Among them was a single church spire, a well-head in a puddle, and a circular wall with an assortment of new stone and timber buildings inside. The King’s Wark, Anselm Adorne had been told. A royal enclave, in which the King’s ordnance could be stored, and where the Court could stay when travelling. For this was the haven of Edinburgh. This was the greatest port in the kingdom.
The greatest port in the kingdom. Anselm Adorne thought of Sluys, the harbour of Bruges, with its well-equipped quays, its scores of tall masts, the fine buildings where princes might stay. He thought of the celebration when the Venetian galleys arrived: the flags, the music, the fireworks. Then he dismissed it all firmly from his mind. Sluys was one of the richest ports in the world, along with Venice and Genoa and Alexandria. It would be hard enough to prevent the children – the young people – from drawing comparisons. Scottish trade mattered to Bruges, and to Burgundy. The rulers of Scotland and Burgundy were related. One must not offend.
At the same time, one should not allow oneself to be ignored. It was known that he was coming, yet despite the great flag of Burgundy that floated over his head, bright with fine silks and bullion, no boat had put off to guide them up the estuary. The navigator taken aboard at Newcastle was familiar enough with the coast, but might well have balked at attempting the haven, with its notorious sandbar, condemning them to a day or even more in the roads.
As it was, he brought them in on the dregs of the tide, but the anchor came down without direction or guidance in a river-mouth as devoid of activity as a port with the plague. He wondered, fleetingly, if that were the explanation, although Dr Andreas, his physician, thought not. A great ship arriving was an event which, anywhere in the civilised world, commanded a crowded jetty, a customs boat, a fleet of business-seeking skiffs. And this was not merely a great ship, but an embassy from Burgundy. The royal officials should have appeared there on the jetty at the first sound of his trumpets, and should be aboard, with the fellow Lamb, his host, amongst them.
Instead, as the sails were stowed and the ship swung to her anchor, he could see nothing but a few old men watching him over their fishing-lines, and some curious faces peering out of the boats. He sent his chamberlain, who spoke Scots, to hail one of them. A calm man, Anselm Adorne showed no alarm, but wished, not for the first time, that all his companions were mature like himself, like his officers, like Andreas and Metteneye.
Twenty-four, of course, was not so youthful, except to an ambassador who was twenty years older. Anselm Sersanders his nephew (who was exactly that age) said, ‘It can’t be the plague, or they’d have warned us. And they wouldn’t be sitting there.’ Sersanders was intelligent, and reliable, and five feet six inches in height.
Katelijne his niece said, ‘I expect it’s dinner-time.’ She too was small in the way that gadflies are small, with the hazel eyes and bark-coloured Sersanders hair mixed (her uncle was vain enough to know) with the comely looks of the Adorne doges of Genoa. Katelijne was fourteen and here to stay, because her parents were worn out with trying to keep pace with her. Anselm Adorne knew how they felt.
And Maarten, the last child in his company, although twenty and his own second son, was more of a child than the other two, because he had the sturdy good looks and the brains of Margriet, Anselm’s dear wife, which would ensure him a plain, decent living in some branch of the Church, but never more. Anselm Adorne was a good father to all of his many children, but did not bestow his dearest love on this child. Who doubtless knew it.
‘You always think it’s dinner-time,’ said his nephew, answering his sister.
‘It would account for it, though,’ said Adorne, returning to the present. ‘I imagine our hosts went to eat, thinking we should be held in the roads till next tide. We are staying with Lamb, isn’t that so?’
It was the case, of course. Lamb had the biggest house. He was a merchant, and used to putting up travellers, in the same way that Jehan Metteneye’s own home in Bruges acted as hostelry for incoming traders; as Adorne’s own palatial mansion did for others more princely. They would stay with Lamb, who would see they got to Edinburgh safely tomorrow. Meanwhile, they were stuck.
Or perhaps not. ‘They’re coming for us,’ said Maarten, Adorne’s son. ‘Look, they’re running.’
Three or four men of unprosperous appearance were hurrying down the bank of the river, intoning. A moment later, a boat had put off from the shore. A remarkably short time after that, the Burgundian embassy, its young and its officers were climbing the forestair to a large stone-built house whose owner was absent, and where the honours had been launched in his place by a courageously dignified wife with her head wrapped in Flemish-style linen.
Maister Lamb, she said, was doun on the strand with the childer. With the rest of his household. They didna expect his lordship sae soon. But she prayed that their lordships would enter, and the burd would be spread so soon as the ovens were fired and the laddie came back frae the cook-house.
Anyone living in Bruges was familiar with the Scots language. Born of generations of Bruges burgomasters and ducal officials, Anselm Adorne also knew all about civic disasters. Provided no insult was intended, it was always best to be lenient.
He said, ‘There is no haste. We ate well on board, and need exercise rather than rest. Where is the strand? Perhaps your husband is on his way back? The young people and I might go to meet him?’
Surprisingly, the eyes of two of their host’s kinsmen met. Their hostess herself seemed to hesitate. Then she said, ‘Aweel now, I’m no certain sure.’
‘Why?’ said Anselm Adorne. He kept any sharpness out of his voice.
The woman looked at her household again, and seemed to make up her mind. ‘Because …’ she began. ‘Because the King is there, that’s the truth o’ it. It’s horse-sport and suchlike. Him and his siblings, they like to race on the sand, and you’ll not keep a Leither at home while there’s something to wager about, so all the port-folk are there, instead of minding their wark, and what’s rightly due tae a guest. And John himself was commandit, and couldna say nay, or he’d have been here when ye came. Otherwise, I wouldna have tellt ye.’
‘The King and his brothers are here? On the shore?’
She flushed. ‘I hear they keep mair state in Burgundy. It’s not that way with our King.’
‘No,’ said Anselm Adorne, smiling at her. ‘I knew his brother in Flanders. But tell me: do you think we may go and watch him without causing offence?’
She bit her lip. She said, ‘It’s a rough crowd, Maister Adorne. John wad never forgie me gin ye came to ony hairm. And the King, forbye, would tak nae tent, or his gentlemen. When they’re gone to their sport, commoners are meant tae turn a blind eye.’
Adorne said, ‘He need not know we were there. You don’t tell me that a crowd of Leith burghers and porters would cause harm to a group of visiting Flemings? But of course, if you think so …’
‘Are you coming?’ said his niece Katelijne from the doorway. ‘See, Master Lamb’s cousin is going to take Anselm and Maarten and me, and I expect you could come. He says there are lots of women there, and children, and a cook with a fire. I’m going.’
They went. Not with Andreas, who preferred to stay, or the other officers of the household, whom he left to see to the boxes. But Metteneye and Adorne went with the children – with the young people – picking their way east through the cabins, the poultry and fish-creels to the rough grazing that ran down to the sea, where cattle browsed through the whin, and geese hissed, and half a dozen middle-aged burghers in decent serge doublets swished through the grass with thick sticks, as if beating for hares. A ball rose in the air, and fell at Metteneye’s feet. He bent to lift it, and was deterred by a shout.
Adorne said, ‘They are playing a game. We are disturbing it.’
‘I know the game. I have played it. They each hold a kolf, and are hitting a ball with it,’ said his niece. ‘But where is the target?’
‘Us,’ said her brother. ‘Don’t be silly: the
re isn’t a target, they hit the ball into holes. Come on. You can’t play. I thought you wanted to see the races.’ And taking her by the arm, he dashed down the links to the beach, Maarten following, while Adorne and Metteneye followed at their own pace, looking about them.
The crowds on the edge of the beach were not like the burghers of Bruges. The men who, touched on the shoulder, gave way readily enough to the foreigners, were dressed in plain canvas or fustian, with their leather aprons on top, as if they had just left their boats or their spades or their workshops. By contrast, the inner circle of spectators wore the swords, the leather jerkins, the fine wool doublets and light cloaks of officers of the Crown, of guards, and of landed men of the Court, and even Katelijne did not thrust between them, but stood with the others and tried to see what they and the crowd were all watching. After a bit, she dropped on her knees and looked between their legs, lifting her hair out of the sand. Her brother said, ‘Katelijne!’ but she was used to that.
She saw the beach, dry near at hand, and further away firm and shining and pocked like a ploughed field with hoof-marks. Beyond was the grey sea, and far beyond that, the pale shores and blue hills of the land on the other side of the estuary. Near at hand from the right came the sound of low drumming. She put her weight on her hands and peered forward, pushing someone’s scabbard out of the way.
The beach was far longer than she had imagined. It ran glistening and yellow-grey into the distance, where a cloud of silvery spume announced the approach of a massed group of riders, vying with one another in and out of the surf. The drumming sound came from their hooves. The other roar, from behind, came from the frenzied throats of the waiting Leithers, laying off wagers. The riders came nearer.
They were not commoners. You could tell that from quite far away. First, the colours showed through the watery mist: crimson, azure and tawny, golden and black. Then the stuffs of the hats, the pourpoints, the gowns and the doublets: velvets, satins and taffetas, winking with jewels among the great dashes and drips of salt water. No one stopped them ruining their clothes, which surprised and then pleased her. She had thought Scotland was a poor country. Then she saw that they were children.
She revised her opinion in a moment: there were grown men and women among them; pretty women and handsome, high-coloured men. But the two leaders were barely fledged: boys of reddish hair and complexion, mounted on horses the like of which she had seen only once or twice even in Ghent; horses with the long-shafted bones, the dark muzzles and eyes of the Arab. The harness of both was of silver. Their whips working, the rivals glared and strained, their pale-rimmed eyes stark with endeavour. The younger, a boy of no more than her own age, was winning.
They were the only ones of their kind. Behind them, the horses were Flemish and the riders in their twenties and thirties, although she saw a boy she put at ten or eleven, and a red-haired girl-child on a pony. She got to her feet and stood beside her brother. The race hadn’t quite finished.
Their uncle’s voice said, ‘Do you recognise the boy in the lead? Alexander? He lived at Veere until he was ten.’
Katelijne knew all about Veere in Holland. The lord of Veere was Henry van Borselen. His son had married a Scottish princess, and Alexander the princess’s nephew had been sent to her household in Flanders for training.
Accordingly, the boy in front, if the same, was Alexander Stewart of Scotland, Duke of Albany, Admiral of Scotland, Earl of March, lord of Annandale and of Man. And the older boy striving to beat him must be – was, from his looks, his dress, his annoyance – the older brother of Duke Alexander. In other words, James, Third of the Name, monarch of Scotland. Katelijne said, ‘No wonder they let him get his clothes wet.’
Alexander won the race. The King, flexing his whip, rode aside while older competitors, red and blue, green and black, clustered about him. After a moment he broke away from the group and, accompanied by the blue and the black, walked his horse to where others awaited him. They formed a company, and began to ride off. The men in blue and black came back again. Those who were left on the strand wheeled about, their horses tossing their heads. The man in black remained in one place, but replied smiling to the nobles and gentlewomen who curvetted about him. Alexander, cursing his excited horse, could be heard expressing an opinion.
Now that half the courtiers had gone, Katelijne could see and hear better. The prince spoke, and a man in green took out a whistle and played a a flourish of notes by way of comment. The man in black said, ‘You don’t really want to go on?’ His voice was drowned by others opposing him. He added, with a certain patience, ‘The horses are tired.’ The smallest, the red-haired girl, was shrieking demands.
‘Anselm?’ said Katelijne. Behind, a man in burgher’s dress had joined her uncle and Metteneye. It was almost certainly Master John Lamb, their host. Adorne was introducing Maarten. She said, ‘Anselm?’ again.
‘Yes?’ said her brother. He was drifting backwards and watching the strand. Play was being resumed. This time, the participants were lining up in two teams, four to a side, and people were scattering back to make room for them. The rest of the riders, dismounted, joined the spectators.
The wagering had started again. The teams were hopelessly uneven – children’s teams, with the red-head and the boy of eleven in one, and Alexander of Albany in the other. The spaces were filled up by those who had already taken the greater part of the action – the men in red and green, black and blue. The eighth player was a handsome woman in velvet.
Katelijne said, ‘You know why I’m here?’
Her brother grunted. He hadn’t wanted her to be sent to Scotland. She knew that; but also accepted, without resentment, that she was a nuisance at home. And it was a privilege among Flemish families of rank to offer a child to serve a foreign princess. Her uncle Adorne had just left a daughter in England. Gelis van Borselen and her sister had both held positions in Scotland. All the same …
At last, her brother had taken the trouble to observe where she was looking. He said, ‘The red-head? You think that brat is Albany’s sister? The one you’re coming to serve?’
‘He called her Margaret,’ Katelijne said. ‘I was told she was eight. I was told she was bright and adventurous. I think I’m going home.’
Her uncle, approaching, had overheard. He said, ‘No, you’re not. You don’t need her, but she needs someone like you.’
‘If she survives. What are they trying to play?’
‘Tzukanion,’ her uncle said. He spoke rather slowly.
‘What?’ said her brother.
‘It’s a game horsemen play in the Orient. They use long switches like that, and a ball. Each team tries to push the ball over the other team’s line.’
‘How do you know?’ said Katelijne. She wasn’t jealous of his knowledge; just interested.
‘From cousins. You ought to know. There have been a lot of Adornes in the Levant,’ her uncle said. ‘And tales come to Bruges.’ His face, normally composed, had become neutral, as if he were back at home, judging a dispute between traders. He added dryly, ‘Your little lady will come to no harm. Two at least have played it before.’
Long ago, Katelijne had learned to trust her uncle Adorne, as had her brother. Watching now, she saw that he was right. Roaring, screaming and whacking, all eight amateur players of tzukanion were joyously slamming the ball. Two, however, were experts, sitting easily in the saddle, swaying and swooping to one side or the other, and connecting each time, stick to ball, with a sharp and satisfactory click. The athlete in red, and the acrobat, the actor in black.
She had no sooner distinguished it than one of them hit a lifting and powerful stroke which sent the ball whistling over their heads and beyond beach and crowd into acres of bushes. There was no possibility of recovering it.
As neat a way as any of ending the game. The air was filled with catcalls and laughter and the sound of coins changing hands. The angry shrilling of the child Margaret’s voice halted them.
‘They should stop her,
’ said Katelijne.
‘In public,’ said her uncle, ‘it would be difficult.’
‘Then they should find another ball quickly. Oh dear, but no. But no. Anselm, that wouldn’t be fair.’
‘What?’ said her brother.
The man in black, facing inland, was pointing. The man in red, following his finger, turned his horse and began to trot up the beach and towards the rough grass of the links. He came close, so that for the first time they clearly saw his brown hair, his firm nose and jaw, and the set of his straight double-velvet-clad shoulders.
They recognised him. He saw them at the same time and, with a pleased smile, reined in beside them. The pleasure sprang as much from self-satisfaction, one might suspect, as from joy at the sight of his neighbours from Bruges.
‘There you all are,’ said Julius of Bologna, the handsomest manager of the Banco di Niccolò. ‘We heard you were coming. Tedious, isn’t it? We ought to be finished soon. Where are you staying? John Lamb’s? I’ll tell Nicholas.’
‘Your Nicholas?’ said Adorne civilly. ‘Vander Poele? Is he here?’ His niece Katelijne, below general notice, noted that he betrayed none of the amazement that her brother showed, or Master Metteneye, who nine years ago must have been acquainted with Nicholas, apprentice to the Charetty company, which – she had been told – employed Julius, too, as its lawyer.
The same Julius produced a casual grimace. ‘Do you think I’d be here unless Nicholas was? That’s him over there. Bonkle bought him a house, and he likes it. He’s out of his mind. If you had what he has, would you come here to spend it?’
Adorne said, ‘It depends. Perhaps Gelis wanted to come back to Scotland. A bride enjoys meeting old friends.’
Julius glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘He’s gone and picked up a ball. Excuse me. We’ll have to go on.’ He pulled a face and, wheeling again, tipped his feathered red hat at them all. Then he spurred dashingly off.
The Unicorn Hunt: The Fifth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 4