Niccolo Rising (86 page)

She had been sitting on the window seat, and she was fully clothed also. So he introduced the subject himself. “I’ve just heard. About the cannon.”

She had taken off her daytime headdress, and her hair was pinned, loosely coiled, at her neck. Her gowns now were lighter and prettier than those she used to wear for business. This one had brocade sleeves with glints of gold about them, and she was wearing a long string of fine pearls. She rose from the cushion and walked forward a little, saying, “I was waiting to tell you. Where did you find out? At Anselm Adorne’s?”

She didn’t say, as Adorne had done, “The sinking at Damme had nothing to do with it.”

He closed the door, while he thought. Then he said, “Yes. And about Kilmirren.”

She nodded. She was standing before the little table with her hands lightly clasped in front of her, looking at him. She had an open face, clear-skinned, with particularly bright blue eyes, which he had learned to read quite well. He said, “What has happened?”

She rarely stood perfectly still, like this. Her face was a little drawn. She said, “I heard another small piece of news. All France, it seems, is talking about the downfall of the vicomte de Ribérac.”

Jordan de Ribérac. A pain ran through his cheek, as though the ring had scored it again. He cleared his throat and said again, “What has happened?”

Marian de Charetty said, “It seems he had been caught trafficking with the Dauphin. The King was very angry. M. de Ribérac has lost, of course, all he had. Land, houses, money, all his possessions.”

Nicholas said, “What is going to become of him?”

And Marian said, “I imagine he’ll be locked in the dungeons at Loches. Perhaps they’ll put him in the cage. Perhaps they’ll behead him at once. Did you arrange that as well?”

He realised how stupid it was, simply standing staring at her. He said, “I expect so.” With a great effort he said, “Marian,
what has happened
?”

And she said, “You chose some very astute new men for the
company. The doctor, Tobias, has been to see me. He and Julius and Gregorio have been troubled about the future of the business. So they decided, quite rightly, to place their doubts before me and ask my opinion.”

“Tobie,” he said.

“Yes. And Goro. And our good Julius. I thought you were fond of them, and they of you,” said Marian his wife. “But now, they’re afraid of you.”

A large sigh stretched his chest, and he got rid of it. It left an ache behind, as bad as a blow. Nicholas said, “You don’t need to be afraid of me. Ask me anything you like, and I’ll tell you. Will you sit? On the settle, and I’ll sit over here. But some wine, first. Will you let me give you some wine?”

She sat, nodding. When he took her the cup, the wine in it trembled, but whether from his hand or hers no one could have known. He saw it, and thought of the pink goblet in the grasp of Astorre and Lionetto. He was cold with fear. He had been, for weeks.

While she drank, he chose the bedside stool to sit on, elbows on knees, laced hands pushed into his lips. Then he dropped his hands and said, “Will you tell me what Tobie said?”

It was about Jaak de Fleury and Lionetto, as he had expected. They had pieced it all together remarkably well. And, of course, Marian herself could match it with her own knowledge. Of his dealings with the Dauphin, for instance. They didn’t know that he and Gaston had tried first to bribe de Fleury to the Dauphin’s side and failed, but that of course had had no effect on the final issue.

And they didn’t know, either, about Jordan de Ribérac. Only Marian and the van Borselen girls knew of the war between himself and de Ribérac. Marian had guessed that the vicomte’s downfall might owe something to him, but she couldn’t know how it had been done. Katelina was in Brittany, and he had been careful to ask no one about her. Gelis would say nothing, for her sister’s sake. And Felix, who could have been curious about that last meeting in Ghent, was, of course, dead.

What had spurred Tobie to come to the demoiselle had, in the end, been the news of the death of the Scots king. Telling of it, Marian paused, as she had often paused during the long recital, but he had made no comment yet. She resumed, speaking quite steadily. “Up till then, you see, they had assumed that, whatever you’d done, it was nothing that need concern anyone else. They thought it was finished. They were only concerned about the future. But there was the gun.”

Then, for the first time, Nicholas spoke. He said, “I didn’t even mean to be in the lighter when it went through the lock. It was pure chance that someone asked us to help with the Duke’s bath and Julius and … and Julius agreed.” He stopped. He said, “If I hadn’t gone, I shouldn’t have met any of them.”

He was talking to himself, really, not to her. After a moment she said, “I suppose you knew that the soaking couldn’t possibly affect the gun’s performance. People may still say that you might not have known; that you hoped it would do just what it did. Tobie, I think is not quite sure. But discussing it, Julius and Gregorio came to realise something else much more likely. By sinking the cannon, you delayed its arrival in Scotland. And if that was deliberate, if you were hired to do it, then you are concerned with matters which could not, after all, be kept amongst ourselves.”

She paused. “You were a boy when it happened. People thought nothing of it. But even mischief begins to look sinister when, later, other connections are made. Because Scotland was supporting the Lancastrians, the absence of the gun was an advantage to the opposite side. The Dauphin, the Duke of Milan, Bishop Coppini, King Ferrante in Naples, Arnolfini and the English Governor – all these are people who oppose the King of France and the Lancastrians, and you have been involved in some way with all of them. And once people notice such things, it must seem that you are not only spying for merchants, it must seem that you are a political informer as well.”

Nicholas said, “The vicomte de Ribérac was on the Dauphin’s side.”

“But,” said Marian, “you had overwhelming reasons, hadn’t you, for punishing him? And then, once word gets about that you are not what you seem, that you’re not to be trusted, people will begin to imagine things. About the dismissal of old employees and the taking on of new ones, all of your choice. About … your marriage, of course. About, they might say, the way you kept Felix involved in escapades, and away from anything prestigious or responsible … and the way he died.”

Her voice broke off, then. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see her crying. He said, “I wish I were Felix. I told him that, once, in Milan.” His elbows still on his knees, he found himself slowly rubbing his face, as if pressing in some miraculous, analgesic ointment. Then he remained, his nose deadened between his two hands, his closed eyes spanned by his fingers. Then he said, “And what was Tobie’s conclusion?”

This time, the silence lasted so long that he did, in the end, open his eyes and look at her. She had been crying, but only a little. She had been waiting for him, that was all.

She said, “He said they had talked about it all day. They couldn’t reach a conclusion until they knew what I thought.”

“And what is your conclusion?” he said. This time, he couldn’t read her expression.

She said, “I knew about de Ribérac, which the doctor didn’t. I knew a number of other things, Nicholas, which he didn’t. But I also had a great advantage. I knew how you really felt about us. About Julius. About Felix. And, I think, about me.”

“So?” he said. His teeth wanted to chatter.

“So I confirmed what was, in the end, his own view, I think,” Marian said. “I told him that you were the truest, most loyal friend he or anyone else was likely to have. That nearly all that you had done had been done for the company, and not for any political reasons. That you had put Felix and the training of Felix above everything else, and that he would never have become more than a child but for you. But I told him, too, that you would have to be watched day and night because you had gifts more dangerous than Meg, or Martha, or any weapon of war yet invented. And you didn’t know yet how to control them.”

His throat closed. He couldn’t answer her.

Then she said, “I told him that. I thought if he knew that, he deserved to know everything. So I also told him who you are.”

“They spent the night apart,” said Julius.

“Oh?” said Tobie. All anyone could see of Tobie was the rump of his black gown as he knelt on an office stool, peering out of the window.

Julius said, “So why not tell us what happened? Come on. You saw the demoiselle. You told her everything. What did she say?”

“I told you,” said Tobie. He sounded angry. “She wanted to speak to Nicholas first. Then she’ll see me after the service. Then I can tell you.”

Julius said, “But if they spent the night apart …”

Gregorio said, “There might have been all sorts of reasons for that. We might as well wait till Tobie can tell us. Anyway, if he knew anything he wouldn’t be hanging out of the window to see if they go off to Notre Dame together.”

Tobie’s rump remained uncommunicative. Then it jerked. “They’re going!” he said.

Julius bounded to the next window and threw open a shutter. Below, indeed, was a group of well-groomed servants in the Charetty livery, Loppe towering head and shoulders over the rest. His face was expressionless, which Julius had learned to recognise as a bad sign. There were also two horses. Marian de Charetty, in a white headdress and a dark cloak, was already mounted, and, as he watched, Nicholas came out and turned to his stirrup.

Julius came away from the window rather abruptly. Tobie, he saw, had done the same. Tobie said, “It isn’t all that amusing, is it, when you see the effects?”

Gregorio, walking quietly to the window, looked out as well. He said, “They would have to go anyway, to keep up appearances in front of their friends.”

Julius said, “And not only their friends. The noble Simon of Kilmirren will be among the Scots mourners.”

Tobie pulled his hat off. “How d’you know that?” he said.

Julius made a wry face. “Because I pick the right clients,” he said. “Liddell. Secretary of Bishop Kennedy and tutor to the small Scottish prince. They’re all staying at the lord of Veere’s house, and I went there
for a signature yesterday. Liddell told me Simon had come for the Mass. Brought his wife, too.”

Gregorio said, “I remember. At the time of the White Bear tournament. My lord Simon was escorting the sister of Reid, the Staple merchant. Muriella, her name was.”

“And no doubt still is,” said Julius. “But that’s not the lady he married. Simon’s been married for nearly four months to Katelina van Borselen. I saw her. Very pregnant.”

“
Very
pregnant?” said Tobie.

“As I say. I would reckon,” said Julius cheerfully, “that Simon got there about four weeks before the priest did. He’s delighted, says Liddell. Been trying to get children, as we all know, for years. What was that girl’s name?”

“Muriella,” said Gregorio drily.

“No,” said Tobie. “The one he’s thinking of was called Mabelie. Oh, Jesus Christ. Nicholas. He doesn’t know Simon’s married?”

“No,” said Julius, sobering suddenly. “I should have warned him, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should,” said Tobie grimly.

Delight was, indeed, the mood of Simon of Kilmirren these days. Waiting while his wife’s servants dressed her to go to Notre Dame, he felt hardly any impatience. He was almost sorry that her train was as long as it was. Swept about and held bunched to her breast as the fashion now was, it hid the rounded, rich swell of her belly.

In which kicked his child. The heir to Kilmirren, now that his father was surely done for, and his wretched miser of an uncle had met his end at last. Kilmirren was his, and the title was almost his, and in due course would pass down to the child.

Katelina was sensitive about the size of the child. Simon didn’t mind. After all her maidenly protestations in Silver Straete, he had been surprised at first when he had discovered the sort of welcome he was being drawn into in Brittany. On reflection, he quite understood it. The lady Katelina van Borselen was starved for elegant company, and courting, and expert dalliance.

He brought out, that first evening in Brittany, his handsomest doublet, cut short to the waist in the French style, exposing silk-covered haunch and fine codpiece. For the silk, he had chosen his shapeliest hose in two colours, embroidered from knee to thigh with spiralling roses. It was as if contrite angels had remodelled, for him alone, that humiliating episode in the smoke-ridden garden. What Bruges had denied him, Brittany now gave with both hands on that first night. In the drowsy company after the meal, close by Katelina, he had filled her glass over and over, introducing one by one the invisible, critical caresses, the hints of desire in his murmuring, until he saw that the moment was coming already.

The Duchess had no objection to his leading the lady Katelina to take the air in the warm moonlit garden. This time Katelina’s trembling fingers were already deliciously wooing him as he moved down the steps from the house, and the last of the lamplight from its windows showed him the anxiety in her face. Then they were alone in the bower, and no man knew the art of forcing anxiety to the point of anguished exultation better than Simon of Kilmirren.

In a fortnight, she had suspected she was pregnant. Half reluctantly, he had heard her frightened appeals, and had married her. Only half reluctantly, because already he could not have enough of her. When the pregnancy was later confirmed, his cup was full.

He didn’t mind who saw that he had fathered a child before marriage on Katelina van Borselen. He would give her one a year. Day and night, he would give her reason for one. She was, now, the way he spent his time.

The church of Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk, when they got there, was shrouded in black and already filled, except for the chief mourners. The Duke’s representatives waited at the door for the party from the house of Veere. The Duke whose niece, Mary of Guelders, was now Dowager Queen of Scotland.

The Princess Mary walked first, led by her father-in-law Henry van Borselen, comte de Grandpré, seigneur de la Veere, Vlissingue, Westcapelle and Domburg, together with his wife Jeanne de Halewyn. Next came the Princess’s husband Wolfaert van Borselen and the Scots Bishop James Kennedy. Between Wolfaert and the Bishop walked the two children: Alexander Duke of Albany, middle son of the late Scots king, and Charles van Borselen, his nine-year-old cousin.