The Unicorn Hunt (18 page)

That time, less than a week after the stabbing, Andreas had refused to admit them, and Archie had to deal with the Princess’s displeasure as best he could, and see them all off – or so he thought. He returned to the house to discover the girl Katelijne actually inside de Fleury’s chamber, having been smuggled there by a conspiratorial Robin. He cuffed his son and would have cuffed the Burgundian Envoy’s niece, had he had the courage. As it was, she looked up at him with those shrewd hazel eyes and said, nodding to the pillow-packed bed, ‘Isn’t he bored as well?’

‘And if he were, what do you propose to do about it?’ said the patient’s dispassionate voice. Since arriving, he had shown no inclination to talk. Now he appeared to examine his visitor. ‘Ah. The guardian, chief flower and matchless ornament of Haddington. And how is the lady Margaret?’

‘Annoyed,’ Katelijne said, going in. ‘They said you were sleeping.’

‘That was Dr Andreas,’ said Archie of Berecrofts. He wished Andreas would come back. He hesitated.

The wounded man said, ‘Didn’t you hear her? She requires entertainment. Leave her. If I become rough, she’ll scream. What is the Prioress saying?’

Archie left them, pushing Robin before him. Had he remained, he would have seen nothing of moment, except the gleam in the eye of the girl Katelijne, preparing to taunt and be taunted.

‘She’s moved Ada and the baby to the priory at Coldstream,’ Katelijne said. She found a cup, filled it, laid it on the tray by the bed, pulled out and plumped up his pillows, checked the brazier and sat down on a stool with a book he had been reading.

‘I’ve read that. I’ll tell you in a moment the bits I don’t like. Haddington? We’re all learning to dance: the King’s dancing-master comes out from Torphichen. Mistress Phemie has written a poem, and Will Roger has set it to music. There are three verses the Prioress doesn’t know about. Dame Alisia is going to her family for Christmas, while the rest of us attend the Princesses at Court. Thomas Boyd won’t be there: the Danish bride will be held up for months. His father has a very bad cold and a rash. We are all waiting for your ship with the cut velvet in it: if it doesn’t come soon, the Prioress will attack you with a knife, and this time it will be fatal. As you probably know, your friend Kilmirren and Henry have both gone back home. That’s a very nice lady, Mistress Bel.’

He was sitting up, now. ‘You mean she played ball with you?’

‘I mean she knows what Henry did, but hasn’t told. So does Simon. And my uncle, of course.’

‘And the King?’ he said. There was no urgency in the question. He was well enough for that.

‘Believed your story implicitly. He’s rounded up all the Horse Market vagrants and released them after a thrashing. The better class of citizen would like to put you up for a civic award. What does Berecrofts think?’

‘The same. That I resent being robbed, and am prepared to pay to be spoiled. So spoil me.’

‘Pay me,’ said Katelijne.

He considered her. He said, ‘Open that casket, and take out the two largest objects inside.’

The two largest objects were a pack of playing cards and a jew’s trump.

He said, ‘I am now going to teach you a very coarse game. If you win, you get the trump. If you lose, you have to walk on your hands back to the priory.’

‘On my horse’s back?’ she said, bargaining.

‘Providing you dress as you were in the water.’

‘And that’s only worth a trump?’

‘I could improve the offer. What would you do for a guittern?’

‘I’ll settle,’ she said, ‘for the trump.’

It was the twang of the little instrument, and the raised voices, that brought Berecrofts to the door half an hour later. The girl left, the right way up, with her servants. Later still, when the harm had been assessed and Andreas, returned from the sickbed, required an explanation, Archie had been defensive. ‘All he wanted was news. He made her talk. She only stayed half an hour. Well, it brought him to life at least, didn’t it?’

That much was true, and although it brought him a fever as well, he emerged his own man, primed and ready for all that had to be done, and done quickly. When next Katelijne arrived, this time with Will Roger as escort, de Fleury was in no want of news but, leaving his laden desk readily, engaged in an arrow-shower of chatter and badinage which this time was patently effortless. Katelijne, rising to combat, spoke faster and faster: it was the musician who slowed in the end, spent with laughter.

It was not a long ride to Emmanuel. Will Roger said, ‘So what do you think?’

Two weeks before, de Fleury had dismissed Andreas his doctor. It was because of Andreas they had come. Katelijne said, ‘Sometimes the nuns speak and think very slowly. Then I feel the way I think he is feeling.’

Will Roger grunted. Although he made no concessions, she knew that she was watched; and that he had drawn some conclusions. He would agree, no doubt, with her parents. He said, ‘He should let his business alone for a while.’

‘You would. He wouldn’t,’ Katelijne said. ‘He’s cramming everything in. I think he does intend to get back to his wife by the spring. I think the
Ghost
is coming to take him.’

‘So anxious a father? You’d think he’d apply for reassurance to Andreas,’ Roger said. ‘Or is that why …?’

‘That’s why there is no Dr Andreas. Dr Andreas offered to study his stars.’

‘And got sent away. Why? I would have listened. He hasn’t offered to study
my
stars,’ said Will Roger.

‘You haven’t got any stars. You were born in a whistle. You couldn’t give me an A.’

‘Yes I could,’ said Will Roger, and made his tuning-fork chime. It began to snow while they were alternately singing and racing each other, but they hardly noticed, they were so entertained.

Christmas came. Simon of Kilmirren, returned to acceptance, spent the height of the season at Court with a much qualified wardrobe, and passed the rest of his time at Kilmirren, drilling Henry. Bel of Cuthilgurdy, being of a nature which (grimly) never imposed itself uninvited, filled her comfortable house with comfortable friends, and generated some moderate happiness. Lucia, passing between homesteads, took care to see neither Bel nor her brother.

The boy Henry did not appear at Court at all, having been beaten by Simon, the other boys claimed, and his armour sold off. The borrowed armour of Simon, the more reliable story ran, had been returned to de Fleury with an apology for the shortcomings of the Kilmirren armourer. And certainly, the Emperor of Trebizond would never have worn the suit the way it looked now.

Nicholas de Fleury, whose entire bureau was now divided between Berecrofts and the Canongate, considered returning to Edinburgh for a space, and then reconsidered.

Socially, he had lost his light hold on the royal brothers and sisters, and would not readily make it up in a matter of days. Nor was he anxious, just yet, to risk meeting Simon in Edinburgh. On every other level of business, his Scottish transactions had continued without much interruption.

As for his overseas trade, transmission had slackened in winter, and any message that did come was brought him directly by Bonkle or Crackbene. Julius was now with him most of the time. As he expected, there had been no word from Gelis. There had been no word about her either: sick or well; dead or alive. If she were dead, he would hear. But if the weather closed in, he could be cut off from Edinburgh,

If the weather closed in, his ship might be late, or might sink, which would be … inconvenient. As it was, she was due any day, with her recondite cargo. And she was to come to the port of
Blackness, not to Leith, for Nicholas wanted her near him, and Blackness was only four miles from Linlithgow. That, in the end, was why he stayed at Berecrofts. That, and because he knew the nature of the Scottish Court. He had devoted three months to studying it.

Julius had learned, now, that Nicholas was leaving in a few weeks for Flanders, without waiting for spring or Adorne’s company. Failing to argue him out of this plan, Julius proposed to come with him. Naturally, he and Nicholas would be back, having made such an investment in Scotland. Julius was not fool enough to believe that marriage counted for much to a rich man, or indeed any other, but accepted that Nicholas had to consult with Astorre, renew his status with the Duke, and review his dealings with Venice and Alexandria. By that time, his child born, Nicholas could make sure of the next, and return.

Nicholas de Fleury was familiar with all these opinions of Julius, as indeed he should be, having implanted them. Nicholas de Fleury waited, unsleeping, vigilant, drinking water, and was rewarded, after a fashion.

The
Ghost
arrived a week after Twelfth Night. Michael Crackbene, blue with cold, brought the news on horseback from Blackness, and reported that the carts had come, and she was already unloading. She was being revictualled at the same time, and soon the new freight would be in place.

‘Revictualled to leave? After three weeks’ hard sailing from Sluys?’ Julius exclaimed.

‘She’s watertight. I’m changing her crew. I know her,’ Crackbene said. ‘I know the sea in these parts as well.’

He gazed at Julius, whom he neither liked nor disliked. Julius, a natural opponent of tolerance, glared in return, then transferred his annoyance to the ship’s owner. ‘I thought you meant to sail on that ship.’

‘I did. I do,’ Nicholas said. ‘But it has to be now, apparently, because of the weather. I have only three days, Mick calculates, to get out of the estuary and turn south in safety. Otherwise I could be stuck here till spring.’

‘Then stay till spring,’ Julius said. ‘Astorre won’t rot; Gregorio loves being in charge; Cristoffels seems to be managing; the Mamelukes haven’t killed John so far as I know. You could drown getting to Bruges in this weather. Keep the
Ghost
at Blackness. Or send it back without you, if you’re so keen to turn over your profit. Crackbene’ll take her.’

Crackbene said nothing. That was why he had been hired.
Julius, too, had been brought here for a purpose. One kept one’s temper with Julius, except when it was useful to lose it. And Julius had no suspicions. Julius would never imagine that, in the warmth of this room, anyone could be seized with such cold that he had to grip his hands together to still them.

Nicholas said, ‘When I want a lecture, I’ll ask for one. I’m sailing with Crackbene. As I’ve already told you, you can stay.’

‘Not unless you do,’ Julius said. ‘Oh, come on. See sense. Leave in three days? With the Court waiting for you, and all your business going so well? Unless …’ He paused. ‘Nicholas? You’ve got the Hamilton girl into pup? Or one of the others?’

Crackbene’s stare switched from the floor to the ceiling. Nicholas saw it. He realised that losing his temper was useless. Instead he said, hesitating, ‘There are certain problems. If you could manage to stay –’ He broke off. He felt marginally better. It was one of the functions of Julius, to make him feel better. Some, at least, of the time.

‘I’m not staying!’ said Julius with alarm. ‘So when are we going?’

‘Tomorrow. Or the next day. I don’t know. Should I announce it?’

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Julius. ‘Slip away. Crackbene?’

‘Slip away. Easy enough,’ Crackbene said. ‘I’m packed, anyway.’

It occurred to Julius that he was not. He asked other questions, but upon receiving minimal answers he retired presently, looking doubtful, to make lists. Crackbene sat on, having more to report and a letter, brought by the ship, to deliver.

It was addressed to Nicholas de Fleury in Gregorio’s writing. There was no time now, to read it in privacy. Whatever it was. Rising, de Fleury broke with steady hands the seal of the packet and drew out the single page it contained. He read it once by the brazier, before holding it over the flames to catch fire. Then he set it down on the embers, and prodded it slowly and deliberately into ashes.

Crackbene said, ‘You have blistered your hand.’ Nicholas had forgotten he was there.

The blisters were nothing. The rod he had gripped as a poker was red from its point to his fingers. Like blood on a knife. He knew, breathing slowly, where he wanted to sheath it. He said, without turning, ‘Shouldn’t you go?’ and heard Crackbene rise.

Crackbene said, ‘You are going on with it?’

‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas said. He turned. ‘Something made me angry, that was all. Nothing has changed.’

‘So I see,’ Crackbene said.

It was the season for hunting: the season when, tempted into the open, the chosen prey turned and twisted and fled, and the young and strong and handsome raced after, to kill.

It was the day, the cold day of Crackbene’s visit to Berecrofts, when the child Henry, bored with Kilmirren, persuaded the young hunt-servant left by his father to take him out on his pony and, collecting a group of young people, well attended, to spend the brightest hours hunting small game with them in the snow. Their sport took them to the door of Bel of Cuthilgurdy, who invited them in and gave them what refreshment she had.

Since Edinburgh, she had not laid eyes on Henry. It had worried her. The gossip she heard of Simon’s vanity-struck disordered household gave her no confidence in his understanding of the boy, or his ability to make a home for him. Yet the constant practice, the training in chivalry in all its aspects, the concentrated attention must at least restore the child’s confidence; must make him at least feel secure. But it pained her, a little, that the boy had not come to see her.

And now here he was. Because, it seemed, Simon was in Edinburgh, and had been for some time. Jordan his grandfather, of course, was in France. So, alone in a household of servants with his nurse, his tutor, his master-at-arms, Henry had felt himself bored and neglected, and was in the process of seeking a remedy.

There were few chances to talk. He looked as beautiful as ever, and well; had grown a little; was boisterous and commanding in the presence of children and servants; less so with the older boys, who delivered sly pinches and blows when they were not devouring her food. He had brought them for the sake of his popularity, that was all. It was what she should have expected.