wood quintain. He thought of carnival-time in Bruges, and the fat, raucous child who had commandeered his company and perhaps averted a killing. The obsessive, competitive child from whom had grown the quick-tongued, vigorous girl, the magnificent lover, the ruthless opponent, and now this fine-boned, high-mannered woman with no flaw as yet in her beauty.

She said, ‘Well, Nicholas?’

He did not want to begin. The hour had arrived: the culmination of all he had lived and worked for since their wedding day, and from now onwards, whatever happened, it would be different.

She said, ‘I am told you have won the Emperor’s favour.’

‘And the Duke’s,’ Nicholas said. ‘I can choose which to serve, or serve neither. That is all I had to establish.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘And now you find it hard to begin?’ She still stood.

He said, ‘Yes. I have no script today, Gelis, and no masks.’

‘No music,’ she said.

He made a sound. ‘It is bad enough, without music. Do you want me to begin? Or shall we toss?’ Reminded of something, he added, ‘Mistress Clémence would have made a good arbitrator, except that she would learn rather too much. No one would be able to refuse her anything ever again.’

‘I have an arbitrator,’ Gelis said. ‘Open the door.’

The adjacent room led to a passage, and to the back entrance to the lodging. It was small, no more than an antechamber; and a red-haired man was standing there, a powerful man with bad teeth whom he had last seen waving at him at the Luxembourg portal. Martin. Martin of the Vatachino.

Nicholas said, ‘I thought we should be alone.’ Then he stepped back and said, ‘But, of course, we spoke of it.’ The sense of loss deepened and spread, bringing with it a weariness which almost stopped him from speaking.

The man strolled forward, his knowing eye resting on Gelis. She hardly glanced at him. She said to Nicholas, ‘Have we stunned you into silence? You want to talk of achievements, competitions. Martin is here from the Vatachino to remind you how often they’ve won, competing against you; how often they’ve tricked you and bested you; to tell you of victories you don’t even know about yet.’

‘How kind of him,’ Nicholas said. ‘He has come to apologise?’

She laughed: a small, excited laugh that he recognised; that once had been private between them, when no words had been necessary. She said, ‘He has come to tell you that I work for the Vatachino. That most of their successes, and your failures, are because of my advice, my information, my help.’ Her eyes were immense. Beside her, the man Martin smiled.

Nicholas said, ‘Then he is your witness, not an adjudicator.’ His voice was quite steady.

She said, ‘Oh, perhaps. But he is here to supply proof.’

Alone with her, he would not have lied. Alone with her, he would have left aside the script and the mask, and told her as much of the truth as he dared. Then, beginning as they had begun, he would have moved, step by step, in the hope of an understanding. And one day, when it was all over, he would have told her, somehow, what he had done.

He abandoned that now, but neither did he take up his weapons. Instead, he chose the middle option, the course which he himself, in his right mind, had once dismissed.

He sat down. He said, ‘If that is so, you are a threat to the Bank and a power, yes, which it would be my responsibility to appease. So give me your proof.’

*

The air in the herb gardens was mild, and the gardens themselves, remote from the turbulence at the Abbey, were reposeful and quiet. Freed from her heavy morning of duties, Mistress Clémence of Coulanges moved along the patterned walks, pausing now and then, her grey skirts slurring behind her. There were still some pansies in bloom, although the Church preferred more utilitarian plants. She saw some aristolochia, and thought she must tell Dr Tobias. If, of course, the exigencies of decampment allowed.

A voice said, ‘Demoiselle?’ There was a note of insolence in it. She turned.

A boy. A youth, as no doubt he would prefer to be called, of twelve or thirteen, of quite singular looks. She had last seen him in Bruges, his face swollen and bruised from a blow struck by young Jordan’s father. Henry de St Pol, he was named. She said, ‘Sir?’

‘You don’t remember me?’ the boy said. He was well dressed, but hollow-eyed and dust-caked from long travelling. The sun glittered on his brilliant hair. He said, ‘I thought Jordan would be with you. He is called Jordan, isn’t he? The little bastard?’

There was an arbour nearby. She turned into it and sat, pursing her lips. ‘His lady mother gave him his name. But I do not think if you have seen him, that you could call him a bastard. You are like your father. He is like his.’

‘His father tried to beat me to death,’ the boy said. ‘He didn’t succeed. My grandfather saved me.’

‘To death? That is not like Lord Beltrees,’ said Mistress Clémence thoughtfully. ‘It is generally a matter of honour to choose an opponent at least as old and as skilled as oneself. But I am glad that your grandfather rescued you. Would you like to tell me about it? Or perhaps you are hungry? I have some cheese and milk in the house.’

‘I am not hungry,’ the boy said. He was lying. His cheeks were hollow.

Mistress Clémence said, ‘Then come with me anyway. Master Jodi is there.’

‘Jodi?’ he said. He made it sound like a sneer.

‘Men have little names sometimes,’ she said. ‘The name for Henry is Arigho, is it not? Dr Tobias?’

The boy sprang round like a young mastiff. Dr Tobias, quietly approaching from behind, stood still. He said, ‘I came to fetch you. And do I need to ask who this is? The son of Simon de St Pol?’ He had pulled his cap off, an untoward gesture he made, she had noticed, when disturbed.

‘Who are you?’ the boy said.

‘No one who matters. A doctor,’ said Dr Tobias. ‘I heard you were
thrashed. Lord Beltrees was beaten himself, shortly afterwards, although I am not sure he deserved it. But I think you have a family who protect you, and you should thank them.’

She was surprised. She noticed that, speaking, Dr Tobias avoided her eyes. She said, ‘We were about to go and find some cheese and perhaps something a little better. Come with us.’

Only then did she notice how empty this part of the garden had become, and that there were men outside the arbour who were neither monks nor ducal officials. She saw the boy smile, his eyes bright in his narrow, white face. A man appeared, blocking the sunlight. A large, fat man who said, ‘Mistress Clémence, I believe. Dr Tobias. We have heard your kind invitation and indeed, should like to accept it. A little cheese. A little milk. And perhaps even something more satisfying.’

She looked at Dr Tobias, who had pulled on his cap. A group of unknown men stood behind him. Dr Tobias said, ‘Mistress Clémence, allow me to introduce Henry’s grandfather. This is Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac.’

‘So you didn’t suspect,’ Gelis said. She had seated Martin beside her and was pouring him wine. She put down the flask and raised another. ‘Water, Nicholas?’ Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright.
Give her that happiness now
, Kathi had said. And Gelis was happy, even before the long catalogue of her scheming that he must listen to, that would prove that she was not just a sentient or a sensual being but an intelligent one. An organiser, an administrator. A person as competent as Gregorio, Julius, Govaerts. As himself.