Caprice and Rondo (105 page)

Julius said, ‘I don’t want to hear any more. You said you had to tell Nicholas something.’ It sounded commanding, but in fact he looked devastated, standing with his injured arm by the fire. He had been informed about Anna. He had not, until now, heard it all from her lips.

‘I wanted to tell you both something,’ Adelina said. Lying back, smoothing the chain of her pendant, she was the opposite of disturbed. She was, Nicholas thought, deliberately reminding Julius and himself of her physical beauty. Tobie, leaning against the post of the bed, gave a snort.

Julius said, ‘What is there left that we don’t know? You deceived me, and you deceived Nicholas. I’m only surprised that you didn’t try to deceive me with him.’

Nicholas shut his eyes and opened them again. By now, he ought to know what Julius was like. He decided he had better say something. He said, ‘She made a brave try, but had to make do in the end with Squarciafico. Others, too. But Squarciafico spent half his time in the house.’

‘Did you know?’ Anna was amused. ‘A vigorous man, my dear Julius, but insanely jealous. His men gave Nicholas a hard time at Soldaia before I contrived to contain and then reverse the damage. Are you glad, Nicholas?’

‘Because you wanted to preserve me for the gold? Well, naturally, I was glad,’ Nicholas said. ‘The gold was my carefully planned life insurance. You believed in it. I was lucky I wasn’t dealing with Julius.’

The pendant dropped from her fingers. ‘Julius!’ Adelina said. ‘You think my poor cuckolded Julius is
intelligent?
’

Nicholas gazed at her. ‘He’s here and free, and you’re not.’

On the surface, she had calmed. ‘That is true. But then, what has he achieved, compared with me? His objective was to become wealthy, and he is poor. Mine was to remind you of the sins of your childhood, and to compel you to regret them.’

‘You did quite well,’ Nicholas acknowledged politely. He kept his voice steady.

‘I think so too. But the
coup de grâce
is still to come. You are very sad, I hear, that your captain and half the Charetty company are dead? This proud little army confided to you by your first wife? How extraordinary,’ said Adelina. ‘You wouldn’t have me, but you forced yourself to take an old woman, provided it brought you her business.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, and got up. She raised her voice, and went on. She was smiling.

‘And what was she like, when put to her business?’ said Adelina. ‘A little stiff, and prone to wheeze, but — I am sure — most eagerly grateful. And she knew that to keep such a splendid young stallion, she must spare him more ridicule, if she could. She had the sense, at least, not to complain when, using her in your virile way famed among kitchenmaids, you generously got her with child.’

‘She’s lying,’ said Tobie. ‘Come.’

‘
Are
you lying?’ Julius said. ‘How do you know?’

‘Anyone going to Dijon can find out,’ said Adelina. ‘If they know whom to ask, and are sufficiently convincing, and will swear themselves humbly to secrecy. You have a daughter, Nicholas. Are you not pleased? Her name is Bonne.’

The room had become very cold. Nicholas sat. Tobie put his hand on his shoulder. Julius said loudly, ‘Bonne is too young.’

Adelina’s voice said, ‘Bonne is two years older than I told you she was.’

‘But she is yours,’ Julius said. ‘Yours and the Graf’s.’

‘He adopted her,’ Adelina said. ‘He was extremely anxious to marry me. He did not care who I was, or what story was told. And he knew I couldn’t sully his line, because I was barren.’ Her gaze rested on Nicholas, although she spoke to her husband. ‘You don’t know what Jaak de Fleury did to me. Nicholas could tell you. What Jaak did to me was to ensure that I could never carry a child.’ She smiled, still looking at Nicholas. ‘Bonne is Marian de Charetty’s daughter, by you.’

He steadied then, finding his voice, and causing Tobie’s hand to move aside. Nicholas said, ‘Can you prove it?’

‘I don’t need to,’ Adelina said. ‘You have to prove it untrue.’

Her eyes were glowing, her shoulders straight under the fall of glorious hair. Nicholas stood, and met her gaze, and said, ‘I think that is enough. The rest is for Julius.’

‘You are running away?’ Adelina said. ‘She died in a foreign land, for your sake. An old woman, she set out on a journey knowing that she would give birth alone, and that you need never know what had happened — even if she died, as she did.’

Nicholas walked to the door and turned. Tobie had already opened it. Nicholas said, ‘If it is true, I ought to know, and I am glad you have told me. If it is false, I shall find out soon enough. I don’t think, in leaving you, I am running away. I see nothing in you that I can harm or help any more.’

She did not answer, but he could feel her gaze on the door as he closed it, while the voice of Julius battered at her attention.
‘You promised me children …!’
And then, darkening, ‘So you could sleep with anyone, couldn’t you?
Anyone!
’

Tobie said quietly, ‘You didn’t know about Marian?’

‘I don’t know even yet,’ Nicholas said. They had stopped outside the parlour.

‘But you guessed Anna would goad Julius as well.’ It wasn’t an accusation, or a piece of anxious self-questioning, or a dawning conviction. It sounded helpless.

‘I didn’t want to come,’ Nicholas said. He paused and said, ‘If you think it right, you can go back to their room.’

There was a long pause. Then Tobie said, ‘No.’

They took leave of their hostess and returned to the house of Adorne, where there was nothing to do. Tobie found a book and sat, seldom turning the pages. Nicholas went briefly to his room, but reappeared to sink into a chair before the handsome Sersanders fireplace. He did not speak. His sombre presence, indeed, seemed to have no purpose at all unless it was to wait out the night along with Tobie. It also demonstrated that, whatever happened, he was not taking it lightly. Whatever happened. Whatever he was allowing to happen.

The news came before dawn, with a hurried, ill-written note from Marguerite van Borselen at the Hôtel Gruuthuse. Mixed with the horror it conveyed was an apology: she and her husband had, after all, been warders of the young woman. Mixed with the apology was a grain of thankfulness: an awkward problem had been solved. Yet who would imagine that, after all these weeks, the Gräfin von Hanseyck would do such a thing?

Certainly, she had been distressed by the interview with her husband. Faced with his revulsion, reminded again of the public ignominy that lay ahead, she had been overcome, it was clear, with despair. Left alone for the merest moment, she had taken her tragic decision. By her own hand, Anna von Hanseyck was dead.

Tobie had leaped to his feet, but the messenger, a man of Marguerite’s own, had restrained him. ‘I was to tell you, Master Tobias, not to come. The lady is alas beyond help, and her husband has said he does not want company. My lord the Governor will see to all that has to be done, and Master Julius will continue to stay with him meanwhile. My lady’s advice is that M. de Fleury should go to Bruges, to her cousin his wife.’

By then, Nicholas was on his feet also, his face gaunt as it had been all night. In reply to Tobie’s glance, he made a voiceless sign of agreement and walked away, while Tobie sent off the man with a note and a coin. Then the doctor went and poured two cups of wine. ‘Justice,’ he said.

‘I don’t know if it was justice,’ Nicholas said. He had again dropped into a seat, his fist to his mouth. He removed his hand. ‘It curtailed the damage, I suppose.’

Tobie gave him his wine. ‘
Did
she take her own life?’ he said plainly.

‘I don’t know. Probably. He probably gave her the dagger. Oh Christ, Julius,’ Nicholas said. It was a cry, in a whisper.

‘He’ll get over it.’

Nicholas thought. He gave a laugh which had exasperation in it, as well as pity and anger. ‘In fact, you’re right. More than anyone, he probably will.’

‘And you?’ Tobie asked.

Nicholas rocked his cup, watching it. ‘She was graceful, beautiful, clever. We spent a long time together, much of it happy. It was hard sometimes to remember that she couldn’t be trusted. She had a sense of fun; she could be understanding, when she wanted to be. She was deeply musical, I discovered. But of course, she used it all for her own purposes.’

‘To hurt,’ Tobie said.

‘She had been hurt,’ Nicholas said. Then he said, ‘Bonne.’

Tobie said, ‘She’s in a convent. Father Moriz keeps in touch with her, and will tell her the Gräfin is dead. But I suspect Julius will not want to be responsible for her now.’

‘No. I shall. I shall have to look into it all. Is it possible?’ Nicholas said. He had not yet tasted his wine.

‘It is possible that your wife had a child. It has still to be proved that Bonne is that child,’ Tobie said.

‘I have to tell Gelis,’ Nicholas said to the air.

Tobie hesitated. Then he said, ‘Gelis made a journey to Dijon, while you were away.’ He did not drop his pale gaze.

Nicholas said, ‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘Because, unlike Adelina, Gelis is someone who does not want to hurt you, these days,’ Tobie said. ‘But you must have found that out, by now. Will you stay at Spangnaerts Street?’

‘Not if it disturbs anyone,’ Nicholas said.

‘Oh, I think you should get a night out of them,’ Tobie said ironically. ‘You go to Adorne’s, and I’ll ask.’

A
S
HAD
BEEN
SAID
, Katelijne Sersanders in her loss was surrounded by family and friends, and very much loved. The blow of her bereavement would also be softened, you would think, by the extent of a disaster which had made of her one of thousands of widows, and changed for ever the land she was reared in. She was even thought to be fortunate, being young, with no more than a short married life to grieve over. She was aware of all that. She could not say that, in those weeks of isolation and terror, her heart had been in Lorraine with two men, not one. Or her heart aching for one, and her spirit in bond to the other.

Diniz had brought the news of Robin’s death to her uncle’s house, and Nicholas’s wife had come with him. Adorne himself had ushered them into her room and had stayed, ever kind, ever gentle, while it was broken. Robin had died beside Nicholas, where he would have wanted to be. Nicholas was alive.

In Gelis’s face, telling her, there had been no room for relief, only wretchedness on Kathi’s behalf. It occurred to Kathi, incongruously, that she at least was spared the task of telling her children. They had loved Robin, but were too young to understand, or remember him. But of course, she would have to send and tell Archie.

There was no recognisable body. She knew there had been wolves. A funeral Mass would be held here, in the church.

Nicholas was going first to Ghent, but after that, would come here directly, with Tobie. Gelis said, ‘He will tell you everything.’ Then she had paused and said, ‘Be gentle. This will be one of the worst things that has happened to him, as well.’

So, living through the unreal days, Kathi waited.

H
E
DID
COME
to her first, riding alone to the Hôtel Jerusalem and speaking briefly to Adorne before Kathi was warned and he went, still alone, to see her in her chamber.

She had heard he was hurt, but had not known how much. He said, ‘I am so sorry.’ It came after a while, as if he had not really thought it necessary to speak. Anyone else might have added, defensively, ‘I did my best to protect him.’

She sat down, so that he could. ‘Was he happy?’ she said.

His expression altered. They talked together so seldom; sometimes she forgot, too, what it was like. He said, ‘Like Astorre. They were such fools.’

‘I know,’ she said. Then she said, ‘I made him happy, too.’

His face softened. He said, ‘Very few people have the life they deserve. Robin did, from beginning to end. You must be so thankful that you let him go.’

And no one else in the world would have said that. Until that moment, she had not wept.

After a while, he came to her and held her closely and quietly, as if he were comforting a young brother. Then, when it was over, he moved about, awkwardly, and found them both some wine, and would not drink until she did. Then they talked.

It was not much about Robin, or the fighting. It was about her uncle, and the fear for the future that was beginning to stalk Bruges, and Ghent. The future with an exhausted treasury, and no army, and France already
inside the barriers. The future, with a girl ruling, betrothed to the son of a German Emperor, while the duchy lay disconnected, its separate parts warring against one another, its rich towns fearful for their independence and resentful of those who, like Adorne, like Gruuthuse, like Hugonet, had helped to raise armies and taxes, steadily holding a course which might pacify the Duke, and yet reserve to the towns some of the sovereignty that they craved.

The foreign merchants were uneasy. Already, there was a move to leave Bruges. Kathi made a small noise of commiseration. ‘Poor Tommaso. He was so angry with Uncle, when all he got for the loss of the
San Matteo
was a soothing letter from Callimaco offering friendship, and promising to do his best to extract his ship and its cargo from Danzig. It hardly seems to matter now, except that it must have worsened his debts. He lent the Duke far too much.’

Then Nicholas had said, ‘What will you do?’

‘I can’t tell yet. It depends on my uncle. Stay as long as he needs me, in the first place. And you?’

‘If I am allowed, find a house and wait until spring, when David de Salmeton is due to come back. After that, it depends on other people.’

Kathi said, ‘After all that has happened? My uncle is not going to send you away. And so far, you have not been rejected, it seems to me, by the others.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But a long stay might be different.’

She could hear the change in his voice. She said, ‘You haven’t spoken of Anna. Adelina. You saw her in Ghent?’

‘Yes. I didn’t want to … You will hear soon enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘She was offered exile, but had the spirit to boast, in the end, of all she did, so that she would be sure to die. Then she did it in her own way, with a knife. She is dead. Julius was there. He is still there. Gruuthuse is dealing with it.’