The Unicorn Hunt (74 page)

‘And did?’ the doctor said.

‘So far as I know. And if she did, did so safely: the galley arrived at Jaffa without harm. We heard as much on our way. But from Jaffa to here is no great distance. I thought she would have arrived.’ He frowned. ‘You make me anxious. Nothing can have gone wrong?’

Tobie realised he had been staring at nothing. He said swiftly, ‘No. I am sure there is a simple explanation. The galley arrived, and three important men and a lady would hardly avoid notice, I’m sure. In any case, I know where to ask. I’ll go now and find out. You’ll want to speak to Kathi, and rest.’

He smiled, shook hands again, and held Kathi’s eyes for a moment in warning. They had had an oblique talk, that day, about the ethics of their odd situation. She was loyal to her uncle, and he had to steer a path between his duty to her and to Nicholas. She knew quite a lot about Nicholas now, but he didn’t think she would chatter. She seemed young; a stranger might think her no more than childishly pert. They had not seen her, as he had, weak and sick and still displaying the same bright curiosity; the interest in others which had nothing self-centred about it.

On his way out of the fondaco, prompted by civility and by a curiosity perhaps less well intentioned, Tobie stopped to shake hands with the rest of Adorne’s party with whom, after all, he had travelled from Bruges for three months. He greeted them all: Jan, the lank, fair son, bored with weeks at sea with his father; the young friend Lambert van de Walle, who had imagination and might make a good merchant one day; the older merchant Pieter Reyphin who was of distinguished Ghent blood, like the Sersanders, and was shrewder than he looked. And the priest, John of
Kinloch, who had always loathed Nicholas and had been as aggressive and as contemptuous on the journey as he dared, out of Adorne’s hearing.

They all asked after Katelijne. He saw that she was their mascot, and they would never really forgive him, because he had whisked her away.

He left and, grimly anxious, went about the business that mattered. He knew where to find Benedetto Dei. He knew, too, who might have word of any pilgrims travelling west from a Venetian galley at Jaffa. He made both calls, and, emerging soberly from the second, stood for a moment, pushed by the crowds, and studied the vast scarlet sky.

It was near the hour for the curfew. He knew that this time he would have to spend the night at the Venetian fondaco. He entered the gates and stayed a while in the garden. The sun went down, and he was shaken with sneezes.

Because they came ashore after noon, it was some time before Benedetto Dei and Abderrahman ibn Said reached their respective lodgings and the messages that awaited them both. Dei, with the aplomb one would expect from an agent of Tommaso Portinari, decided that Nicholas de Fleury could wait, and went to bed. Ibn Said went immediately to the Venetian fondaco.

He had gone when Tobie made his way there.

Achille, showing Tobie into the room, said, ‘But as you see, the padrone is not here. Come tomorrow.’

Tobie said, ‘The gate’s shut. I can’t come tomorrow. Of course Ser Niccolò’s here. Where is he? What’s the trouble?’

‘None,’ said Achille. ‘He is sleeping.’

‘You said – Get out of my way,’ said Tobie rudely. The man jumped. Tobie didn’t even need to push him aside. In the rooms, which were empty, everything seemed as usual except for one thing. Tobie said, ‘If you really wanted to protect him, you shouldn’t let anyone in. The place reeks of drink. Where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the man.

Tobie wondered how Nicholas had frightened him. He said, softening his own manner a little, ‘Look. No one will blame you. Everyone is under strain today. Did Ser Niccolò have a visitor?’

The under-agent clasped his hands. ‘A Muslim gentleman called. I brought sherbet.’

‘But not after the Muslim visitor went. What was his name?’ Tobie said. ‘Was it ibn Said?’

‘Very like,’ said Achille. ‘A merchant from Timbuktu, or his brother. He talked, and went away. It was daylight then. Later, the page came from lighting the candles and told me.’

‘Told you what?’ The candles were lit.

‘That Ser Niccolò would not let him come in. I waited. Then I came myself. I lit the rooms. But he had gone.’

The man was pale. Tobie said, ‘If you went round the fondaco tonight, you’d find a good few men drowning their sorrows. Go to bed. I’ll spend the night here. He’ll come back, or I’ll find him.’

He must have sounded reassuring, because the man went.

Standing in the silent rooms, Tobie considered a paradox. Of all the men he had known, Nicholas de Fleury had the gift of entering the minds and thoughts of others. Now Nicholas de Fleury was the object of analysis, and it was for his doctor to guess whether this night he required rescue or privacy. For there was little doubt about the news he had received. The tragedy lay in the news still to come.

In the end, Tobie set out to find him. The gates were locked. Nicholas de Fleury must be within the confines of the fondaco. He began with the roof, and worked down.

Nicholas heard him come over the grass. He heard because he was lying on it, his shoulders and head supported by the trunk of a tree. He supposed that, if he had asked him, Tobie would have explained that wine after abstinence doesn’t necessarily result in oblivion. He stayed because he felt too delicate to move, but without much hope that Tobie would pass him. He felt Tobie kneel, and opened his eyes. Tobie said, ‘Umar is dead.’

Nicholas said, ‘Oh, yes. But we knew that already.’

‘Now you can accept it,’ said Tobie.

‘Now I know the details, yes. It is a great step forward,’ said Nicholas. His stomach knotted and he told it to unknot.

Tobie said, ‘I’m sorry. It was bad, then. I’m sorry. Do you want to tell me?’

The words became lost, in some fashion. Some time later, Tobie repeated them. He appeared now to be sitting beside him. Nicholas said, ‘I’m sorry. Something I drank.’ The wind had risen again but it was very warm, and the trees tossed against the twinkling windows of the fondaco. The spray from the fountain, blowing across, was quite pleasant. He made an effort and thought about Tobie. Then he remembered. He said, ‘So did you see Gelis? You didn’t bring her, I hope. She might go home and never try to come back again.’ He thought the idea vaguely funny and smiled.

Time passed. The words hung about, and when he next came to himself they were still there. He said irritably, ‘Well? What about Gelis?’

Tobie was on his other side this time. Tobie said, ‘Hold my arm. I’m going to lift you up and take you to bed.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’re not as pretty as Zacco.’ He stayed where he was. ‘What about Gelis?’

‘She’s all right,’ said Tobie. ‘Look, get up. You can’t stay here all night, and I want some sleep if you don’t.’

She’s all right
. Would anyone, placed as Tobie was, use that offhand phrase to speak about Gelis? Nicholas said, ‘Why are you lying?’

Tobie was silent. Then he said, ‘Come upstairs.’

‘No.’ All at once, it was easy to be sober. Nicholas said, ‘Tell me. Now.’ He reared up like a dyeframe triangle: spine braced, palms between rigid knees.

Tobie knelt back on his heels. He said, ‘She isn’t here. She changed her mind and took the galley from Venice.’

Nicholas remembered. He released his hands and placed them on either side on the grass. He said, ‘The party who wanted places on the Ascension Day boats?’ He was surprised, but relieved. The galley had arrived safely at Jaffa: the Consul had said so. He said, ‘So where did she go?’

Saying it, he recalled the contradictory impression he had received from Tobie’s first words. He said, a little more sharply, ‘Shouldn’t she be here by now?’

Tobie said, ‘Come upstairs.’

Nicholas looked at him.

When Tobie did not speak, Nicholas said, ‘You have told me. Now tell me the rest.’ Every physical complaint had gone. Everthing had gone, except hearing.

Tobie said, ‘The galley arrived safely at Jaffa, but had been forced to stay at sea because of the war. Her food and water were tainted, and illness broke out, and spread. Forty-nine pilgrims died on the way. Among them were the three who had been with Adorne: the Duke of Burgundy’s chaplain, the monk from Furnes, the merchant Colebrant from Bruges, and a fourth who joined them late, whose name was not recorded, but whose wedding ring was brought ashore with all the rest of the luggage.’

He paused, and then said, ‘It bore your name and hers. It was all there was. Those who perished were all buried at sea.’

The fountain wakened him, or the unyielding stone under his cheek. The cold was so great he was shaking. He said, ‘They rescued an earl and a bishop.’

Someone beside him said, ‘There were survivors. One day, you will hear the whole story. Not now.’

Nicholas said, ‘I must go.’

The voice said, ‘There is nowhere to go. Come upstairs. Come with me. Nicholas?’

His name was Claes, Nikki, Nicol. His name was not Nicholas. What was his name?

Who sculptured Love and set him by the pool, Thinking with liquid such a flame to cool
.

Someone was shaking him. He said, in explanation, ‘My mother is dead.’

And the other man, in anguish almost as great as his own, seemed to say, ‘I know. Is that not the root of it all? I know, Nicholas. I know.’

Wine after long abstinence has a curious effect. Waking and sleeping through the long night, Nicholas de Fleury was aware that Tobie was somewhere in the same room, but could not always think why. Towards morning he remembered very well. Soon after that Tobie himself fell asleep, his chin masked with fair bristle, circles under his reddened lids. Nicholas rose and, presenting himself early at the baths, was clean, shaved and dressed by the time Tobie awoke. He had also spoken to Achille, and had a tray brought with food enough for both. He did not try to eat himself, but laid the tray beside Tobie’s pallet. He said, ‘I have to thank you.’

Tobie pulled himself up. After a while he said, ‘What do you remember?’

‘All of it, I think,’ Nicholas said. ‘Gelis died on the galley from Venice. Some things will have to be done. I don’t know how the child is being cared for. The news will have to be sent to her family.’

‘I can do that,’ Tobie said. ‘I shall tell Adorne, as well. And the child, presumably, is already in the best hands. Gelis expected to be gone a long time.’

‘But not quite so long,’ Nicholas said. ‘Would you do one more thing for me? Would you prevent Adorne or his niece coming to speak to me?’

‘They will understand,’ Tobie said.

Nicholas experienced a fleeting amusement. He said, ‘I doubt it.’

Tobie left later, having satisfied himself, Nicholas assumed, that despair was not about to drive him into doing something irrational.
He had not asked what Nicholas intended to do, understanding perhaps that as yet he had little idea. His own main concern, from the outset, had been to appear as normal as possible and to get rid of Tobie.

It seemed that Tobie had somehow diverted Achille as well, for no one came near him except a page who scuttled out with the tray, and some time later appeared with another one. Nicholas let him leave it. The interruption made him realise that the pain came from his hands, cramped round the arms of his chair. Then it was dark, and the daily hubbub lessened below, and gradually the intrusions – everything – stopped.

And everything
had
stopped. Wheels within wheels within wheels. John had said that. So withdraw the innermost wheel, and silence falls. Nothing happens, because nothing makes it happen. The panorama is frozen. The mechanical figures cease to climb. The outlying animations – in Scotland … in Flanders … in the Tyrol, Venice, Cyprus, Egypt, Persia – all slacken as well, and sink below, weighted with sand from the ballast. Joining the wheel already broken, which he had never fully acknowledged till now.

There is no cradle under my roof …

I want the teachers of your line to help instruct the poor fools sprung of mine …
All now truly gone, from today.

From yesterday. Time was passing. So what was he going to do? His mind reached that point, always, and jibbed, and went back. Back, and back. And then forward again.
Was it quick for him?
How was it for her? Slow this time, and seeping: seawater, fresh water; the pendulum swinging. If the mould was broken, how could you ever put anything together again?

Some time during the night he lit a candle and, sitting, dazzled, took out his maps and his jewel. His hands beat slowly and heavily, as his heart did, and he thought that was bad. Although he knew it was pointless, he cast over Jaffa and all the coast that lay between there and Alexandria, but of course there was nothing. He waited, and then thought to ask the jewel what he should do.

Divining tools cannot make choices. Remembering, he set himself, with an exhausted kind of persistence, to ask specific questions. Should I go here? Or here? Or here? It amused him, distantly, to leave his future to fate when suddenly he had no care for the future. The sparrows were chirping and the morning wind was stirring through the window before he remembered the question he had not thought to ask.

It meant another map, one he had just acquired. He got it out,
moving stiffly, and glanced outside at the lightening sky. Soon the gates would be unlocked. Soon anyone could leave if they wished. He lifted the cord, thinking of several things instead of concentrating on one.

It was odd therefore that the jewel should begin to move for the first time in the positive direction; that the cord should rasp on his finger as it sped, and that it should rise, as it so seldom did, to its full spinning height.

He knew then that he didn’t want to go back to empty rooms in Bruges, or Venice, or Scotland. He didn’t want, and might never want, to confront familiar faces or to take prosaic decisions, as if life had merely suffered an interruption, and could continue, somehow, in another way.

It came to him that he had felt this way before. He thought it curious: a childish flaw he believed he should have outgrown. But at least he didn’t fancy he could work his release by flinging himself mindlessly into battle for any man. It reminded him of Erizzo, who would not, either, have been vouchsafed a tomb; a casket bearing a legend; a coffin marked by some dying white cyclamen and a fillet of grass. His mind, bruised with thinking, slid back and clung yet again to the question the jewel could not answer. Perhaps because that was why, in the end, he did not want to go back to Bruges.