The Unicorn Hunt (14 page)

One wanted to think about that. She was interested. Herself, she was proud to see her uncle’s banner flying from one of the crowd of side-tents by the chapel of Our Lady, and to know that he and Jehan Metteneye and her brother would be breaking a lance for the town. Not for Burgundy, although it had to appear so. For the town.

She knew a lot about tournaments. Ghent, Lille, Brussels, Bruges-she had got herself taken to most of them, one way or another. Also, she had a good memory. It surprised the nuns that she knew so many people in Scotland. They forgot, perhaps, that all the merchants in Scotland visited Bruges at one time or another, and some of them settled there. Also, most people sooner or later had cause to come to the priory. Her uncle held his meetings with the town magistrates there. She had got him to tell her about them.

She wondered if it was true what they said about Crackbene and Ada. She thought it would be interesting to see, when the combatants took the field, what ladies’ favours they wore. It was a pity de Fleury the Bank wasn’t parading. Her brother had asked for a scarf of hers, on the advice of their uncle, no doubt. Perhaps Ada had offered Crackbene a napkin?

Will Roger said, ‘What are you sniggering about? Look at your music. We’re almost ready to start.’

In the Burgundian tent it was calm, but the turmoil outside – the uneven noise of the crowd, the squeal and clatter of arms, the stamping of horses – came through clearly enough, and in spite of the brazier Anselm Sersanders felt cold and a little sick, as he always did before fighting. Even when the weapons were bated, as now, a gentleman in the lists must still represent his people, must show all he has of skill and grace and courtesy and, if possible, must win.

Across the heads of the men who were attiring him, he caught his uncle’s swift smile and wished his armour were like that, well-fitting but not new, burnished but with the patina that came from many, many conflicts. They no longer used shields, but the Adorne chequer lay clearly embroidered across his uncle’s surcoat and on the strong, fringed furnishing of his horse. Within the visorless helm, the high cheekbones and long lines of the family face looked like a drawing on silver. And the scarf which fell to his shoulder was a royal one, given by the King’s younger sister, the lady Margaret.

Nicholas de Fleury’s voice said, ‘Yes, he looks very nice. So do you. Have you everything that you want?’

He leaned at the entrance to the tent, unarmed as the servants were, except for one exquisite dagger at the side of a sable-edged doublet. Sersanders couldn’t see what the jewel was today. Behind him stretched the green grass of the lists, all one hundred and fifty yards of it, and a third as wide. On one long side facing the Rock stood the mass of the common spectators, the source of a constant roar and a powerful smell of food and humanity.

Opposite them was the long pavilion for the Court. Beside that, on a platform, was the dummy unicorn with its dummy damsel, small in the distance; and smaller still, the choir of live maiden attendants, among whom his sister Katelijne was undoubtedly the liveliest. He caught the glitter of trumpets, preparing to lift.

Sersanders said, ‘I’ll tell you later if I have a complaint.’

‘Tell the good Knights of St John,’ de Fleury said. He seemed to have time on his hands. ‘I wouldn’t dare question the programme. My contribution was the unicorn. And I dressed one of the dwarves. You know your Dr Andreas is there if you need him? The lances are buttoned, but some of our friends are exceptionally good. I like the scarf.’ He was, unnervingly, using both dimples without actually smiling.

Whatever Nicholas de Fleury said, he had done rather more than dress a dwarf. Barring his uncle Adorne and himself, de Fleury must know more than anyone present about the protocol for a joust of mixed ranks. And the Burgundian party couldn’t be applied to: the tournament, after all, was in its honour.

You would think, therefore, de Fleury would be busy. Instead, he was intruding, deliberately intruding, where he was unwelcome. Sersanders said evenly, ‘The scarf? It’s Katelijne’s.’

‘Well, at least she didn’t give you a ball. The Medici would have hanged her. I suppose I should wish you good luck.’

‘Against Simon?’ said Sersanders briefly. ‘You’ll have to wait. That comes last, before the King takes on the winner and wins.’

‘You’ve done this before. No, I was wishing you enduring good health and fortitude. You could smack Crackbene for me, if you get the chance.’

‘I wonder why?’ Sersanders rejoined in the same tone. He was momentarily amused, amid his resentment.

‘You ought to know. Your sister’s in the same holy retreat,’ de Fleury said. The rebuke in his voice was a mockery. ‘And the King’s little sister, who didn’t really want to give her kerchief to your uncle, did she? Such a cold country: even the late Pope sired a son here; anything for comfort. Oh, listen. They’re going to start. Did I wish you good luck?’

The trumpets blew and the drums began. The waiting was over, and one Burgundian contestant was colder than ever. And angry.

‘Thank you,’ said Sersanders bitterly.

‘It comes with the service,’ said de Fleury, standing off from the doorway. He was already looking elsewhere. It had been an idle impulse, it was clear; arisen from God knew what wish for diversion. He went off and, rather surprisingly, joined a dark-haired young woman in green. Sersanders watched him, and then walked carefully outside to where his page stood by his stirrup.

Will Roger said, ‘Now, my darlings. And if you get the A right, I’ll kiss each one of you twice after supper.’

He liked training choirs. He liked it best, to tell the truth, when the voices came to him natural as they were born, welling out of big healthy bodies whose owners spent their days in the fresh air of the fields or the shore, and not bent double sewing in palaces. He had very little time for palaces. It was probably why he got on with young James so well. Everyone should remember his manners, but there was no need to crawl.

The well-born bitch with the simper was going to lose the beat again. Will Roger caught her eye, smiling, and rocked his head up and down. While a performance was in progress, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep them singing and happy. Strip and turn somersaults. Fuck them there on the stage, as they sang. He heard, with disbelief, that all the voices, ending, were coming together, at the right tempo, with the right tone, in the right notes, and they were articulating precisely as he had taught them.

Tears welled into his eyes. He loved them so much he could die for them.

Nicholas ran up the steps of the stand and found a place beside his rich landlord Berecrofts just as the parade of contestants began.
Will of Berecrofts, who had sharp enough sight for his years, noticed that de Fleury’s bonny young friend had moved off, in her turn, to the women’s enclosure. He knew who she was. So did most people there. He said, ‘As I was saying, I’m holding the price, but I’m no daft enough to wait on ye for aye. What did Hamilton think?’

The parade of contestants had begun, led by the King, with his two brothers riding behind under the banner of Scotland. Against a prodigious blaring and a loyal roar which seemed to contain some genuine affection, Nicholas shouted a reply. ‘I have to see him again. I’ll tell you by noon tomorrow.’

Berecrofts said, ‘I’ll sell if you don’t come. Dod, it’s purgatory on earth, all thon hooting and crying. I’d melt down the lot and mak’ jugs o’ them. Davie Lindsay’s no lookin’ sae weel.’ The first ranks of knights were riding in, two by two. Among them, white cross on black robes, were the Knights Hospitaller of St John, led by their Preceptor. ‘And Will Knollys is showing a belly. He’ll be fair put to it to harry a Turk if they call him to Rhodes. Seton’s got his auld harness out: he’ll hae tae get the rest back from pawn for the wedding. And are those your men-at-arms?’

‘There’s to be a mock fight,’ de Fleury said.

‘I ken, I ken. And Master Julius, weel set up as usual. And the banner of Burgundy. Now that’s what I call a feast for the een. Well horsed, well set up, well armed, the hale retinue. A fine-looking man, Master Anselm Adorne, and naebody’s fool in the council-chamber. He’s got a niece as mad as a peerie.’

‘She’s sitting down there, with the choir.’

‘Oh glory be, so she is, and them about to break into yowls any minute. And here’s the childer.’

There were twelve ponies in all, groomed and glistening with their riders straight-backed and white-faced within their miniature armour. They wore their fathers’ colours, and a page behind each carried a pennant. Nicholas de Fleury’s eyes had followed them in. He said, ‘Robin rides well.’

‘Aye, aye,’ said Berecrofts. He viewed his grandson, but didn’t put his thoughts into words. A good lad. A kind-hearted, well-mannered wee fellow. Unlike some. He said, ‘Will ye look at yon arrogant little bastard? He’ll drive his horse mad.’

‘He can ride,’ Nicholas said.

‘And wants us to know it. Silver armour on a child of that age! I suppose his father’ll be wearing the same. Two cockerels needing their necks wrung.’

De Fleury, watching the procession, didn’t trouble to answer,
thereby confirming an opinion William of Berecrofts had already formed. Nothing that happened in Bruges went unnoticed in Edinburgh, and the ill-will between vander Poele – now de Fleury – and the heir to Kilmirren was notorious.

And now they said the quarrel was over. Berecrofts supposed it might be. Wealth could heal many sores, including the canker of ignoble parentage. And for sure, since coming to Scotland, de Fleury had shown no hint of spite against Simon de St Pol or his father, even if he’d hardly bestirred himself to seek them. Instead he’d turned his hand to his own diverse concerns with unchancy efficiency and an edge of downright impatience which sometimes roused Berecrofts’s own temper. Nicholas de Fleury. Not a bairn you would trust at your back.

He pulled his thoughts away. The children had passed, and the landed gentry were advancing again. And foremost among them rode the child Henry’s father.

A sigh passed through the crowd.

Berecrofts gazed. Berecrofts stared. Berecrofts said, ‘Christ God, St Pol of Kilmirren … What farmyard could afford a cockerel such as that!’

Julius turned, hearing the same long hiss of surprise, and so did Archie Berecrofts the Younger, riding down the lists at his side. Comfortable about his own appearance and future performance, Julius was always willing to study the efforts of other people who were less travelled, and had no shares in the Banco di Niccolò.

At first his view was obscured by the file of plumes tossing behind him. Then he saw, entering the lists behind them all, the mounted figure which had drawn the audible tribute. Archie, who like his father had nothing wrong with his sight, said, ‘Christ God. Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren. Would you credit it?’

‘No,’ said Julius absently. They turned a corner and began to ride back up the long side of the lists, and he got a really good look.

The surcoat was Simon’s own, that was obvious. But it couldn’t hide what was beneath it. Unlike the King or his brother the Duke; unlike the handsomely clad and gallantly accoutred high nobles of Scotland, the heir to the lord of Kilmirren rode into the lists of Edinburgh that December day attired like an emperor. Attired in a carapace of a soft, flowing, powerful metal, engraved, damascened, embossed in silver and gold, with inserts of turquoise, of enamel, of mother of pearl such as had never been seen in the West; with cloth of gold edging and overlaying it and exquisite pinions of the rarest of birds falling from the jewelled spire of its helmet.

The glorious face within the helmet was both haughty and flushed, and the blue long-lashed gaze was directed ahead. Whatever fortune he had brought back from Africa, Simon de St Pol could not have found or paid for these arms. His purse stretched to silver, of the kind the brat Henry was wearing. Archie knew it, and all those folk in the stands. And behind them (Julius turned) the boy Henry’s hectic cheeks and bright, wary eyes told that he, also, was torn between doubts and bright pride. Young Berecrofts said, ‘What’s the man thinking of? Look at King Jamie.’

There was no need to look, but Julius did. He said, ‘I heard St Pol’d got two new suits.’

‘Silver. He did. Showy enough, but they’d thole it. Not this.’

‘What happened?’ said Julius. Simon passed on the opposite side, his arms and shoulders encrusted with light. Beyond him was the stand, with Nicholas seated beside Archie’s father. Archie’s father was talking and so was everyone else. Nicholas was watching the field and saying nothing at all so far as Julius could see.

‘What happened? Wha kens? The new armour got lost, and I expect he either had to borrow some or withdraw from the tournament. He asked me, but I didna have spares. He should have withdrawn.’

Julius supposed that he should. On the other hand, Simon was vain. He had tried to find something plainer, but perhaps had not tried very hard. Archie said, ‘But where in the name of the wee man did that armour come from?’

Julius had nothing against Archie or even his cantankerous father but, after all, they were provincials. He said, ‘Trebizond. It’s one of the ceremonial suits of the last Emperor, David.’ He didn’t mention that, pawned, it had helped save the Bank a few years before. He did add casually, ‘It belongs to Nicholas.’

‘De Fleury lent it to him?’

‘He must have done. I don’t suppose,’ said Julius virtuously, ‘that he wants much made of it. At least it lets Simon take part.’ He couldn’t imagine why Nicholas had done such a thing, any more than he could work out why Nicholas wasn’t fighting.

Except that, of course, Simon was one of the best jousters of his day. Simon was the man whom Scotland sent as her representative to all the elaborate tourneys in France and in Flanders. And although he had no great business head, it was true, he was always first in the field with a troop when the King’s peace was threatened, which compensated for a lot of poor management. He was a King’s champion, and decorative,
and no coward, for tournaments were not designed as a rule to be harmless. The tilting-field was a training for war.