The Unicorn Hunt: The Fifth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘The wagons holding the wine have overturned,’ said Metteneye, who had exceptional hearing. ‘And the water has frozen. They suggest boiling the snow.’

  The voices above became louder, and the press slackened. The King had walked into the Great Hall, with the Keeper following. The hunting-party, including Adorne, ascended and entered behind him.

  The Great Hall was as stark as before – worse, for the shutters, chimney-cope and embrasures were thick with debris and dust. Only the rushes were fresh and, this time, there were whole tree-trunks on the distant great hearth, burning bright with blue flames. There were trestles and benches, and a cross-table on the dais by the fire for the King, but no cloths and no cushions. The boards were half empty and half set with pewter. More than one wagon, you would say, had overturned.

  The King was addressing the Keeper of the Palace in a part-broken, furious voice. ‘And the food? I suppose the wolves have taken the food? What is your office worth?’

  The man, his face pallid, said, ‘The food is here, your grace, and being cooked. You came – We did not expect your grace so soon.’

  ‘I think you did not expect me at all,’ said the King. ‘Perhaps I, too, was to be overturned on my way? It is not unknown. It has happened before. So mark you, if I ride back to Edinburgh as I intend to, without wine, without food, there will be a reckoning. And you, sir, will be the first to pay it. There is not even ale?’

  ‘Unless …’ said the Keeper.

  ‘There are other houses nearby,’ said the King’s half-uncle James. ‘Where is Hayning? Where is Hamilton? There will be wine at Kinneil.’

  ‘There is wine here,’ said the Keeper. ‘But it belongs to –’

  Katelijne Sersanders, in her uncle’s hearing, said, ‘No!’ Her voice expressed tremulous ecstasy.

  ‘– but it is part of the cargo of the Ghost. The ship of M. de Fleury. I gave leave, since the warehouse at Blackness is insecure. The merchandise is below, in the vaults.’

  ‘Here?’ said the King. ‘We don’t have to go to Blackness?’

  ‘No. Here. But locked. M. de Fleury is due to bring the keys when your grace should have finished his repast.’

  The King looked at his brother, and at his two sturdy uncles, who were smiling. The younger lord (Hearty James, he was nicknamed) said, ‘He can be sent for, your grace. Meanwhile, we can no doubt find a locksmith.’

  ‘Or a hammer,’ said Albany. Colour blended once more with his freckles, and his sister Margaret tugged his arm, her eyes shining. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  Anselm Adorne stayed above, while the rest swept down the stairs to the courtyard and across to the steps of the cellars. Not quite all the rest: Metteneye remained at his side with the nuns, and Maarten his son with Bishop Patrick, and Knollys, the Preceptor of the Knights of St John with a group of older barons and clerics. Will Roger, whistling silently, had also remained in the hall.

  But the children were all out there, jostling through the mud. The young people. Adorne stood by the open window and watched them. The King and Alexander of Albany and the young men of birth capering about them. The rotund Margaret, their juvenile sister. His own nephew and niece, walking quickly. And James of Auchterhouse and John, Earl of Atholl, not yet thirty, representing avuncular seniority and restraint. From above, their hats strutted like partridges.

  And the sober black cap of Kilmirren, who had held back at first. Of course, thought Adorne, he had reason to hesitate. In sparing Henry, Nicholas de Fleury had for the first time achieved some ascendancy over Kilmirren. But it seemed the comradeship of the young King counted more. In any event, Simon had gone.

  In the half-emptied hall, Will Roger said cryptically, ‘I doubt.’

  ‘I’m afraid, so do I,’ said Euphemia Dunbar. She smiled at Roger and turned the smile, deepening, towards Adorne beside him. The remorseless line of the wimple exposed the irregularity of her features in which her round eyes were set like bronze pennies.

  Euphemia, the Earl of March’s unmarried daughter, might not look like the rhymster of Haddington but, in his regular calls on his niece, Adorne had identified the authoress of the verse that now embellished the unholy alliance of Katelijne’s invention and Will Roger’s music. At Haddington the three had become friends, and Adorne was very content to have it so.

  Now he went forward and, easing a bench, made a space for her to sit beside Metteneye. Roger perched on the table by Maarten. Adorne said, ‘You think they will make too free with the wine.’ He returned to the window.

  ‘With more than the wine,’ said Will Roger. ‘There are fine things in that cargo, I hear.’

  The Bishop, standing nearby, stopped gnawing his lips. ‘I shall be interested to see them. M. de Fleury knows how to barter paste beads with negroes, but the lords of this country live as other lords do. Our merchants frequent Bruges. My royal uncle himself imported nothing but goods of the finest of workmanship.’

  He was thirty-three and hasty of tongue: an uncertain shadow of the late Bishop James Kennedy his uncle. Adorne, watching, saw Roger’s brows jump, and Maarten redden. He hesitated to intervene, for in some ways Patrick Graham was right to defend his family’s culture. However suspect his political acumen, James Kennedy had been a fearless and vigorous man, which was why the young Albany had loved him; why Anselm Adorne had placed Maarten in the care of his nephew. Some men grew into their office. Some offices transcended the man.

  All the same, diplomacy should not be forgotten. Adorne said, ‘My lord, whatever his taste, the young man does not, I believe, mean to impute to this nation a dearth of civilised comforts, but seeks merely to keep them replenished. It is all we merchants offer to do.’

  The Bishop grunted, shuffling. Adorne, his thoughts disturbed, averted his gaze to the distant descent to the cellars. As he did so, a row of barrels emerged, and began to traverse the yard in the direction of the kitchen, followed by a man rolling a vat, and others shouldering kegs. He said aloud, ‘The wine has been found.’

  Metteneye got up and joined him, followed by Roger. Metteneye said with approval, ‘They mean to heat it.’

  ‘Well, some of it,’ said the musician. He leaned out, pulling his cloak tight about him. Outside, an odour of warm roasting beef had begun to temper the air to the north. Other smells stirred. The ovens, heated at last, had been loaded with food. From the direction of the cellars came an outburst of muffled laughter and some shouting, followed by the hollow blows of a mallet. It did not sound as if a locksmith had been found, or even sought for. Will Roger gave an exclamation, and strode out of the hall.

  Everyone else stood at the windows, the Prioress and the Bishop taking the centre, their eyes fixed on the recess where the cellar steps lay, still in sunlight. A small crowd of workmen and grooms had gathered hesitantly in the yard, giving way from time to time as a liveried servant disappeared down the steps. One of them carried a crowbar.

  Adorne said, ‘This is a pity.’ He could say no more. The King was there, with his uncles. It was not for a foreigner to interfere.

  The first person to emerge was the lady Margaret, climbing the steps and marching over the mud. Her hat was still intact, tied on top of her furious red hair, but her cloak had been replaced by many ells of black and gold velvet, unrolled from the bale and tied by some means to her shoulders, from which it fell as a train into the occasional grasp of a page. It did not fall in the mud, because someone was walking beneath it. Adorne recognised, choking a little, the legs of his niece. Knollys said, ‘The stupid young wench – the expense o’t!’

  ‘To whom?’ said the Bishop. ‘Perhaps you would care to go out and help her? Then again, who knows what will come next?’

  What came next were three folding chairs, each of velvet-trimmed leather and tasselled, and each borne on liveried legs. After a pause, and a burst of louder laughter, a scroll appeared which, lengthening, turned out to be a long roll of arras succeeded by a close-stool and a hat-stand. There followed cushions, many of them, and
a procession of stand- and field-beds and a mirror. And then pile upon pile of fine linen followed by heavy objects which appeared to be plate-chests. There were coffers, and trays, and a wall-clock; lecterns and sheets; a perfume-burner and a fine Turkish carpet. There emerged Will Roger, grim-faced, supervising the carriage of two objects no one recognised at all.

  By then the King’s sister had entered the Great Hall with her train, inevitably mired, dragging behind her. Katelijne said, ‘They are unpacking it all.’

  Her uncle said, in Flemish, ‘We can do and say nothing. You have helped as much as you could.’

  He watched, since observation at least was open to him. Eventually all the King’s party had made their hilarious way back to the warm, the filthy Great Hall. And below dirtied glorious arras, upon blemished cushions of silk and velvet and leather, served on embroidered snagged linen, aided by dented exquisite silver and lit by ill-hung, precious candelabra, the banquet was served.

  Nicholas arrived at the end, with his keys. Arrived, in person, in the centre of the Great Hall, without warning from gate-keeper or porter; without discreet interception by Argyll or by Whitelaw to prepare, to explain, to excuse what the Princes had done.

  Anselm Adorne saw him enter and stand, his sable cloak held at one shoulder; his other hand, finely gloved, hanging idly between the black hem of his doublet and the gilded leather below.

  Far down the table, Simon glanced up and saw him, and his face changed. Adorne, ceaselessly observant, saw Nicholas de Fleury’s dense gaze rest on Kilmirren for a moment, then move. It travelled slowly over every part of the vast room, from the dishevelled tapestried walls to the broken Venetian glass, the smeared salvers and magnificent salt-cellars on the strewn tables; and then extended to the diners, their servants beside them, whose inconsequential chatter and laughter began slowly to dwindle, and then resurrected itself, vaguely, in gleeful whispers.

  Adorne said, ‘The wine. What was in the wine?’ At the top table, the Princes lay back in their tasselled chairs while the elders about them sat up, and tried to recover their gravity.

  The wine, warmed, had been spiced. With what, Adorne could not say, although he had tasted something like it before. He was conscious that even his head, legendary in Bruges, had been affected.

  Metteneye said, ‘Lamb’s house in Leith. The same spices.’

  The same spices, before the night on Leith strand. The same spices, supplied by de Fleury.

  Perhaps he exclaimed. The altered eyes of the same Nicholas de Fleury met his and then passed beyond, with the same level, measuring gaze. He showed no horror or anger. You might have thought him indifferent, except that in the real world, no merchant, no banker would tolerate this scale of capricious behaviour. The statesmen about the King must realise that. The King, the young people, the people perennially young like Simon of Kilmirren perhaps took it for meekness. The humiliating meekness of Claes; of a small, subservient merchant, afraid of offending his betters.

  A rustle ran through the room. And even as it ran, Nicholas said, ‘My lord. I intrude. I see you have keys of your own.’

  The King sat up. Finding an uncle’s hand on his shoulder, he shook it off. He said, ‘We did not expect you to make of the simple journey from Berecrofts a task as long as your travels in Asia. Did you expect us to await you all night?’

  His voice was indignant. Nicholas, between the two arms of the trestles, did not advance any nearer. He said, ‘The fault is mine, my lord King. I would have unpacked and furnished the Palace myself, had I known you wished to purchase so much.’

  The King glanced at Bishop Graham, and away. He said, ‘Purchased? We have merely ordered a view of your goods, many of which are damaged, or below those standards common to Scotland. We shall tell you, in due course, which if any we propose to keep for ourselves.’

  ‘My lord is gracious,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You have, I hope, no complaint?’ said the King. Below the table, visibly, he received a kick from Alexander his brother. A rustle of laughter ran round the room.

  ‘My lord King, on the contrary: I excuse myself,’ Nicholas said. ‘And would ask you, as a favour, to receive from me without charge all those items you have identified – all those items which are not entirely perfect. Would it please my lord to accept them in loving gauge gift from a servant?’

  ‘He’s gone crazy,’ said Metteneye.

  ‘Has he?’ said Adorne. The subdued laughter had increased.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said John, Earl of Atholl, his manner ponderous. ‘It is an offer of exceptional generosity.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘Provided, of course, his grace can make use of them. Perhaps they are not to his taste.’

  He did not look at Bishop Patrick, but the shaft had pricked its target, Adorne thought, his apprehension shot through with passing amusement. But apprehension was what, increasingly, he now felt. Nicholas de Fleury was not nowadays a subservient man, and if he courted humiliation, it was for a purpose. The result, for the moment, was a murmur of subdued derision: the expression of a contempt which had its roots in disappointment. They had wanted an explosion, all those spoiled young men and their companions. It would have salved any pangs of conscience they might feel, or would feel in the morning.

  Adorne began to consider not only the morning, but the immediate future. The tapers burned now, and the shutters were closed against darkening skies full of snow. This well-dined company would never travel home safely tonight. He tried, discreetly, to catch the Bishop’s eye, and found it unnecessary. The King said, ‘Perhaps M. de Fleury has supped less well than we, and would join us at table. Unless the Master of Works thinks we have had pleasures enough, and should leave before nightfall?’

  ‘I beg,’ Nicholas said, ‘that the King’s grace would not dream of delaying his departure. Although there are plumdames and nuts just arrived, which I had hoped to tempt him into tasting, and, of course, the merchandise to select. Or if it would please him to stay, there are beds and pallets enough to serve most of his company. The blankets are still in the chests.’

  ‘And all, of course, for sale at moderate prices, allowing for damage and use,’ someone said, without troubling to whisper. De Fleury gave no sign of having heard that, or the laughter that followed it. Or of noticing the pleasure mixed with contempt on the face of Simon de St Pol, as he listened to the patronising voice of the Court, deciding to spend the night on M. de Fleury’s new beds in the candlelit luxury of the King’s half-built Palace of Linlithgow.

  Kilmirren himself got up shortly, and moved to where a place had been cleared and set for de Fleury, while the new sweetmeats were served. He saw that Julius, the Bank’s manager, had been recruited to unpack them. He had been on his way to Blackness, and did not appear to relish the task. Simon said, ‘Does your Bank complete many such deals? I now see the need for your journey to Africa.’

  ‘It had some advantages. Do you want to buy anything? I have a few bales of dun cramoisy; a compt board; a hood set. Or a fine silver stoup with twelve stops?’

  Simon looked, hazily smiling, round the echoing room. ‘Hitherto unused, I am sure. We are all well beyond the twelve stops except you. I have no doubt you feel yourself safer.’ He looked round. ‘What was it you said of wine, Dr Andreas? Makes man joyous, aids Nature in its course, and delays the onset of old age? Or was that marriage?’

  ‘I should hesitate to pronounce on marriage,’ Dr Andreas said, ‘although I am somewhat interested in the wine. I suggested to the young ladies that they refrain from indulging.’

  Behind him, Katelijne Sersanders was surveying them. The woman Euphemia sat beyond her. Simon, smiling at them, said, ‘It is the heat of the fire. You noticed the fire?’ They could not fail to have noticed. The hearth, big enough for three stone arcades, could and did burn whole tree-trunks. The blaze today contained something else.

  It was Dr Andreas the alchemist who replied, while his unemotional gaze rested on Claes. ‘Indeed, I observed someth
ing novel. The black stones, of which the late Pope Pius made mention. There is coal locally, and the King can afford it?’

  ‘Others, too,’ Simon said. ‘Already, some of us burn it. Soon there will be more. You yourself had hoped, Claes, to appropriate coal-bearing land? But the Hamiltons, it seems, felt some misgivings.’

  ‘The time ran out,’ Nicholas said. ‘I hear it went to somebody else.’ He looked up enquiringly, as Simon drew breath.

  ‘To me,’ Simon said. ‘To me, a friend. Does that not soften the blow? I paid a good deal, of course. But when I export, you may be sure I shall give you special rates. Joneta is pleased.’

  ‘Joneta?’ The voice was that of the Sersanders girl, Katelijne. Simon gave her another beguiling smile, answering. She was pretty.

  ‘Joneta Hamilton of Kinneil. Sir James’s natural daughter. She acted as my intermediary.’ He smiled again, differently. ‘I believe you tried to engage her interest, Claes? Once or twice? On the day of the tournament? She told me all about it.’

  The eyes of the girl Katelijne switched between Claes and himself. The girl said unexpectedly, ‘The King calls him Master Nicol de Fleury.’

  ‘And I call him by his real name,’ Simon said. ‘I have advised the King to do the same. The King’s grace, my dear Claes, has charmed us all, while you have been away, with his readiness to be advised. Have you told Claes yet, demoiselle, of your uncle? Of Sir Anselm Adorne?’

  She flushed with pride, he observed. She said, ‘It is for my uncle to mention it,’

  ‘Am I to know?’ said the man he was taunting. The man he couldn’t completely expose as a lout, or he could do some damage. But then, Simon could inflict some damage, too. And as a target, Claes was … irresistible.

  It was Anselm Adorne himself who came over, hearing his name. Claes rose, as he had not done for Simon. Adorne said quickly, ‘I wished to tell you myself. For love of his cousin of Burgundy, the King has seen fit greatly to honour me. It is a token deserved by our country, not myself.’