The Unicorn Hunt (15 page)

And so, if you considered the matter, it seemed that the long contention between Simon and Nicholas had actually ceased. By avoiding combat, Nicholas had already ceded superiority in the field. Now, in the loan of this armour, he had made a public gesture of friendship. It was not, of course, true tilting-armour: no one was ever expected to raise a lance or a sword against the late David Comnenos when he rode forth thus on parade. But the ornamentation, suicidal in battle, would not matter today, when every weapon was blunt and all the combat was for pleasure,
à plaisance
.

Archie said, ‘I think they’re both daft. Mind you, the suit’s safe on St Pol. Very few here can touch him, and even if you thought you could dent it you wouldn’t.’

‘Even for the honour of Burgundy?’ Julius said. ‘I think you’ll find Anselm Adorne has other views.’ He felt suddenly extraordinarily cheerful. He said, ‘You must agree, having Nicholas about does make things brisk.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Archie of Berecrofts quite thoughtfully. He was looking at the King’s sisters who, like the King, appeared less than enraptured by Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren. It reminded Julius of a further pleasure in store. The lady Mary, whose favourite attendant had been Gelis van Borselen, had asked that Gelis van Borselen’s new husband should be presented to her after the tournament. The face of Nicholas, receiving the summons, had been the picture of flattered delight. Julius, seldom deceived, felt quite excited.

By the time the lists opened, everyone within earshot of Julius knew the origin of Kilmirren’s borrowed armour, if not the circumstances of its borrowing. Anselm Adorne heard the story from Sersanders his nephew, just before they rode into the field. In fact he delayed his entry a little, because of it. He had known Nicholas for a long time, nearly as long as Julius. And Nicholas never did or said anything without a reason.

The tournament was well arranged, for a local affair, calling for no more than a token attendance from those knights and gentles within reach of Edinburgh. There were two men from England, and one from the island of Orkney. The preliminary bouts, on horse and later on foot, were hard fought, with snapped lances in the muddy turf and nose-blood seeping down bevelled swords, and swollen flesh squeezed, red and blue, between bone and armour.

The King’s own guard took part, but their ardour couldn’t
match the hard professionalism of the Knights of St John, behind which could be discerned a hint of contempt. Adorne himself was opposed to the Preceptor himself, stout Will Knollys, and tried to spin out the fight until Knollys could give in with honour. One of Maarten’s brothers was destined for the Order; all the Adorne family supported their hospice in Bruges; Father John of Kinloch used to live there. But one did not wish to draw too much attention to that.

He drew to the side and watched, while his page fetched him a fresh lance and a drink. The men Nicholas had brought with him from Bruges had done well. He recognised none of them. The old Charetty company, to be sure, was away fighting for Duke Charles. He liked the ruddy, forthright look of young Archie, the boy Robin’s father, who was well matched against Sersanders his nephew.

Adorne reflected, as he watched, on the shrewdness which had brought the Berecrofts family from their ancestral home in the west to the profitable estate they occupied on the edge of the Forth, and now the even more profitable sites they held in the Canongate and in Leith upon which, for a price, men like Nicholas were allowed to build houses. Some men made their fortunes in towns and then chose to establish themselves and their families in baronial mansions. He himself had investments outside Bruges, but he was, to the soul, a man of that town. A man of the town and the Duke’s, and God forfend he should ever have to divide the two loyalties. He watched his nephew, his thoughts for the moment elsewhere.

Berecrofts was struck from his horse. The combat on foot was quite long: they were both short men, he and Sersanders, of equal reach and equable tempers. As Adorne expected, Sersanders won. He smiled, riding heated back to the tent.

The display continued. Dusk came early in December: already the shadow of the Rock was crawling over the tilting-ground although the sun glowed yellow beyond, and the wind was only beginning to bite. Adorne moved. It was not wise to allow himself to become cold because he would be the last, of course, unless his fellow envoy forgot protocol and won too many fights. Sometimes, using his weight, Jehan Metteneye could unseat him. He had seen few others who could, skilled though some of them were. Anselm Adorne flung his cloak temporarily over his shoulders.

He won his remaining courses, knocking out a grinning Jehan in the first. He had to work hardest against Lindsay and Liddell, who was young. He could see, watching the youth Albany, who had had the teaching of him.

The Mêlée he took no part in. It was during that – forty men striking, grunting, squelching in the mud under a greying sky – that the lad Bonkle, at his side, said, ‘Have you heard the news, Ser Anselm?’

Anselm Adorne had known John Bonkle’s double family, Scots and Flemish, since the days of Robert Bonkle, that wily old merchant burgess of Edinburgh. Sanders Bonkle, Robert’s son, was a burgess of both Bruges and Edinburgh. Edward, the boy’s natural father, had been well known to the Scots queen from Guelders, who had made him both famous and rich as Provost of the church and hospice she founded in Edinburgh. The lad himself, though a bastard, had been sent to a Scots university and learned his business at the side of his uncle in Middleberg and Bruges.

Adorne had been pleased, although he had not said so, when Jannekin Bonkle had been offered commissions by vander Poele … by Nicholas de Fleury, and finally agreed to represent him in Scotland. He knew, from Sanders his uncle, how he fared, and quite a lot of what he was doing. Now Anselm Adorne said, ‘What news?’

‘From the borders of Burgundy. The town of Liège has risen for France against the rule of the Duke, and has been attacked by the Duke’s army and gutted, the buildings burned. Hundreds are killed, or drowned in the Meuse, or dead of cold in the forests.’

Adorne was silent. Charles, Duke of Burgundy, was his master: his father had served the same family. He said, ‘I am sorry. Duke Charles has a heavy hand when he is angry.’ A cry rang out from the stand. The news was spreading. Liège was a rich trading town, a town like his own. Everyone had friends there.

‘So has the King of France,’ Jannekin said. ‘They say he secretly incited the rebellion, but when it happened, he was in the Duke’s power. He agreed to the destruction of Liège and his men also took part. Your niece is comforting her maid.’

‘De Fleury sent you to tell me?’ said Adorne. It came to him that the men who obeyed the Duke’s orders at Liège must have included the army leased him by Nicholas. Astorre was there, and Thomas, and perhaps even Tobias, their doctor. He added, ‘He must be concerned for his company. And for what it had to do.’

‘Nicholas de Fleury?’ Bonkle said. He paused. ‘He thought you should know.’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Anselm Adorne; and rode into the lists for the final bout. And immediately, as he had expected, the wave of comment lessened, for the slaughter at Liège had taken place far to the south, across the Narrow Sea, four weeks ago, and the culminating match in this contest – barring the token victory of the
King, barring the last charming pageant of the children – was between himself and Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren.

He wondered, admiring the grace of man and mount pacing towards him, whether Simon had come to regret the magnificent loan he had accepted, or whether it meant more to him that he should be here, a single glittering figure drawing four thousand pairs of eyes in the dwindling light, the Scottish champion. He thought the latter.

He wondered if Simon’s father de Ribérac, expecting so much of his heir, found some balm in this, his son’s one undoubted excellence, and remembered his own days of military glory, fighting in France. The old man was not here, but would learn of it. Sometimes Adorne wondered if much of Simon’s violent, impatient, disordered career was not in itself a cry to, as much as against his dominant father. He watched the other man’s face, before he closed his visor at the other end of the barrier, and saw confirmed what he had suspected: Simon would show by his fighting that he expected no quarter for his armour or himself. Then the drums rolled and the trumpets blared, and he drove his horse into a gallop.

There were three courses to run, and three lances to break, if he could. The horse pounding towards him on the opposite side of the barrier showed no fear; no intention of deviating, and the long, heavy shaft gripped in Simon’s right glove pointed steadily at the heart of his cuirass. Adorne adjusted his plated grip very slightly, and moved his weight in the saddle in the way his horse knew. The horses drove together; the point of Simon’s lance flashed towards him and then slid, diverted from the plate at his breast while his own point, with all the force of his shoulders and back and arms, struck Simon in the centre of the incrustations by his shoulder and, locking there, thrust him half out of the saddle.

Half, but not quite. The next moment Adorne was past, the lance dragged free and Simon had gone, his horse somehow responding to his command even as he began to bring the weight of his body back to the saddle and reclaim his stirrups. Then they reached the ends and turned and took lance for the second course. And this time, Simon would be angry. Which, reflected Anselm Adorne, was not necessarily a bad thing.

The buffets the second time were full and direct: Adorne met the point this time without turning his mount or his body, and aimed his own solely to unbalance. His lance broke. He felt the impact through his whole body, and saw Simon shudder, but they passed, neither dislodged.

He reached the other end and turned, glancing down to take the fresh lance being offered him. His memory gave him, in retrospect, the roar of the crowd at the moment of collision and his eyes showed him now the grinning, jostling faces, colour drained from their tunics, their jackets, their caps. In the stand, flushed by the brightening gold of the braziers, he glimpsed the confident face and red hair of the child Margaret whose scarf he wore, and further along, almost equally distinct, the intent face of Nicholas de Fleury, once vander Poele. Below, a drift of white on stout cushions, sat the retired singing maidens, Will Roger beside them. The musician had his hand on the shoulder of Adorne’s niece Katelijne who, her face bent, was rocking Emmelot her maid in her arms. Emmelot, who came from Liège.

He had almost missed the trumpet. Adorne saw that St Pol was already coming at full gallop towards him. He drew himself together, and collecting his horse, threw it forward as well.

Everyone saw the hesitation. Julius, his courses satisfactorily completed, inserted himself beside Nicholas without removing his gaze from Adorne for an instant. He sat chanting, ‘Come on. Come on. Are you dreaming?’

‘Be quiet,’ said Nicholas.

The collision occurred. For a moment, as the horse-cloths swirled, it was difficult to tell what had happened, except that both horses had stopped. Then it could be seen that Adorne was in the saddle, trying to control a plunging, curvetting horse, while the saddle of Simon’s horse was empty. Nicholas stood, wrenching up Julius with him. Men ran on to the grass.

They were bending over the glimmering object of the smith’s art that was Simon. They put their hands under his arms and lifted him to his feet. He stood.

Nicholas said, ‘He isn’t dead. What a pity.’

Below him, Katelijne lifted her head. She said, ‘How can you say that?’

‘It’s quite easy,’ Nicholas said. ‘Oh look, now they’re going to fight each other on foot. Sword, axe and mace. My money’s on Adorne. Simon’s shaken. Look, he’s dropped a couple of rubies. No, his chin is bleeding. Help us, Lord, upon this erde That there be spilt no blood Herein. Simon’s down.’

‘He’s lost his temper,’ said Julius. ‘Adorne counted on it. I must say he’s good. I’m not taking your wager. It’s a foregone conclusion. Simon loses.’ He watched, with some irritation, as events proceeded to prove him right.

Adorne wasn’t as fast, but he had a great deal of experience, a
gift for tactics, and a level head. For the rest, they were two handsome men, fit and well made and skilled in their craft, so that the crowd rose to them both. They were both over forty, and breathed still like men half their age. Julius said, ‘If it had been a proper fight, the lance would have finished him. Simon.’

‘They’ve spoiled our day,’ Nicholas said. ‘Let’s go. No, we have to stay for the King and the children.’

Adorne won, and was crowned with laurels and promised his unicorn horn at the banquet. The King ran his ceremonial course, auburn hair gleaming in the light of the fires. Adorne was duly unhorsed and went to kneel at the feet of the youth. The lists emptied, and the lines of mounted children took their places at either end, armed with their stout wooden swords for the Little Mêlée. Robin, Old Berecrofts’s grandson, was among them. And John of Mar, the King’s youngest brother. And Simon’s son Henry, in silver armour.

Far behind him, the vanquished Simon de St Pol stood frowning in his gorgeous array and glared at the boy.

But for the glistening armour, as offensive as the far more extravagant attire of Kilmirren, young John of Mar would probably never have chosen to single out an opponent so junior. At first, no one noticed. Free entertainment was not to be scorned, but the main contests were over; attention on the common side of the field had relaxed, and some parties were leaving. No one had left from the stands. These were their children.

Now the silhouette of the Castle was black against the fading glow from the west, and the blue haze from the blood-bright braziers swam over the ground. Julius said, ‘Poor little monkeys, they’ll kill one another in the dark. My money’s on Robin’s team, unless they’ve been told to lose out to Mar. Nicholas?’

‘My dear Julius,’ Nicholas said. ‘Children don’t always do what they’re told. They’ll probably kill one another.’