Caprice and Rondo (104 page)

‘I have too much else to mourn,’ Diniz said.

‘Well, perhaps I could prevail upon you to carry this bag,’ said the doctor. ‘It contains two extra cloaks, although marked, I’m afraid, with the Lorraine cross for security. I should warn you not to slip off, which in these dreadful circumstances would seem to be all too easy. You might not even be missed for some time.’

Diniz stared at the dark face. ‘What?’

‘Also,’ said the doctor, ‘you should watch out in particular for Burgundians wounded in battle who may not all have died. I am told that the tower of the Commanderie has not recently been searched.’

Diniz lost his breath. The doctor finished wiping his hands and set to repacking his bag. Diniz said, ‘How do you know? Why are you telling me?’

‘Men confide in a doctor,’ said Matteo. ‘Also, I told you, I have heard of you and your company. I did not tell you how.’

‘The Vasquez estates?’ Diniz said.

‘The Lomellini estates rather,’ said the doctor. ‘My sister married into the family. Slave-owning, of course, and appreciative of those one or two exceptional Africans they have come to know.’ He smiled. ‘Must I remind you? My name is Matteo Lope.’

‘Lopez. Umar,’ said Diniz. Tears rose.

‘He is dead, I know, but you and your company esteemed him for what he was. Let us call this a gift he would have wished to make. And let me give you a last piece of news. Your John is safe, and a prisoner. But, of course, he needs someone to ransom him.’

‘I see I shall have to make an effort,’ said Diniz, swallowing. ‘But you?’

The man smiled. He said, ‘Every Duke needs a good physician. It does not matter which Duke.’

M
OST
OF
THE
REFUGEES
reaching Metz were in some way injured, or had white toes and fingers, or fevers. All of them were exhausted. They all brought the same news: the Duke had lost the battle, and gone. The reports of what happened then were so contrary that they weren’t worth listening to, if you were a doctor, and fairly exhausted yourself, from misery as much as fatigue.

The temporary hospital in the church of St Eucaire was cold, stinking and noisy, and Tobias Beventini had just risen, creakily, from examining a newly sawn leg when someone spoke his name, and he looked up and saw Diniz Vasquez.

He felt the blood flood through his skin. He said, ‘I didn’t know you were alive.’

In the olive face, Diniz’s eyes were enormous. He recited his answer as if he had learned it by rote, on the long, cruel, dangerous journey from Nancy. ‘I’m afraid Robin is dead. Astorre and Thomas as well, and their company. John le Grant ought to be safe: he’s a prisoner. So was I, but I escaped. I’ve brought someone with me. He wants a doctor.’

Behind him was a man on the floor, resting against the wall down which he had just carefully slid. ‘So that puts you out of court right away,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I don’t mind passing the time of day with another refugee. Are you all right?’

Tobie walked over and stood looking down on him. ‘Of course I am,’ he snapped. ‘So are all the men we brought with us. The only efficient arm, it seems to me, of the entire Bank.’

‘We?’ said Nicholas. ‘Don’t tell me that Julius is here?’

In an impatient manner, Tobie dropped down beside him. ‘Of course he is. Over there. A picturesque wound in the arm, but nothing to worry about. What’s Wrong with you?’

‘I don’t know. My hearing, probably,’ said Nicholas. ‘You wouldn’t like to give me a drink, and then say that all over again?’

He hardly knew, Tobie thought, what he was saying. Below his cap and half-fallen hood, his hair and neck were thick with soiled bandaging, and he held himself like a man with a javelin in him. Diniz, whose eyes never left him, was patched with cursory scars, and looked worn with care.

At his side, Nicholas said unexpectedly, ‘I can’t joke. I must—’

Until this moment, Tobie supposed, Nicholas had had to suppress everything that had occurred to concentrate on the supreme effort of travelling. Now, for the first time in his life, his composure openly began
to give way. Diniz made a movement, but stopped. You could see why. It was no disgrace. This was a place of dying, and anguish. Other men sobbed, some with their heads in their arms; others like this, with tightened lids and heads flung back in a sort of defiance.

It swept aside Tobie’s restraint. He did what he might have done all those years ago, and took the lad on his shoulder; except that this time, he was weeping himself.

Chapter 44

K
ATELIJNE
S
ERSANDERS
had to be told. It was natural, in those first hours at Metz, that Nicholas should think of that first, and should take it for granted that he would tell her himself. It was distressing that, at the same time, he should continue, agonisingly, to take responsibility for what was left of the company, assuming the burdens that in the past Astorre, or Marian, or he himself would have shouldered after such a disaster. It was Tobie who had to bring home to him that it would fall to Diniz and to Father Moriz in Bruges to plunge into the work of ransoming prisoners and caring for their families, the salvaging of horses and weapons, the nursing of the wounded, the final assessment of their losses. All of that would be done from the Bank’s house in Spangnaerts Street, Bruges, which was not his any longer, and where even his presence would have to be negotiated.

Although less bluntly expressed, the reminder had reduced Nicholas to silence. But when, reviving, he had demanded, grimly, at least the right to go and find Kathi, Tobie had lost patience, asking him scathingly just how fast he believed he could ride, and why Kathi should be left in suspense because of his sensibilities. And he had reminded him, more to the point, that his own wife was in Ghent. So in the end, Diniz went off to Bruges, which was correct, since he was the head of the Bank there; and after two days, Nicholas got himself mounted and rode carefully north, with Julius and Tobie, to Ghent.

Because he was sick, they did not speak to him very much on the journey. Or it was truer to say that Tobie imposed the embargo which kept Julius, with his bursts of anger and misery, apart from where Nicholas rested or rode. The truth was that no one could bear, yet, to talk about what had happened, while there was nothing else worthy of speech.

From time to time, Nicholas thought about Gelis. But this, his return to her, which should have been swift and thankful and joyous, had only a
personal significance, compared with the tragedy that was crushing them all. His soul was ripped raw, and the pain was continuous. His mind flinched, again and again, thinking of Kathi.

It had not occurred to him that Gelis might not have waited in Ghent, or that he himself, calling at the palace of Ten Walle, would be hurried into the Duchess’s presence, heart-sick and infirm as he was, to report on what he had seen. For, despite the tolling bells, the city enveloped in black, Charles of Burgundy’s widow had not yet accepted his death. He might be wounded; a prisoner; fled to some distant spot from which, one day, a courier would come flying. ‘Where is my wealth, my kingdom, my empire-to-be?
Je l’ay emprins:
I have dared. I mean to come back and dare once again.’

The Duchess — now the Duchesse Mère — had heard of the Commanderie of St John, and the stream. He spared her the details, telling only of the loss of helmet and horse, so that the Duke rode unrecognised save for his sash. He told of the sash he had seen in the pool.

‘But it may have been another man’s,’ said Margaret of York. ‘It may have been retrieved and worn by its owner.’

‘It is possible, my lady Duchess,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I believe there were other signs.’

He was dismissed, with a purse of gold. He did not see the new ruler of Burgundy: the Duke’s young, betrothed daughter, who would not believe, either, that her father was dead.

Louis of France believed it. The recapture of Nancy was known to him inside four days; the report of the Duke’s death in five. The King had tried, for form’s sake, to conceal his transports of joy. Then he had called in his captains from Toul, and ordered the armies of France to invade Artois, Picardy and the two Burgundies. For now, after all, there were only fifteen hundred battle-weary survivors to face.

Ghent shook with the impact of it all: the streets, the courts of the palace were screaming with new reports and fresh rumours. Nicholas forced his way, deaf, through it all. Such information didn’t matter to him. It was for the men who still owned a shaken Bank, and a broken army, and had to try to do something with both. He would lay his own plans. The childish outburst in Metz was behind him, and the illusion that had followed. A thinking man keeps his own counsel.
Don’t try to piss your woes over me
.

Nicholas left the palace, therefore, blank-minded; stumbling; and joined Julius and Tobie, his keepers. ‘And now, bed,’ Tobie said. They still possessed the use of Adorne’s house.

‘And now, Anna,’ Julius said.

Nicholas stared at him. Tobie, he was aware, was doing the same. Anna, the vengeful, the deceitful, the sensuous, insinuating Delilah, had
gone from his mind. He said, ‘What are you going to do? Whatever it is, you don’t need us.’

‘I need you,’ Julius said. ‘The Duke has gone. The law courts may not even meet. You and Gelis were Anna’s chief victims. Unless you insist, no one may trouble to deal with her now.’

He was probably right. Nicholas said, ‘But I don’t want revenge. I told you so. You must reach some sort of decision yourself. I’d say, turn her off, and forget her.’

‘A would-be murderess?’ Julius said.

‘Well, what can she do, with no money or standing? Give her a pension and send her abroad. Madeira’s a good place,’ Nicholas said.

It should have been enough. It seemed incredible that Julius should persist, as he did, until Nicholas grew sick of arguing, and rounded on him. ‘Look. Go and see her alone. Tell her what you’ve decided. For all I know, she may think exile worse than waiting for months to be tried. Then go and tell the authorities.’ He paused. Then he said shortly, ‘And take a weapon. She’s dangerous.’

They looked at one another. Julius said, ‘At least, come to the house. At least, be there if I need you.’

Nicholas agreed. He felt mortally weary. He heard Tobie proposing to come and keep him company. Thank you, Tobie. Once it had all mattered so much, and now it didn’t. He said to Tobie, just before they left for the Hôtel Gruuthuse, ‘Gelis and Jodi are in Bruges. I have to see them. Even if the Bank won’t let me into the house.’

‘I know,’ Tobie said. ‘So does Julius. But you made Anna your business. You owe it to Julius to help him finish it. And nobody’s rushing to Bruges in one day. You want to be fresh when you get there. If things go well, I’ll set out with you tomorrow.’

T
HE
CHAMBER
WHERE
Anna von Hanseyck was secured was pleasant and large, and not obviously a place of confinement, except for the locked door and the bars on the windows. Marguerite van Borselen, having taken Julius there, returned to talk softly to Nicholas and Tobie in her parlour. She commiserated with them both over their losses, and what they had been through at Nancy. Louis had been devastated. She did not know what they were going to do.

She was too kind to suggest that one of the things they might have to do was cease guarding this woman. But that would be settled today. Either Anna would accept Julius’s terms, or she would be taken to justice. Nicholas said to his wife’s cousin, ‘And have you heard something from Bruges?’

‘From Gelis? Of course! You know how silent she is, when her feelings
are touched. But she waits for you, minute by minute. The child also.’

‘And Katelijne Sersanders?’ Nicholas said.

‘Ah, that is sad,’ his hostess said, with warm sympathy. ‘Of course, she is surrounded by family, friends; she is very much loved. She has the children. But it was a strange little marriage, in its way: people look forward to her next choice.’

Nicholas said, ‘That was her choice. She will not make another.’ He would not have said it, except that he was in no doubt, and others ought to recognise it as well. He was torn between thinking of Kathi, and wondering what was passing between Anna and Julius. He didn’t know enough about their feelings for each other. He had always suspected them to be tepid, since it had been, in a sense, an arranged marriage. Julius’s vanity had been engaged, and he was man enough to respond to her calculated, experienced lovemaking, although it would never play a large part in his life. Driven by wounded pride, nevertheless, he might go to the most unwise of extremes.

On the other hand, Anna was strong enough to check anything that would frustrate her intentions. With her emotions frozen since childhood, she prized, Nicholas thought, her indifference to men, and the ease with which she could rouse them. Then she had practised the same arts with himself and had failed; but not because he did not want her, or believed her craving assumed. He had felt, even earlier than she did, the signs of something deep-settled between them. He would not let it happen, that was all. And that, she could not endure.

It meant that she would not forgive; that she would make him pay so long as it lay in her power. It meant that she did not care for her own life or her own future. She had none, and she knew it. So he was not surprised when the manservant came to ask if M. de Fleury would object to joining the Gräfin and her husband in the locked room. He apologised for the precautions. Needless to say, Tobie came, too.

Adelina sat in the light by the window. She looked the way Tobie said his grandfather had looked at Montello: fresh and well groomed and aware. She was, after all, Thibault’s daughter. Her hair, brushed and loose, was the colour of a ducat seen through red glass. She was smiling. ‘I am being sent into exile on a pittance. Your idea?’

Nicholas seated himself on the bed-step. ‘I could have asked for your life, but I didn’t. This is between you and Julius.’

‘I don’t mind being hanged by my loving family,’ said Adelina. ‘I do object to being relegated to tedium because you are too terrified of your own conscience to act. What else should I have done to strike a spark from you? Killed your disgusting friend Ludovico da Bologna as well as Ochoa? I did give away Karaï Mirza: I trust he is dead. And I am sure the
Greek died a noble death in your place: that was a mistake I do regret.’ She was flushed. He had expected measured refutations, and possibly threats. He had underestimated her. She had never been interested in saving herself: only in punishing him.