Caprice and Rondo (36 page)

What have you done!
Night, and an icy river outside Berecrofts, and an old woman’s voice flinging the same bitter words at him over the still body of someone else who did not deserve to die. If there was justice, this was justice. Nicholas looked at the beautiful woman Julius had married and replied, ‘I have killed him.’ Then the violet eyes turned from him and she walked slowly to where her husband lay, the slanting eyes closed, the shapely limbs slack, and the careless, life-loving spring of wilful enjoyment all stopped.

Nicholas found that Adorne was standing beside him. Adorne said, ‘I have spoken to those who saw it. It is not your fault. I am sorry.’ He paused. ‘You suspected there would be an accident to the awning? You said something of it.’

He had more than suspected; he had known. Jelita’s masters had made sure of that. Poland disliked Genoa and dared not offend Venice, but there were limits.

Nicholas said, ‘It will be hard to find the truth, now that the archer is dead. You were not hurt? Robin and Kathi?’

‘Are also unharmed. I would not have spoken to you as I have,’ said Adorne unexpectedly, ‘if you had been the worse for wine. But no man in his cups could have made those hoof-shots as you did. Your friend did not lose his life through your failings, but from mischance.’

The rain fell. Nicholas, finding a stay from the mast at his side, ran his fingers along it and kept it. Adorne, after waiting a moment, moved off towards the little tableau around Julius’s still body. Nicholas shut his eyes. It was Anna’s voice he heard next, soft and clear above the beat of the rain. ‘Wait! Wait! He is breathing!’

Adorne said, ‘De Fleury? Are you there? He is alive!’

Nicholas heard him. Although his hearing persisted, his brain and his sight had become disconnected. His grip slackened. The cable rasped through his palm, and the ground tilted below him. He did not realise that he had fallen, and was lying, like Julius, in the mud.

I
T
WAS
GIVEN
TO
Robin to shepherd Nicholas home, once the field had been cleared and the fit of dizziness had sufficiently passed.

Glancing at him from time to time as they rode, his former squire made no attempt at conversation. He had already said all that was necessary: a quick assurance that Master Julius still lived; and a word to explain that Nicholas himself was to stay at Adorne’s house, to leave space for the sick man at Herr Straube’s.

‘Adorne wouldn’t wish that,’ Nicholas had said.

‘He suggested it,’ Robin had answered. That was all that had been said.

Robin was thankful for it, and guilty because he was thankful, with two-thirds of his mind singing with the news he had just heard. He thought of Kathi’s face, looking at his, and felt again a pang of mild anger at Anna’s thoughtlessness. It would mend itself, as soon as Kathi and he were alone. Meanwhile, it was easier to be here than in her company, and forced to be speechless. They were to have a child. He was to have the joy, all his life, of Kathi’s child.

Remorsefully, he looked again at the closed face beside him, but was too wise, now, to blurt out encouragement.
Now you have both of us
, he had said, brashly, to this man by the river at Trèves, and had seen Kathi’s glance of warning too late. For what had happened today, he had no comfort to offer. He had never had such an experience, although he knew it could happen in battle: the spurting arrow, the gaudy sword-stroke that severed the life of a friend. It was probable that Julius would not survive. Of course, there would be no recriminations. Everyone had seen the horse stumble. Everyone knew how long the two men had been together, in Bruges and then with the Bank. Robin grieved for Nicholas, without knowing what to say that would help.

It meant, of course, profound changes even if Julius survived. Julius could not now go to the Black Sea and Caffa. Nicholas might well stay in Thorn and work out his penance by presenting his talents to his company. And of course, there were other plans now overturned that he had scarcely as yet had time to think of. Kathi’s uncle was returning not just to Danzig, but to Flanders. And the offer so lightly made by his niece was no longer valid. Robin and Kathi would not now be calling at Caffa, or taking Lord Cortachy’s place at Tabriz. Kathi would return home with her uncle, and Robin with her, to await the …

His horse jerked, and Robin hissed under his breath and then steadied it. Something had dawned on him. Kathi had known she was pregnant when she had made the offer to travel to Tabriz. She had wanted to go. And that was why she had not immediately told him.

Nicholas said, ‘Are you all right? Is Kathi all right? I’m sorry, I should have made sure.’

His face was still colourless, but not quite so closed. Robin took a quick decision and said, ‘She’s more than all right, sir. It has been a better day for us than for you. I have just heard the news: she’s with child.’

‘You’ve
just
heard?’ the other man said.

Robin, puzzled, remembered again what had annoyed him. He said, ‘Anna blurted it out. She’d guessed, which was more than I did. But we are so pleased.’

‘And so am I,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is what I would hope for you both. It doesn’t know how lucky it is.’

And Robin laughed, alight with joy. For he thought no one as lucky as he was, with the first child, hoped for by them both, on its way so painlessly and so soon. And he had been lucky to find in his wife a friend who had become increasingly his great and sole love, while keeping also, despite everything, his regard for this man who had shaped his young life.

Robin rode beside him in silence to the square, where grooms took their horses, and where he showed Nicholas watchfully into the house by the Artushof, there to surrender him into the hands of the house steward, who had already, it seemed, received his orders. The lord was recommended to accompany him to his room, and to rest there.

Obedient to the decree, Nicholas had paused to thank Robin, and to send a message to Kathi. He still looked and moved like a sleepwalker. Robin thought that Adorne had been kind in sparing him the need to face them all, for the moment, at any rate. Or perhaps Kathi had thought of it first.

At his side, the steward said, ‘I was to tell you, Pan Robin. The lady of Berecrofts is waiting for you.’

H
OURS
PASSED
. Awakening in an unfamiliar, candlelit room, Nicholas searched his memory for the reason, and found it. He also retrieved a vague recollection of drinking something which felled him with sleep. It had a familiar after-taste. Subsequent to that, evidently, he had been undressed and left covered in bed. But this time, there had been no voluptuous dreams.

The voice of Ludovico da Bologna broke upon his right eardrum. ‘Are you sick because you hit him, or because you missed him? Now you can come to Tabriz.’

Nicholas forked himself into a sitting position.

‘Just a pleasantry,’ the Patriarch said. ‘Certainly you are not wearing a hair shirt, I observe.’ The bulky figure in the uncertain light was demoniac; the pectoral cross thick as horse-armour. He had asked Callimaco to find the Patriarch for him, and here he was; when now there was no conceivable purpose in meeting.

Nicholas said, ‘It was an accident. How is Julius?’

‘Still alive,’ the Patriarch said. He lifted his cross on its chain and used it to rap Nicholas on the finger. ‘The little girl said you’d been divining, and she hadn’t even seen that. I hear you gave the Queen some excellent advice on how to rule Scotland. What a helpful person you are. And now you may multiply your good works and show penitence for your bad in one stroke. Come to Tabriz.’

‘I might have done,’ Nicholas said. ‘But surely not now. Not until Julius has recovered, if then.’

‘You would let his poor lady go to Caffa on her own?’ the Patriarch said.

‘Anna?’

‘They were both to have travelled there with young Berecrofts. Now Julius cannot go; nor can the boy and his wife. I myself must leave at once. But whatever the fate of the unlucky Julius, his wife must travel to Caffa as soon as she may. And what better reparation could marksman make to his target,’ the Patriarch said, ‘than to assume the protection and care of his wife?’ He waited, staring from under his brows. ‘God forgive me, are you sick for some reason? Shall I send for your man?’ His eyes mocked.

‘Why must she go?’ Nicholas said. It was an effort.

‘Business. She will tell you herself, if you propose to give yourself the trouble of calling tomorrow. If he is dead, I shall stay for the Mass. He deserves that much, poor fellow.’

He rose to go. Nicholas could think of nothing to say. The Patriarch said, ‘Make your mind up. It is overdue.’

The door shut. On the bed, Nicholas doubled up over tight-folded arms, and started to shiver.

J
ULIUS
WAS
STILL
ALIVE
the following morning. Nicholas crossed the square and was admitted by Straube’s servant, who took him up to the sickroom. A tapestry had been hung to keep out direct sunlight, and Anna’s face looked lily-white in the gloom. There was a physician by the bed, and a monk in an apron mixing something at a side table. The scene was an old one, threadbare in its familiarity: only the man in the bed —Godscalc, Zacco, Bessarion — seemed to change. Now the strong bare shoulders, the sunken face were those of Julius. His eyes were open.
Anna rose and, taking Nicholas by the hand, brought him round to the bed. She said, ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I was too shocked to think.’ (
What have you done?
)

‘Well, you were right. I had shot him,’ Nicholas said. Below him, there took place, remarkably, a faint widening of the patient’s lips. ‘And not before time,’ Nicholas added, responding to it with a tentative smile of his own.

‘You were always a bloody bad shot,’ Julius said in a whisper. Then he shut his eyes, and the doctor signalled that he should go.

Anna followed him out, and he did not know whether to touch her or not. He said, ‘I am so very sorry. What do they say?’

Her eyes today were less violet than black, and stained underneath with her vigil. She said, ‘They are not sure, but there is hope. They say it will be a week before they can be sure. Will you stay until we know?’

‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘Did you think I would walk out?’

‘He jokes,’ she said, ‘but I know he would want it.’ She frowned. ‘We have taken your room.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. He had had an interview with Adorne, stiff and cold in the Artushof. The Burgundian party was leaving, and the Danzig merchants with it. If Pan Nikolás wished, he might take temporary occupation of one of their rooms, with a bed for his servant. Thorn wished him to stay; the Danzig merchants still had hopes of him. So had the King. Jelita had transferred his belongings already. Adorne, receiving his thanks, had made it clear that he proposed to maintain the distance between them. He had not seen either Kathi or Robin this morning, and the Patriarch had gone out.

To Anna, Nicholas said, ‘Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?’

She looked up at him. Then she said, ‘Later, perhaps. Nothing just now, Nicholas, except perhaps to pray. He must mean as much to you as he does to me — perhaps more. You have known each other for a long time.’

He left quickly, but Cailimaco caught him as he ran down the steps. ‘How is he?’ He listened. He said, ‘It was my bow. I feel as if I had killed him myself. You were not accustomed to it.’

‘I was perfectly used to it,’ Nicholas said. ‘And I was and am grateful. Whatever happened was none of your doing. But now, if I stay, my duty must be to Julius. I shall have to make my apologies to you and to the King and, I suppose, to Signor Zeno.’

‘He has gone,’ Cailimaco said. ‘Come in. You look as if a glass of wine might not come amiss. He has gone to Hungary, where they will knight him and make him great promises, which they will not carry out. But I think he knew you would not go to Tabriz.’

Nicholas followed the Italian into his house, and stood in the hall. He
said, ‘Who fired the shot that brought down the pavilion, and why? Zeno killed him.’

‘No one knows,’ the other man said. He pointed to a chair, and clapped his hands for a servant. ‘It was a murder attempt. The supports of the awning had been tampered with. It only required one shot by that bolt to bring it down.’

‘But against whom?’ Nicholas said. Now he had the wine, he wasn’t sure that he wanted it. He sat nursing the cup.

‘Who knows? Someone with a grudge against the elders of the town? Against the Burgundian party? Against the rich foreign merchants of the Artushof? They will investigate,’ Callimaco said, ‘but I doubt if anything will be found.’ His robes, as he took his seat, fell in graceful folds to the floor, and his fingers holding the wine were long and supple. He said, ‘I am more concerned over you. Will you talk about it?’

‘I made a mistake,’ Nicholas said. ‘I can, I think, draw the necessary conclusions without too much help. But I thank you.’

‘The sick man can recognise and heal his own ailment? It is possible. It is not what I meant. (You are not enjoying your wine?) We spoke of the fire-mountains of Iceland.’

‘You spoke of them,’ Nicholas said.

He was ignored. ‘You are acquainted with the natural sciences, with the phenomena of the earth and the mathematics of the stars. You have experienced different customs, different climates. You have been exposed to prophecy: you have lent yourself, through the art of the pendulum, to forces you do not understand …’

‘I brought—’

‘You brought my cameo. In my turn, I thank you, but I do not want it. You have made it yours. It obeys you.’

‘It is the other way round,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I didn’t come —’

‘You didn’t come for such questions, or to assuage your guilt or your grief. You came, I think, for what I was about to offer you. To discuss what has happened, and to place it in relation to other events.’

‘What has happened? The fall of the awning?’ He was being stubborn.

If he was being stubborn, the other man, this time, was being deliberately wilful. Callimaco said, ‘I dream of writing a book. I had hoped, if you had stayed, that you would discuss it with me. It would contain all the themes I have mentioned. It would provide a context for the event you have not described: the discovery that one has deprived a friend of his life.’