The Unicorn Hunt (52 page)

He elected to take only two officers with him: John his agent, and that German priest who, appearing with his friend at Godscalc’s death-bed, had stayed to deliver his eulogy and become his chosen successor as company chaplain. Father Moriz of Augsburg was not destined for Alexandria but for Venice. There – truculent, short-necked, bow-legged – Moriz would partner the patiently labouring Cristoffels at the Banco di Niccolò and cause no disruption in the high life of Julius. He would also, very likely, take control of the Bank’s Venetian interests. Father Moriz possessed hidden assets.

These dispositions had been discussed and accepted by Gregorio and Diniz. While staying in Bruges (and near Margot), Gregorio would act as an intermediary between Scotland and Nicholas. Diniz was content to remain with Tilde and manage the company;
he trusted Nicholas to save him his portion of gold. The opinion of Tobie, also left behind, was not sought.

Then the safe conducts arrived, the last arrangements were complete, and the House of Niccolo’s personal men-at-arms, its baggage, its household mustered to leave in their splendid black livery with the unicorn rampant. John le Grant, an individualist, wore a green doublet and a battered hat sporting an Imperial Byzantine brooch worth two sheriffdoms. The priest was robed in black, unrelieved, as it happened, by unicorns. Nicholas de Fleury bore the gold chain of his latest Order and his good-humoured expression was matched by the satisfaction on the faces of all those he was leaving behind. He could read what they were thinking.

He was returning to the concerns of the main Bank (at last). He was going to brisk up (about time) its Alexandria agency, and pursue the search for the gold from the
Ghost
. Then come the spring he would sail back to his lady in Venice and the Bank would have a patron once more. Nicholas. A family man, with a fair wife and a …

I want the teachers sprung of your line …

No
. Think. Think. Keep thinking.

He said goodbye to them all. He bestowed a chaste embrace on each of his step-daughters and shook Gregorio by the hand, but could not bring himself to exchange looks with Tobie. Last of all, he leaned from his horse and spoke smiling to Diniz. When he rode off, he was smiling still.

On the tenth day of August, eleven days after Nicholas left, his lawyer Gregorio arrived breathless at the doors of Gelis van Borselen’s hall in the country. The ride which had taken Gelis three days had been accomplished by Margot’s lover in one. Tobie had agreed to come with him.

It had been Diniz who had provided them with the address of the ladies. Leaning from his horse as he left, Nicholas had given him leave. ‘Wait a week, if you like. By then, I shall be out of the country. There are no secrets now. Gelis and I are to meet in the spring. Neither she nor I will mind if you tell Gregorio how to reach the house where you found her.’

And so, freed from his promise, Diniz had told them.

They seemed to be expected. Their jaded horses were taken away, their baggage removed, and the house-steward ushered them into a large, sunny room, its windows set wide to the late evening sun. They were brought washing-water and towels, and given wine. The steward reappeared. He was alone.

Gregorio said, ‘Is it inconvenient? We shall stay of course at an inn. But we should like to speak to the ladies if possible.’ He wondered why Tobie said nothing. Tobie had said almost nothing ever since Diniz had told them, at last, where to come.

The house-steward said, ‘An inn? Honoured sirs, this house is yours for as long as you wish to avail yourself of it. The lady Gelis left orders.’

‘Left?’ Gregorio said.

‘Before she went away. I am sorry: you were unaware? After she came back from Bruges, the lady Gelis packed and departed. Four weeks ago to the day.’

‘We had not been told. To go where?’ Tobie asked.

The man – a courteous, middle-aged man of the neighbourhood – shook his head in regret. ‘To stay with friends. I do not know, I am afraid, where she was bound.’

‘But Mistress Margot?’ Gregorio spoke. There was already an ache in his chest.

‘Went a week after that, in a different direction. Where, again, I do not know; but her message may say. She left a letter for Master Gregorio.’

He heard Tobie speak. ‘How could she know we were coming?’

The man looked taken aback. ‘Forgive me. I thought it was arranged. At least, I was told to wait for a month and then forward her letter to Bruges. But you are here.’

The packet came and Gregorio opened it. It was a long letter from Margot, repeating her reasons for what she was doing and asking him to understand. She said she loved him. She did not tell him where she was going. She had been upset when she wrote it, for the last words were blotted with tears. She seemed, so far as he could make out, to be saying that they would not have to wait very long.

‘But she’s right, you know,’ Tobie said later, in the chamber they shared for one night. ‘I know the word I’d like to apply to the van Borselen family. But if Nicholas comes back from Alexandria and Gelis takes the boy to Venice to meet him, Margot will be free in eight months.’ He waited. ‘Won’t she?’

Gregorio shook his head, and Tobie waited again. Then he spoke again, trying to be patient. ‘All right, Goro. I shan’t wheedle your secret out of you. I’m sure Margot is safe. But look, I’m worried. Nicholas is a wrecker when he’s put under duress. You know that. And he’s out there with no wife and no keepers. He’s cut me off and left you behind.’

‘Temporarily,’ Gregorio said. ‘He has to run the Bank. He can’t do without us completely.’

Tobie looked at him, surprised, and then hopeful. Immediately, he began to feel better. ‘No,’ said Tobie. ‘And meanwhile, I must admit, I’m glad he’s got Moriz and John. If anyone can beat him at his own convoluted games, then it’s a cold-eyed bigot like Moriz and a bloodless bastard like John.’

Chapter 25

A
YOUNG MASKED
woman of good appearance entering the Republic of Florence with a well-accoutred retinue and lodged at an unexceptionable address attracted some attention, of course; but in July, men were less vigilant than in cooler weather, and once it was established that the lady was neither a relative of the Medici nor a prostitute, the Republic’s interest waned.

So sedate and well planned, indeed, was the arrival of Gelis van Borselen that it was some time before even the ruling family realised that a relative of the Duke of Burgundy was in their midst. And even when news of her identity was finally carried to Piero de’ Medici in his sickbed at Careggi, it was several days before it spread to the other vital quarters: those of the dealers and merchants and bankers such as the Vatachino, the Strozzi, and the Florentine agent of the Banco di Niccolò who did not know what to do, but who finally sent a page to her house with a box of sweetmeats and a message begging the lady to order whatever assistance or pleasure she wished.

On the same day, naturally, an urgent letter flew from the same agent to Bruges addressed to the lady’s husband, his magnificence the lord Niccolò de Fleury. Gelis did nothing to stop it. Long before it arrived, Nicholas would have left Bruges for Florence. The message would pass him on the way. Or if it did not, Nicholas would hardly turn back; not with a ship already laid up in Pisa (she had checked) with space reserved between decks to take him to Egypt in September. By now, he must be only two weeks away.

Waiting, she maintained, unimpaired, the chaste serenity with which, of late months, she had conducted her life. The town might be unfamiliar to her, but the Italian merchants in Bruges had been ready to tell her about every great house, every market, every
church. From Tommaso Portinari she learned where to seek her coloured leathers and silks. From Michael Alighieri, an expert on goldsmiths, she found out where Nicholas and his small band had stopped on their way to Constantinople and Trebizond, and heard the story of the
farmuk
, the spinning toy which had so enchanted the little grandson of the late great Cosimo de’ Medici himself. Which had so enchanted Tilde, when Nicholas sent her one. Oh, Nicholas her husband knew whom to beguile; and when; and how. And when to stop.

In Florence, she made herself quickly at home. She installed her household in the middle-sized house discreetly found for her by a van Borselen kinsman. The permanent guest-house, so graphically conjured by her husband, proved to be wholly fictitious. The dame de Fleury, veiled and chaperoned, moved about Florence methodically pursuing her business, and showed no surprise when, at the end of the first week of her visit, the madonna Alessandra Macinghi negli Strozzi, merchant in spectacles, sent her chamberlain to call and presently followed in person.

She was sixty-three now, the matriarch of the once-powerful Florentine Strozzis, the black hair greyed, the eyes dimmed by the painful years of campaigning which, three years ago, ended when the Medici lifted the ban on her sons and allowed them to come back from exile: Filippo Strozzi, already a magnate; and Lorenzo, the discontented juvenile of Bruges, now wealthy and settled in Naples. Lorenzo’s mother knew all about Nicholas.

‘And so you plan to surprise your young husband. How charming. Although poor Bertuccio, your husband’s agent, has been sorely alarmed. But then, one must make allowance for the raptures of first love. I am so glad,’ said Monna Alessandra, ‘that the young man has achieved such an unexpected and elevating marriage. I must tell you that the Republic was not impressed when he paid his first visit to Florence. There was a certain wildness of conduct.’

‘He has matured,’ Gelis said. ‘But, of course, you have done business with him since, over the spectacles. And the Arab horses. He sent them to Scotland.’

‘Ah?’ said Monna Alessandra. In a leisurely way, she unhooked the spectacles that hung from one ear and, clipping them over her nose, gazed at Gelis. ‘They tell me Scotland is quite important these days.’

Gelis smiled. ‘They keep their neighbours occupied,’ she said. ‘And prevent them from interfering too much across the Narrow Sea.’

‘Which suits the Duke of Burgundy and, no doubt, the van Borselen,’ the old lady said. ‘So it is power that interests you?’

‘As it interests you,’ Gelis said. She was not ruffled by elderly women. Once, when silly and young, she had thought Lorenzo Strozzi romantic.

The two circles of glass contemplated her. ‘As it interests me?’ repeated Monna Alessandra. ‘I think not. Power for its own sake is dross. I do what I do for the survival of my family. For my sons. Yet you married late and have produced one child, so they tell me, of which you have said nothing at all.’

Gelis lowered her gaze. She said, ‘As you mentioned, Ser Niccolò is … ardent by nature. The child came early. Perhaps, even yet, I am not wholly reconciled to it.’

There was a silence. She lifted her eyes. The old woman spoke thoughtfully. ‘Ser Niccolò, I hear you say, as if a foreign knighthood made him the equal of a van Borselen. Why proceed to marriage, madonna, when the office of lover was so clearly that for which he is best fitted? Chance-got children are no impediment, as a rule.’

The princely chambers of Bruges seldom produced this kind of astringency. It invited real answers, and for a moment, Gelis was tempted to give them. Marriage, Monna Alessandra, has its uses. To punish your lover. To teach him. To destroy him. To hold him for ever. Or even a combination of some of these things.

Gelis said, ‘An orphan has less choice than you might think. My branch of the family is not wealthy and has welcomed the marriage, as you did that of your daughter. Ser Niccolò is a man of uncommon ability.’

‘You compare yourself to my Caterina,’ said the old lady. ‘Yet in a well-arranged marriage the wife does not leave her home without the consent of her husband.’

‘I am waiting for him!’ Gelis said, smiling. She held down her anger.

‘Oh, that is evident,’ said Monna Alessandra. ‘He did not invite you, and you are chagrined and, disregarding him, come. Why, I ask myself? A lovers’ quarrel, now to be mended? I do not think so. A girl in love would besiege me for secrets. What did he do, my high-spirited Nicholas, when he was in Florence? What did they whisper of him when he was a young man – a young, married man – in the East?’

‘You want to tell me,’ said Gelis.

‘I am not sure that I know. There is someone in Florence who does, if you are interested. But you are not, are you?’ said Monna Alessandra languidly. ‘It is power you seek. Your husband is little – was he ever much? – but the architect of this power. And when
he has built to your satisfaction, you will decide, I have no doubt, what to do. Meanwhile, his death would be very unfortunate.’

The glazed circles conveyed a dry admonition, unencumbered by outrage, condemnation or threat. Gelis found herself speaking harshly. ‘Rest assured. Chagrin will not induce me to hasten it. I should never kill where I love. And only simpletons kill where they hate.’

‘I see,’ said Monna Alessandra. Then, more briskly, ‘I am glad to have the air cleared. Business does not thrive in an atmosphere of unstable relationships. It is why the proper choice of a wife is imperative. I hear Tommaso is coming here soon? Tommaso Portinari?’

‘To renew his contract,’ said Gelis. She took a good deal of care, now, with what she said.

‘And to have the Medici select him a wife. Lorenzo is in the same situation. Both, I should hope, have lived a full life and are experienced men. Neither will choose his wife blinded with passion. In marriage as in business they may even prove more successful than you,’ said Monna Alessandra. ‘With your ardent but inconsiderate husband and your premature child. So I advise you again. Choose a course. If in doubt, end your marriage. If you think yourself his intellectual equal – as you may be; he is only an artisan – then bind him into a partnership, and use your sex to keep him there. You have done it already.’

They looked at one another. Gelis said, ‘You surprise me.’

Monna Alessandra rose. ‘You expect all elderly women to be captivated by his charm. No. He does not use those dimples with me. In return, I take him for what he is, as I take you. One has to live with one’s kind, whether one likes them or not.’