To Lie with Lions (21 page)

It was the first time she had used the short name. It was the first time she had spoken familiarly. The decision was made.

Nicholas said, ‘I am the saddle. A perfect seat, as you know, for any horseman. I think John is the camel. How are you?’ His voice, obscured by the wind, sounded as normal as hers.

‘Anxious to arrive,’ Gelis said. ‘Where shall we stay? You have a pretty
cassino
, you once told me, in Edinburgh.’

He had bought it for her, long ago. Long ago, before the day of their wedding. Now he said, ‘I still have it. It is yours as soon as my tenants have moved. Until then, there are passable living quarters in the house of the Bank in the Canongate. You remember the Canongate? Like Spangnaerts Street sloped like a chute, with Holy rood Abbey in place of the mattresses. Is your arm painful?’

He didn’t know why he said it, except that there was no one within earshot, and he found himself suddenly impatient of pretence.

She read him at once. ‘You would rather I said what I thought? Yes, my arm is extremely painful. I assume that is what you wanted to hear. Nicholas?’

‘Gelis?’ he answered immediately. He saw her flush, and pale with mortification before she went on.

She said, ‘About Hesdin. I wondered what would have happened to Jordan, if Mistress Clémence or I had been killed. Did you consider that?’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘As much as you ever did. How was Cologne? Did you enjoy being free for four months?’

‘I had no choice,’ Gelis said. ‘And before that, I had to divide my time between Jordan and his father. And you?’ She paused and spoke as if against her own will. ‘What do you think of him?’

The lapse was surprising. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘Jordan!’ She loosened her hands, a little too quickly.

‘Do you need to ask?’ Nicholas said. ‘If I could kill him I would, but I might lose my freedom for rather more than four months. However. My chance will come.’

She was staring at him.

He said, ‘You are talking about Jordan de Ribérac? No? These identical names are so confusing.’

She always had courage. She didn’t leave. She said hardily, ‘What do you think of him then? Or what would you like me to believe?’ A long way off, a high voice was talking. She must have heard it as well.

He made a gesture. He said, ‘I have found him useful, as you have. It is convenient that he shows his paternity – although not to you. How you must have hated him when he was placed in your arms! And I suppose he will grow up as any foster-child does, paying with embraces for favours. He has pretty ways.’

‘Foster-child!’

‘Clémence stands for his mother. The world is his mother and father,’ Nicholas said. ‘He will grow up trusting no one, loving no one. A very good thing.’

‘Like you?’

‘Like both of us,’ Nicholas said.

Then she left, walking away without help, a little unbalanced by the sling. He watched her go.

She was staying. So was Jodi, his son.

This time he had what he wanted; and no one could stop him.

Down below in her cabin, painfully, shakily, stubbornly, Gelis was writing again.

Chapter 9

A
S
ARRANGED BY
a master of illusion, the return of Nicholas de Fleury to Scotland lacked no ceremonial. Scotland welcomed its adopted knight, its brilliant banker Nicholas de Fleury and his superb wife and his thriving small son: a handsome and loving young family.

The grand entrance took place at Leith, as Nicholas wanted. His caravel rowed into harbour, its sails shipped, its sides washed and shining, its banners taut, its trumpets piping and blaring. Lighters fled to and fro at their keel; the pilot boat which had brought them saluted; and, far ahead, glossy in satin and silk, men stood arrayed on the riverside wharf: the magnates of Scotland, come to welcome their Knight of the Unicorn. And among the fringed flags that flapped and crackled above them was the Lion of Scotland. The royal house had sent one of its members.

Three years before, on the verge of her marriage to Nicholas, Gelis had slipped into Scotland to finish her tour as maid of honour to the King’s sister Mary, the Countess of Arran. She had made some friends, but not many, for she knew what she was going to do. And now everyone knew. This arrival, arranged with such flamboyance, might turn out to be as uncomfortable for Nicholas de Fleury as it was for herself. No honest woman, about to be promised to a man she respected, would have taken Simon de St Pol as a lover.

The priest knew it, and le Grant: both looked sober. The senior nurse, too, looked sedate, although Pasque was hopping on her elderly feet with excitement. Crackbene, in expert control of the landfall, gave an impression of suppressed satisfaction. Oddly, Nicholas conveyed the same sense. In immaculate black and white, with the chain of the Unicorn across the width of his shoulders, he was scanning the river-bank as he had scanned the shore of the estuary. His gaze, far from apprehensive, was proprietorial.

Then they were over the bar, and in due course the ship’s boat was
lowered to take them to the wharf. Gelis had taken her seat with the child when Nicholas, smiling, bent and scooped up the boy, saying, ‘Come, Courtibaut, there is a better view over here.’ The child put its arms round his neck.

‘It is natural,’ said Mistress Clémence at her side. ‘Fathers are proud. You have left your arm unbound?’

‘It is much better,’ Gelis said; and then wished she had answered her differently, for the nurse had meant well. Gelis had abandoned her sling because she was Gelis van Borselen, kin to the princes of Scotland and Burgundy, and soliciting pity from no one.

The boat touched the jetty timbers and Nicholas held it steady, the child on his shoulder, while the rope was secured. He let Crackbene guide his wife up the steps. His page followed. The child smiled at her as she passed and so did her husband: two liberal smiles, one of them genuine; two pairs of grey eyes, one of them freely affectionate.

Nicholas said, ‘What a pity you don’t have a hennin.’ She didn’t know what he meant. It was a private joke, the kind he made for himself, and sometimes against himself, and sometimes very much against her. She made no reply but, reaching the top of the steps, waited for him, the page at her side.

The wharf had been recently paved. She saw a line of new sheds and a crane. At the end, a gate had been opened and a great many people seemed to be standing there. Behind them, she had an impression of riding horses and liveried servants. A man, separating from the crowd, was making his way without haste towards them.

Nicholas, arriving noiselessly, set the child on its feet, retaining the grasp of one of its hands and directing the other to Gelis. ‘Smile,’ he said. ‘Unless you really dislike him.’

She had thought it would be Govaerts his factor. Instead, she saw the noble features and soldierly bearing of Jamie Liddell, a man she knew well from Bruges. Sir James Liddell of Halkerston, steward to the King’s brother Alexander, Duke of Albany. Which meant …

She looked at Nicholas, but he was already exchanging greetings; indicating her, indicating the child. Liddell, smiling, bowed to her and went on talking to Nicholas. ‘You are none the worse of the journey? There is a perfect army ridden here to give you a welcome, my lord Duke has not the temerity to deny them. Speak to them quickly if you can. He owes me money.’

‘Where …?’ said Nicholas. As they looked, the crowd shifted, revealing the sparkle of armour and behind it a group of horses harnessed in velvet. The flag which hung over the group was the royal standard.

Liddell said, ‘He’ll probably take you to the Wark. Your lady can
go straight into town with the boy. But, of course, meet your friends on the way. You see how pleased we are to have you returned.’ He smiled and walked past, she heard him greeting Crackbene, and being introduced to the priest and le Grant. She found Nicholas was already walking across to the welcome party by the gate, the child trotting with him. She recovered its hand, moving now with conscious grace, as she had been trained. As Nicholas, too, had been trained. She perceived, belatedly, the handsome picture they all three were presenting: the tall young man, the elegant girl, the beautiful child. She had, for a moment, the impulse to tear herself away, to scream at him, to ruin it. She tried to open her hand, but Jordan had gripped it too tightly. Then she came to herself.

On the surface, it was no trouble at all to exchange simple courtesies with well-dressed people of different stations, some strangers, some formal acquaintances, some known to her by reputation. They were all men. That was natural. The head of a bank, bearing the goodwill of Burgundy, would be met by his equivalent in authority: by city councillors and merchants; by high officials of the church which was his landlord; by the officers from a few lordly households. She saw some lawyers in a group and, surprisingly, Archibald Whitelaw, the King’s Secretary, in person. She walked beside Nicholas, linked to him by his child, and was exposed to no hint of embarrassment. Behaving impeccably, she watched how Nicholas greeted each man, and memorised it.

She was taken unawares twice. Once, when her hand was touched, then taken by a young man of much her own age whom she saw to be Adorne’s nephew Sersanders. Whatever formalities he was uttering, they could not wholly conceal his unease. He had heard the rumours, and did not know what to think. She spoke to him serenely, and moved on without haste.

The next time she was surprised by a clear-eyed man who, having welcomed her diffidently, immediately squatted and held something out to the child. Jordan released both hands and received it, then burst into rapturous squeals. As she leaned to see what it was, the man exchanged smiles with Nicholas, who suddenly laughed. Then Nicholas himself was engulfed by the last of those waiting, and Gelis drew the child to her side as she watched.

Do you sing? Like a lark?
One of the men now greeting Nicholas was Will Roger, the royal musician. Whistle Willie, the girl Katelijne had called him. As Gelis recognised him, he released her husband and whirled, his eyes moving from her to the child.

He took her hand. ‘Unless this is painful? I trust you are better? You are a brave woman, to throw in your lot with this idiot. And now
you have permitted him to set foot in Scotland, an act of charity for which other countries will vote you a pension. And this is Lancelot du Lac, I presume? And what is that?’

He was crouching, like the other, in front of the child. The object in the child’s hand was a whistle.

She cleared her throat. ‘His name is Jodi,’ she said.

The musician looked up. ‘Is it? I thought it was Jordan. Jodi, blow.’

He blew. He knew how to blow. He had learned, on the little whistle Nicholas had thrown into the water in Venice. He made it cheep, his cheeks inflated, and stopped.

Nicholas said conversationally, ‘This is a man called Whistle Willie. Will you let Whistle Willie blow for you? He will give it back. You will also get leprosy.’

The child looked up, at first puzzled; and then reassured by the ordinariness of his father’s expression. The musician took up the whistle and, still kneeling, set it to his lips. Gelis stood, watching.

‘One must be musical, which I am not, to appreciate it,’ said a voice. ‘But I am told the man is a master performer. May I make myself known? My name is Martin, of the Vatachino company. I came as a courtesy to your husband and to make the lords happy: they think it will benefit prices if they see two financiers vying for trade. I trust your arm does well now?’

She turned. The speaker smiled. Beneath the triangle of his hat was a short, coarse pelmet of hair, orange as carrots. His eyes, round and pale, were fixed on her. The notes of the whistle yelped and swooped and chortled: Jodi was crowing. She knew that Nicholas, who had not turned, had heard.

She said, ‘It is well, thank you. And here is my husband.’

Nicholas rose. ‘We know each other,’ he said. ‘I pushed him downstairs as well. I was hoping to see David, your colleague.’

‘Overseas, to his regret,’ Martin said. ‘But all that he told me of the good looks of your wife is quite true. And now you are a family man, with responsibilities. You must tell me if we push you too hard. It would never do if you, too, had a fall.’

That was all. He dropped behind, smiling, and they moved on. There was no one left to see now but Jamie Liddell, waiting alone. Nicholas said, ‘I am sorry. It took longer than I expected. The Duke will have left.’

‘He waited,’ said Liddell. ‘Come across. You may wish he hadn’t.’

Of course, she had been presented to Alexander of Albany before. She had been in the entourage of his sister, and remembered him when he was a child, living with her uncle in Bruges. She was
familiar with the Stewart colouring: the pale freckled skin, the auburn hair; the lack of height; the uncertain temper that went with the pride. He greeted her with the correct words, but it was hard to tell what he recalled, and what he owed to Liddell’s reminding. She curtseyed to the required depth, her back straight, her neck bent, and then rose. The child, released, looked up at his father who said, ‘Mon bouton, this is a prince. You must bow.’

Mistress Clémence had taught him. Someone had required Mistress Clémence to teach him. The child dipped his head and lifted it, his shining gaze bestowed between the Duke and his father. The Duke smiled cursorily, his head turned already to Nicholas. ‘You traitor, you’ve taken the turban. Or whose money did you prefer to ours? England? Burgundy? Anjou? Cyprus?’ His eyes were very bright.

‘Berne, my lord,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought of joining the Switzers. They live on draughty mountain-tops too, and don’t train their hawks properly, and drink too much ale, and never pay their debts on time. But they got tired of me.’

‘Or you of them?’ said the boy. Despite the damask, the jewels, and the marriage imposed on him by the state, he was only seventeen. He had spent half his childhood in Bruges, and was not interested in Gelis van Borselen or her son. He said, still to Nicholas, ‘What have you brought?’

‘All I promised,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let them unload it and fetch it to you. We’ll need draught oxen.’