The Unicorn Hunt (53 page)

‘So I have found,’ Gelis said.

‘Yes. So I must go. You are unlikely to need me. Call on me if you do. The Bank brings me good business,’ said Monna Alessandra.

In Florence that year, the month of August proved unpleasantly hot. The wealthy had long since closed their houses and retired to their delicious villas in the campagna. Those who remained tied to town collected their households each evening and rode out to their farms, away from the heat, the smells and the gnats of the river Arno.

Gelis van Borselen, awaiting her husband, found it expedient to emerge a little from her lengthening retirement, and accepted invitations to the homes of distant relatives, and to households such as that of the Acciajuoli, where her husband was known.

Because of the fragile health of Messer Piero, she was entertained in the Via Largo by the lesser members of the Medici family, who several times mentioned how exhausted they had all been by dear Lorenzo’s little wedding. Three hundred barrels of
vernaccia
tapped, would one believe, and five thousand pounds of the wickedest sweetmeats – how could one lace up one’s
gown
? And the gifts! Although nothing, to be sure, compared to the nuptials of Duke Charles. What had the King of Naples sent to Duke Charles?

She was quite good at that particular game, and held her own. Because of it, perhaps, she found herself included, with other young matrons, in the parties which began to mark the opening of the cooler autumn season – a pretty water-festival, or a mock battle in the Piazza Santa Croce, or a dinner party, or a dance in the Piazza Santa Trinità.

As her circle widened, other small, idle pleasures became open to her. She could have become part of the carefree bands of young men and girls of her own age who strolled through the warm streets in the evening, the men with their lutes, the girls with ribbons and posies, escorted by their liveried torchbearers, taking laughter and music and mischief from one wrought-iron gateway to another.

Once, from her window, she saw a pair she did not know linger behind: the man well made and tall, with a laughing face and brown hair. Then the merriment faded, and he took the girl suddenly in his arms so that both faces were hidden and they stood together, without movement or sound, still as sculpture. It lasted only a moment; then they walked on, their hands tightly linked, while above, she sat helplessly weeping.

But that, of course, was exceptional. The mind was the weapon, the scourge; the senses obeyed it. The mind surveyed the sweet, the seductive dish in which the sharp business sense of Florence was embedded, and compared it with the Burgundian court which, although richer, had nothing of this kind to offer. Entertainment for the wellborn in Brussels was encased in Portuguese etiquette; set about with mechanical figures. Only the common people could be freely exuberant like this – at a skating-party; round a fire; under the coloured lanterns at carnival-time. And only in childhood had she been permitted to join them.

These were the only times, and they were few, when thought strayed and pain would seat itself, mocking, in the familiar place, and her resolution for a moment would falter. For the rest, she set to completing the small, private calls she still had to make. There were not so many. Time was passing, after all. After all, it was September.

She spent an evening with a man called Prosper Schiaffino de Camulio de’ Medici, who was Genoese and discontented. Leaving, she was reminded of what Monna Alessandra had said about having to live with one’s kind, whether one liked them or not.

She returned the old lady’s call, but talked of nothing of consequence except perhaps the grape harvest.

She rode to Porto Pisano to make the acquaintance of the Provveditore, and view the galleys – the
Santa Reparata
, the
San Antonio
, the big
Ferrandina
, the two Burgundian ships – preparing for the autumn departure. If there was to be an autumn departure. The ships for Flanders were safe. But the Levant? With the Turks the way they were? One could only prepare, and then hope. Thus the Provveditore.

She listened thoughtfully and rode back, beset by mosquitoes. The Burgundian galleys (leased to Tommaso Portinari of Bruges) would sail for Sluys in October, carrying alum. The schedule for the
Ferrandina
had not yet been announced. But space on the
Santa Reparata
was still reserved for the Banco di Niccolò, which had made handsome accommodation for its patron, his servants and their goods, about to travel to Egypt.

He was still coming. Confidence renewed, she was able to identify the messenger from Porto Pisano who reported every few days to Messer Bertuccio; just as she knew that Messer Bertuccio would receive reports from the roads to the north the moment that Nicholas came south of Milan.

Nicholas failed to come south of Milan.

September waned. The Arno brimmed because of the rain, and the sea consuls reduced river shipping and had palisades erected as usual. Piero de’ Medici returned from the country, and seeing him, men talked in whispers. Messer Bertuccio called and enquired if in any way he could be of service. She saw, to her annoyance, that he was actually hoping for news. She began to realise that she had depended too much on his competence.

October arrived, and brought to Florence two visitors. One was Tommaso Portinari, come to renegotiate his company contract and be allotted a wife. The first was a stranger, whose name, announced by her house-steward, was vaguely familiar.

Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli was a tall man, grey-bearded and lean and past middle years, with all the hallmarks of his family: the grace, the cultured Florentine accent flavoured with Greek, the large, dark, cynical eye. It was only when he disposed himself, sitting, that she saw that his stick had a purpose: one of his limbs was man-made.

Smiling, he noticed her glance. ‘My young friend Nicholas has not regaled you with the tale of our earliest meeting? He shattered my timber leg and was beaten for it. I am glad to see he has found himself a charming wife to curb his excesses. But I forget. Now he is a great man, and full of discretion. And has fathered a fine son, if I am not mistaken?’

‘I am sure you are very seldom mistaken,’ Gelis said. It was a response, not to the words, but to some challenge she had not yet quite fathomed. She added, softening it, ‘But yes, we have a son. A satisfaction which I hope, with your name, that you share.’

‘What a kind heart,’ he said. ‘But alas. Pierfrancesco, my cousin’s husband, will tell you. A worthless brother or two – Bartolomeo Zorzi, what have I not done for him? – is all that I may legitimately claim, although, like your husband, I have not wasted my youth. Since you are a van Borselen and accustomed to affairs of the world, I may say without offence, I hope, that few brides can have taken a young man so exquisitely trained.’

A curious remark. He smiled. She said, ‘I trust you are going to call us well matched. Or I should suspect that you think me inhospitable. May I offer some wine?’

‘My dear madonna!’ he said. ‘In the domestic arena, the ladies of Flanders are peerless. No, I thank you. I have not come to partake of wine, and it is another form of hospitality to which I was referring. I wished to talk of the sensual arts … not in general, merely with reference to your husband’s experience.’

‘Florence,’ said Gelis, ‘never ceases to amaze and delight me. It is not a topic I have heard proposed in public before. It is not, I am afraid, one which I intend to debate now. I am sorry. If I cannot press you to wine, it seems that your visit has been wasted.’ She rose.

He did not. He said, ‘You must forgive me. This poor leg … Allow me the space of five minutes to gather my strength, and I shall relieve you of my presence forthwith. Meanwhile, I must reassure you. Debate was not what I had in mind. Merely some thoughts – some random thoughts on the subject of lovers and wives. You knew his first wife? Marian de Charetty? Please sit down. I am really not feeling well.’

If she had him ejected, heaven knew what he would say. She sat. She said, ‘I remember the widow Charetty.’

‘But of course you were young. A worthy lady, but with little to offer, save her business. But his next wife! The most dazzling courtesan in the Levant! And between – before – after the services of the princesses of Naxos! What finer grooming could a young
man aspire to? A partner – two – in whom the exoticism of Byzantium, the refinements of Italy mingle in each flawless, finely judged movement!’

She moved abruptly. He said, ‘No! I should not dream of embarrassing you. But I wonder what Nicholas feels when he sees the daughter of Fiorenza about to take his place, as did his wife, in that desirable clasp. Except that the son of Violante would have been worse.’

The large, heavy eyes sustained their sweet smile, challenging her to dismiss him. The thought struck her that he was drugged. Yet there was nothing vague in his speech: she felt compelled to hear all he said. He had judged her better than had Monna Alessandra. Belatedly she realised that it was Monna Alessandra who had sent him. She said, ‘You seem to know my husband better than I do.’

‘Forgive me, that would not be difficult,’ said the man. ‘Ah, your expression is meant to remind me of Africa. But carnal knowledge is half an alphabet only.’

‘And you have the other half?’ Gelis said. She waited, with calm, his words bleeding into her mind. Primaflora, whose arts, subtly transmitted, had become part of the vocabulary he spoke of. And also, it seemed, the princesses of Naxos. Which? And what did Nicholas – did she – owe to them in their lexicon?

Her mysterious visitor had not mentioned her sister. Since he had found out so much about Nicholas, he might even know that. Not all of it, but as much as she had known, at first.

‘I have certain advantages,’ the man said, ‘when it comes to understanding what men are afraid of. You might find my insight can be useful.’

‘How would you like me to use it?’ she said.

‘I knew,’ he said, ‘I should find your conversation agreeable. You should read more. You should read that old work by Alfonso the Wise of Castile which speaks of the shoulder of Sagittarius the Archer, the Hunter …

‘But that is by the way. What should you do? I should like you to see that your husband does not marry again. Not, I am afraid, for his sake or yours. I am a person who takes a long view.’

‘For the sake,’ said Gelis warmly, ‘of the next generation? Or your view extends even further?’

‘Many find the idea amusing,’ he said. ‘It is a responsibility, to be sure, to have a child and to choose its marital partner. I may not speak of myself. But take the ladies of Trebizond. Fiorenza of Naxos has a daughter who will alter the course of your life.
Violante of Naxos has a son whose line will make sure that yours will survive. Her husband does not mind, I should say; he has his own consolation. You should know that. But you need not tell Nicholas. It will only encourage him.’

She sat, her chin in her hand, without answering. He said, ‘You don’t believe me.’

She stirred. ‘Did you expect me to? I do wonder, however, why the length of my marriage concerns you. Why should Nicholas de Fleury and I stay together?’

‘Did I say that?’ the man said. ‘I merely suggested that it would be better for everyone if Nicholas did not marry again. Posterity is already served.’

Gelis cast herself back in her chair. She said, ‘Well, I understand now. Posterity is the problem. But why should that limit his pleasures? Men should be able to marry, if so inclined, and if the law deems them free. Why not think about gelding?’

There was a contemplative silence. Then the Greek said, ‘Tell me. How did he fail? Or how have others offended?’

‘It is really hard to say,’ Gelis said. ‘In any fashion, that is, that would be helpful. Sometimes all a man has to do is to die.’

He said, ‘Or a woman, I suppose. You have been helpful, as it happens. And I would do something for you in return. This was purchased by my cousin after the funeral of the artist. I have redeemed it. I thought it should be where it belongs.’

It was a drawing on vellum. It had never been sprayed: a haze of chalk fell from the scroll as she opened it. Inside, the tones of the study were blurred, but the deftness of line had survived: the work of a maestro, though an old one. It showed a youth dropped to one knee, one hand raised, his face turned, with its open, innocent eyes smiling up at the artist. The young man was explicitly, charmingly nude.

In the corner, the artist had put his name, and a single word in Italian. She had heard it before. In the trembling hand, it looked wistful.

She became aware that her thumbnails were white; and the vellum had stretched taut between them. She calmed herself and looked up.

Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, brother of Bartolomeo Zorzi, had risen and gone. She knew, however, how to reach him.

It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Tommaso Portinari’s visit occurred the same morning.

Tommaso himself, preparing to call on Gelis van Borselen, had
changed his dark managerial gown (trimmed with beaver) for a fluted doublet in damask with twisted buttons of gold, and hose whose embroidery did not conceal the interleaving of sinew and muscle between dainty ankle and thigh. An osprey feather from his hat mingled with his clinging black fringe, and his well-bred nose and high cheekbones carried the unmistakable lustre of success.

He was forty-four years of age, and his career was at last attaining its peak. He was manager for the Medici in Bruges. He was the favourite merchant and banker of Duke Charles of Burgundy, and served on his council. His pompous brother Pigello was dead; the other was manager in Milan, and Pigello’s sons would perpetuate the Portinari association with the Medici. Messer Piero had promised it.

He had got to Florence before Messer Piero’s health became worse and had obtained from his swollen hand the renewal of his partnership contract, securing him, for an input of four hundred pounds groat, a percentage of twenty-seven and one half on all future profits in Bruges, an increase of two and a half.