To Lie with Lions (15 page)

The following morning she set off to Hesdin with a liveried escort from the company. With her rode Nicholas de Fleury, husband and father, ready now to end a long parting.

Chapter 6

M
OVING INESCAPABLY
in her turn towards him, Gelis van Borselen was conscious that, whatever she did, her foe her husband was watching her. She made no effort this time to evade him. She wore the ring which his pendulum knew, and travelled slowly, because he would not expect that, and it might disturb him a little.

She had thought, sitting alone, considering – hour by hour, week by week – what she knew of his mind, that the summons would come on the day that marked the third anniversary of their marriage. But he, no doubt guessing as much, had amused himself by avoiding it. The command, when it came, arrived at an hour of no special portent, and she left immediately, so that he should be in no doubt that she was willing.

It would have been a relief to be tracked by human beings, by spies such as ordinary businesses used. Instead, she was being monitored by a shadow, and felt reduced to a shadow herself. A shadow, an echo. Whereas no one could monitor Nicholas, who moved to his prey like a cat, traced from field to field, grove to grove by the streamers of terrified birdsong.

She had one servant with her, and an escort to protect her whole baggage, which she had been expected to bring. Despite her leisurely progress, she might, by hastening, have arrived at his camp before dusk, but instead chose to pass the night at an inn in St Omer. She spent money freely. It was her marriage endowment from Nicholas. There was plenty of it.

Movement by night from a town was forbidden, or possible only for officials or burgesses. Nicholas was neither, but gold or threats must have served, otherwise she would never have been roused by a terrified maid in the night, with a message that she was to dress and depart. Outside, her own escort had gone and strangers waited. The sergeant carried a note in the script that, in Arabic, in Italian, in
Flemish, she had seen on tablets in Africa, in Venice, in Spangnaerts Street: the quick, clear, tutored handwriting of her husband. She was to go with his soldiers to Hesdin, leaving her maid and her boxes behind. He did not mention the child.

Because of the child, she must go. She understood perfectly what was happening. As she had drawn him from Scotland and Bruges, dispatched him painfully on fool’s errands, chasing the will-o’-the-wisp of the child, so he now held the same lever. Only he, the ultimate engineer, manipulator, Master of Secrets, would use it in his own way, and this time to punish her.

Wherever she was going, the child would not be there. Whatever, whoever awaited her at the end of this night, she did not think it would be Nicholas. It was strange then that, wrested from her bed, thrown on horseback, she found herself possessed by a vast and painful excitement, a surge of exhilaration that fell upon the chance, at last, to ride fast and hard to where, of all the world, she longed most to go.

The journey occupied four hours, and was made with fresh horses, changing twice to maintain the highest level of speed. No one spoke. Gelis van Borselen was a good horsewoman, and had set out well rested from Bruges at a pace whose agonising slowness she had cause now to be thankful for. She regretted only that, riding, it was not practical to arrive at her destination as finely gowned as she would have preferred. The boy of the Sinai desert, the travel-stained woman of Venice were due to be forgotten. Then she bit her lip, thinking how seldom appearance had ever had anything to do with him, or with her. The night fled by, and in the torchlight no one saw that sometimes she wept unawares as she rode.

They arrived with the first of the dawn. Already her shadow was moving before her when she saw a powder of lights far ahead and, suddenly, the high ruddy twinkle of glass. She had known, since they entered the parkland, that this was not the road to the Burgundian camp. She was being brought somewhere else to stand trial for what she had done. All the same, even when coursing the green wooded vale of the Canche, she still dismissed the ducal château as a likely destination. Hesdin was too unsubtle a choice for the subtle Nicholas of this brittle war.

And again, Nicholas had used her expectations to trick her. The great building blurred in the distance could be nothing other than Hesdin, enchanted theatre of marvels. The towers and turrets crowded the sky, and presently the walls could be seen, and the great sculptured mass of the gatehouse. The vaulted entrance was dark, but there were lights visible throughout the château, its walls flushing
now with the dawn. Even unoccupied, a ducal stronghold would merit a garrison.

She saw the flash of armour from outside the entrance, and discerned double doors standing open, and men-at-arms in the tunnel behind them. She could not see who else waited among them. Then her sergeant brought her troop to a halt and, jumping down, helped her dismount. She found with anger that she was shaking, and was curt with him, to show she was not afraid. She saw she was to go onwards alone. She shook back her hood and walked forward.

Within the vault, no one moved. Her eyes strained, she thought she could distinguish civilian headgear mixed with the helms: the hat of the governor, perhaps; the veil of some lady proposed as her servant or chaperone. She was a van Borselen, related to princes. She would be treated with ceremony. She was sure, then, that Nicholas was not here, or if he were, that he waited for her indoors. Inside Hesdin, palace of mischief.

She was still thinking so when she realised that among the anonymous watchers was a man of greater height than the rest, richly and quietly dressed. His identity was lost in the gloom, but she knew him as if he had called. It was Nicholas.

He let her traverse almost the whole way to the gatehouse before he stirred, and strolled out with his shadow to meet her, alone in the roseate light. She stopped and waited.

Once, from a window in Florence, she had looked down on someone she thought was fashioned like this: brown-haired and solid and calm. She had forgotten, till now, how different Nicholas was. It was like forgetting birth, or the sea. The seething, chopped tides of the sea, with combers of violet and crimson emerging. The walls of the palace were red, and behind him the spires of the gatehouse were burning like torches. He lifted his head, deigning to give her at last his attention, and met her gaze with his own.

Time stopped. For almost five months she had meditated on what she would say to him, and how she would say it. She had planned it in anguish and bitterness. She had not forced herself further: to visualise how he would look, or what she would feel when she saw him. Perhaps he had not either, or perhaps the long silence from which, bemused, she began to emerge was deliberate. She realised that her escort was waiting behind her, and that the group by the gatehouse was murmuring.

Now the sky flamed; the air they breathed was dyed red; the palace windows glittered and burned. She choked, her throat clearing at last, and saw Nicholas smiling at last: the brilliant, deep-dimpled smile that filled her with horror. Before she could speak, he unloosed a
hand and, smiling still, indicated the way through the yards to the palace.

‘Walk over with me,’ he said.

Clémence de Coulanges heard the words from the entrance, and caught the suffocating change on the young woman’s face. It arose perhaps from debility. Once of exceptional looks, the girl had grown hollow, as many wives did in a crisis of marriage. The husbands were most often unmoved, unless to guilty bad temper.

To Mistress Clémence, M. de Fleury had shown nothing that morning of either impatience or temper. They had been at Hesdin for an hour. All the time his wife’s cortège approached, dim against the dawn light, and even when the Lady dismounted, M. de Fleury had stood motionless; had indeed let her walk for some distance before he moved forward to greet her. Then, cruelly perhaps, he had said nothing. Mistress Clémence saw that the Lady herself was struck dumb, either from fear or from nervousness. The silence, as it stretched, became ominous, like the deadening of sound when a cannonade stops. Then M. de Fleury had uttered four simple words.

Mistress Clémence didn’t know what inner meaning they bore, but saw that they had one. After a while, Gelis van Borselen visibly called on her will-power and spoke. ‘My lord? I shall go, of course, wherever you wish. So long as I still have a son.’

Clémence de Coulanges clicked her tongue and walked forward. She observed that M. de Fleury was smiling. Then, as if he knew she was near him, he turned, and drew her out where the Lady could see her.

The lady Gelis sprang forward. Her fingers, clutching Clémence by the wrists, were painfully fierce. Then she loosened her grip and stepped back. ‘Mistress Clémence. You are well?’ She was a lady of style, Gelis van Borselen, dame de Fleury.

Clémence said, ‘Madame, I am well and so is your son. Pasque and I have cared for him. He is safe in the Burgundian camp.’ Halfway through, she slackened the rate of her speech, realising that M. de Fleury would not stop her; that this was why she was here.

You could see the Lady thinking so, too, the Nordic blue eyes studying M. de Fleury. He returned her gaze, smiling still. The Lady said, ‘When did you leave camp?’

She spoke to Clémence, who replied as a good servant should. ‘Early this morning, madame. The child was sleeping, well guarded, with Pasque.’

It was the truth; that was all you could say for it. ‘Guarded by whom?’ said Gelis van Borselen. It was a remark, not a question. A remark touched with weary contempt.

‘By my men,’ said M. de Fleury at once. ‘Do you doubt therefore that he is safe? Pleasures, as someone said, are best when deferred.’ He paused. ‘Shall we go in? The sun is up, and food awaits us, and entertainment of one kind or another. In case the conversation should fail.’

He had turned. He looked unsurprised to find Mistress Clémence blocking his way. Mistress Clémence addressed him with firmness. ‘Your lady wife, M. de Fleury, is tired. Once she has rested, we shall be glad of the refreshment you offer.’

‘And the entertainment,’ M. de Fleury said agreeably.

‘This is a palace of springes,’ said Clémence de Coulanges. ‘If your wife does not know, she should be warned of it.’

‘I felt sure,’ said M. de Fleury, ‘that you would deem it your duty to tell her. But she knows. Everyone knows, but not everyone has first-hand experience of them. You have no objection to touring the château, have you, madame?’

He was smiling again. The lady Gelis said, ‘If it would really amuse you. Either you have changed, Nicholas, or you believe that I have. As we walk round, would you like me to scream? Pray? Weep? Call for my mother? I shall do what I can.’

‘I thought you didn’t like your mother,’ he said.

‘Then I shall call for my sister,’ she said. ‘You know how close we both were. Shall we go?’

The refreshment he had spoken of was there, laid out on fine cloths in a parlour. Despite what he had said, M. de Fleury did not join them. His lady wife sat, while Clémence set wine before her, and food which only Clémence ate. The lady said, ‘Does he treat you well, Mistress Clémence? And Pasque?’ Her eyes said, Is this a trap? Can I trust you?

‘It is not a settled life,’ said Mistress Clémence. ‘But he treats us well, and it is suitable enough for the child. You know that we have chosen to stay for the sake of the child.’ She saw the mother relax, as she ought. She, Clémence, had spoken the truth.

‘I pray to God you will continue to stay,’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘Mistress Clémence, what else will he allow you to tell me? Whatever happens, you must not offend him.’

‘I shall say what I please,’ Clémence said sharply, clearing her mouth. ‘Master Jordan is in no distress; eats well; grows; M. de Fleury has done all that he should, and has told the child you are coming. In my opinion, you should insist on going straight to the camp. There is no call for you to go through this nonsense.’

‘Well, madame?’ said M. de Fleury. She had not heard him return.

The lady Gelis looked up. She said, ‘You have the esteem of your
nurse. She believes that I may refuse to do this with impunity. I prefer to pay my price, and be free.’

‘Free?’ he said.

She looked at him. She said, ‘I understand. It is a relative term. I place myself in your hands.’

‘Entre cuir et chair as of old: I know how secrets attract you. Then what are we waiting for?’ said Nicholas de Fleury expansively.

This is a palace of springes
. Springes, and springs. The Counts of Artois, two hundred years since, had made this fortress a playground for mockery; a place where high-born lieges paid for their suppers by suffering, overcoming, enjoying – if their natures were hearty – a series of practical jokes, devised to mortify and to hurt, to shock and to shame. Forty years ago, Duke Philip of the black wit and sardonic mind had had the devices repaired and improved. His son, the single-minded, the dour Charles, did not use them. But they were still there.

As Nicholas said, everyone knew about Hesdin, including herself. Apprehension, then, was part of her punishment, followed by mortification, ridicule and discomfort. She had no redress. In losing the child, she had placed herself in his physical power, not only today, but for as long as he wanted. But whatever happened, she would see that he received no satisfaction; saw no trace of anger or fear. It struck her as curious, frightening even, that he had expected this circus to cow her. Unless, of course, he had heard what had happened when he left her childless in Venice. She had broken down then. She had shown fear and anger and every aspect of agony then.

But that was over four months ago. She had recovered. And – blessing and pain at one time – the child was not here, distressed witness of her humiliation. Unless, suddenly, Nicholas would overstep even that boundary and produce him. Apprehension of that, too, was her lot, she assumed. Apprehension mixed with terrible hope. Nicholas generally employed only the finest of weapons, and dealt in largely invisible wounds.