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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He said, ‘I promised the salt-master I’d look after the cauldron. You know that salt has to have blood? It has to be male blood: bull or buck or calf. Or human, of course. You add it thus to the brine, and it clarifies it. See.’ And he lifted the scoop.

  He seemed to be absorbed. At his waist, the axe glinted. For an instant, Simon was ready to lunge; and then the smallest swing of the dipper warned him what was going to happen. He rolled back and the dipper, correcting itself, swung back and over the cauldron, into which it delivered its cargo of gore.

  Deliberately, the brine had been permitted to boil. Instead of seething, turgid and brown, the blood leaped on the surface in vivid splashes and gouts, and inflated into thin blemished spheres which burst in fine crimson spray on the walls and dripped from the roof and filled the foetid air of the salt-house with the iron-sharp odour which, rank and stale with age, rose from the compact dirt he had been sitting in. Simon, fast though he moved, found himself – arms, shirt, doublet – filmed with blood, and felt it slide through the sweat on his face.

  The other man, streaked with gore, had hardly troubled to avoid it. He plied a long-handled paddle, still smiling; and then, taking a rake, revived the flames in the furnace below. His eyes in the flare were large and wet-lashed and ruddy. Simon looked at him, and felt a doubt, and dismissed it.

  The other man said, ‘I shall need to add coal soon. You can help me.’

  ‘Coal?’ Simon said. He moved back, inoffensively, and sat down.

  ‘Small coal. Dross. It comes from the mines near Kinneil. It gives more heat than wood or straw for less bulk, so the salt is quicker to form. You saw the mark on the door? Hamilton, of course, holds Kinneil and Carriden under the abbot, but he has agreed to let me develop it. Salt and sugar and alum have a good deal in common. I have access to a brilliant engineer, and some experience from the flatlands elsewhere. It all comes down to hydraulics and drainage.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me about coal,’ Simon said. He spoke as if amused, but in fact was astonished and angry. Hamilton should have mentioned this.

  ‘You mean your new Hamilton land in the west? But your Hamilton land has no coal,’ his captor said. ‘You thought it had, because I wanted to buy it.’

  There was a silence. Simon said, ‘That won’t wear. I saw the reports.’ Then he remembered who brought him the reports.

  ‘Quite so,’ said the man he had cuckolded. ‘But that was Joneta’s doing, for me. Her father sold you the land in good faith. As you remember, he himself made no claims for it. But it’s worthless, of course. Stone. You might get some gorse for your Kilmirren herd. If you manage to keep your Kilmirren herd.’

  Simon looked at him.

  The other man met the look. He said, ‘Did you think that was all? Did you think that all I would do is bribe your armourer and make you look foolish? Sleep with your mistress? Compel you to run in the snow, and hurt you a little? Do you really think that I, I of all people could not find just the way, just the fitting, flawless, appropriate way for Simon de St Pol to pay his debts to me?’

  ‘My armourer … You’re mad,’ Simon said. He believed it.

  ‘Beginning with your name. You saw the crest on the door.’

  ‘It is not your name,’ Simon said. He felt himself whiten.

  ‘Need we go into all that again?’ For the first time the other man rose and walked off and turned without cause. He said, ‘Your wife was my mother, and she named me as your child. I believe her. I know you were fifteen and forced to marry. I know she was nearly twice your age. Still, I cannot excuse you for denouncing her, or me. If I choose, I will use the name of St Pol as well as de Fleury. How will you enjoy hearing me call you Father? I could do it, Father.’

  And this was insupportable. Simon said, ‘You will not.’

  The other man said, ‘How will you stop me?’

  Simon showed his teeth. ‘By force.’

  ‘But I have the ascendancy,’ his captor said. ‘And the axe.’

  ‘You would kill your father?’ said Simon. He spoke with derision.

  ‘You invited your daughter-in-law to your bed.’

  It was time to stop this. Simon said, ‘That’s enough. You are not of my blood, or my father’s. As for Gelis van Borselen, keep her if you are able. She is too lusty for me. My God, I barely escaped with my manhood. She has a habit …’

  He waited.

  ‘Yes?’ said de Fleury.

  ‘Shall I tell you?’ said Simon.

  ‘If you want to. I thought I knew all her habits,’ said the other man.

  Already perplexed, Simon found himself outraged. ‘One would think –’

  ‘I didn’t care? Of course I don’t. But I dislike trespassers. I have returned the courtesy, by the way, so far as flesh will allow. Your taste and mine sometimes differ. Ada, for example. I felt the love of a working mother would be better savoured by Crackbene.’ There reappeared the punctual insult of the dimples. The man was still calm. He stood there, exuding an unnatural calm.

  Simon said, ‘I may, then, announce your wife’s coming child to be mine?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the other. ‘And I shall say, hand on heart, that so long as it is healthy, I should welcome any sister or brother born of my wife.’

  Put into words it was loathsome. Only a sick man would think of it. ‘No one would believe you,’ said Simon.

  ‘But they would repeat the story,’ the other man said. ‘And unless I let you, you couldn’t really deny it. Because I hold the ultimate card. The denunciation of Henry.’

  The words fell into silence. Simon heard them, his thoughts in disorder. Henry’s guilt. The danger he had remembered and tried to thrust out of mind: the murderous stabbing of young Mar’s preserver to which so many could attest – Adorne and his niece, Julius, Roger. The stabbing which de Fleury had not reported, Simon now saw, for this very reason. To hold against this moment the weapon, sharper than steel, which Henry – his heir, his jewel, his joy – had placed in the hand of his enemy.

  Simon drew all his forces together, and spoke. ‘I gather he was competent? If not quite competent enough?’

  The other man’s face showed no emotion. ‘Competent enough to ensure that, if Gelis survives, her child will pass for mine and not yours. If, sadly, neither survives, I have other propositions to put to the family.’

  The words shrank and boiled like chips of ice in the heat. Simon tried to retrieve them. ‘If neither survives?’

  ‘I am going to Bruges,’ the other man said. ‘And coming back. Whatever it, is, I shall convey my family news to you, or your father.’

  The chill this time was unmistakable. Simon said, ‘That is why you are going back?’

  He stared at Nicholas de Fleury who he now saw and had to accept was not the Claes he had known and despised. Who had come to Scotland on a cool, well-designed mission of vengeance which was not new, but had found many targets over the years, as he now recognised, although its full malevolence had never, until now, been turned against Simon himself.

  Except, of course, through the killing of Katelina, his wife. No one had ever proved that Nicholas caused the death of Katelina in Cyprus, but here was evidence at least that he was capable of it. Capable of killing Simon’s second wife, and now his own; now Gelis van Borselen, who had spoiled the pure line of the House he was carefully creating.

  Therefore Simon would meet hatred with guile. He would remove Henry from Scotland, so that no accusations could harm him. And then, or before then, he would exterminate Nicholas. Or he could be in thrall to a monster for life.

  He broke the silence innocuously. ‘You mean to come back to Scotland from Bruges?’

  ‘To fill your place,’ the other man said. ‘You are planning to take Henry away? And go yourself? It might be wise; I may not be a comfortable neighbour. You know I hold the land next to Kilmirren?’

  In the pan, the bubbling had died. Now, choking the liquid, beds of orange-brown salt were appearing, stained by the blo
od and the scum which no one had troubled to skim. Where it touched the hot lead of the pan, it lay, hissing.

  Simon forgot both Katelina and Gelis. He said, ‘There is no vacant land there.’

  ‘There is Kilmirren itself, which Jordan owns, and you manage. There is also the land Kilmirren held under the bailery. Until your superior tired – didn’t you know? – of your mismanagement. Now it is out of your hands, and I have it.’

  ‘Sir Robert has let you …?’

  It was impossible. The old man was wandering. His superior was the titular head of his family. Once, their combined ancestors had owned all the land they now shared. Then, as junior branch, Simon’s forebears had settled and built their own dynasty in Kilmirren. Henry’s pure line. Henry’s heritage.

  ‘Sir Robert of Elliotstoun has installed me. Or his son in his name, to be accurate. Don’t you believe me? Semple, they call themselves now, not St Pol. Should I do the same? You noticed the sign on the door.’

  Simon said, ‘And this is all against me? You’re mad. You have no interest in Scotland.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’ said the other man. ‘The King will buy – don’t you think he will feel compelled to buy? – some of the rather fine objects he saw today, and perhaps favour me in other ways. He did cause damage, and I have been amazingly humble. And my ship also brought people. Singers, carvers, masons and painters. A master melter and jesters. A glassing-wright and a goldsmith.

  ‘Forgive me, but I could dispose of you alone rather more cheaply. I suppose’ – he paused – ‘I simply prefer to work on a broad canvas. And, of course, there is Jordan.’

  ‘This is devilment for its own sake,’ Simon said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ his captor said. ‘But it is not careless devilment. You may at least know, as you suffer, that I mean it.’ And he rose to his feet.

  There was no point, now, in asking what he was going to do. The door was locked. The other man had the key, and an axe, and would be ruthless. His eyes spoke for him.

  Simon watched him, and thought. He would have to fight – he had always known that. But fight this time while keeping his temper, and goading the other man into losing his. Where was de Fleury weak?

  Simon said, ‘So, for whom are you amassing this power? You won’t get another wife now. Who would marry you? Didn’t you kill Marian de Charetty as well?’

  ‘You’re going to itemise my wives?’ the other man said. ‘Let me do it for you. My first wife brought me the Charetty company, but I didn’t kill her. My second I gave away to Zacco of Cyprus, who is not renowned for keeping his mistresses, and indeed, I am told she is dead. My third you know about. Do you want to talk about Joneta?’

  ‘If you like. Or about Gelis and David de Salmeton. You do know about that? He was much less discreet than I was, but I think the poor girl was starved for companionship. Except for one purpose, you don’t care for young women, do you?’ He said it, thinking aloud: even thinking about something and someone else. He hardly saw the small reaction, but it was there. Simon held his breath, his mind racing. Then he said, ‘My father was right about Diniz. I suppose you realise that?’

  ‘Better,’ the other man said. His tone was approving. Instead of coming nearer he stooped and, lifting the rake, stepped up and began to draw it through the mixed liquid and cake of the cauldron. The salt began to pile up at the sides. He said, ‘Yes, better. I could become annoyed about that. Your fat father Jordan branded Diniz his grandson a sodomite. With whom, I can’t quite remember. With me? With David de Salmeton? Not with me. And as you were saying, David de Salmeton has orthodox tastes, if unwise ones.’

  ‘But so do you,’ Simon said. ‘Some men enjoy mixing their pleasures, and find marriage convenient. Diniz has a wife and a child on the way, so there has been no open scandal. Until now, that is.’

  The rake continued to pass up and down slowly. ‘Well, go on,’ the other man said.

  ‘Letters came to the Castle from Bruges,’ Simon said. ‘From Tommaso Portinari to the King’s brother of Albany. They mentioned Diniz and the Charetty company. And Gregorio, your lawyer in Bruges. You know his mistress Margot has left him?’

  The rake moved without cease. ‘So I believe,’ its handler said.

  Simon showed his surprise. ‘A courier here? Ah, no. I see. The Ghost brought you a letter. So you have heard the news, too, about Diniz?’

  The other man stood the rake upright and leaned on it. ‘I should like you to tell me,’ he said.

  Simon said, ‘About Diniz’s lovers. There is no doubt at all that he has them. Men and boys. Mostly men, from the artisan class. He is a good-looking fellow, my nephew.’

  ‘Go on,’ the other man said. He threw the rake down and lifting a basket, wedged it into the grid over the salt. Then he stepped down and brought up the shovel. It was, discommodingly, the one on which Simon’s eye had been fixed. Gripping it, de Fleury continued. ‘So how did it become known? They all sang the news in the streets?’

  ‘A letter,’ said Simon quickly. ‘A love letter. His wife found it, and almost miscarried.’

  ‘An artisan who could write?’ his captor said.

  ‘A scholar,’ said Simon.

  ‘From Bruges. Someone living in the same town who still felt impelled to risk a love letter?’

  ‘From outside Bruges. From his travels. He brought the letter back with him. From his travels in Africa. All those long days and nights of great heat. You know how it was, you and Gelis. She told me. I can imagine it. The soaked mattress and pillows, the sweating skin, the suffocation, the ecstasy. She told me. Diniz was desperate, too – didn’t you notice? But he found relief where you’d least expect it. In whose arms? Can you guess?’

  ‘You are going to tell me,’ said the man he had cuckolded. He stood peaceably on the bench, without breathing.

  ‘It was Umar. Umar your well-endowed negro,’ Simon said. ‘A magnificent fellow, as you know, and sensitive to other men’s wants.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the other man said.

  It emerged distorted for, as he spoke, he had the shovel already upraised. Before Simon could get out of the way, the full spadeful of scalding salt hit him in the face where he sat. The pain made him grunt and the shock sent him lurching aside, but his wits didn’t leave him. Sprawling, he touched the rake, seized it, and was on his knees presenting it before the second steaming, winking block came flying towards him. It struck his neck and shoulder and tumbled and clung, a burning avalanche, a blistering poultice.

  His searing anger hurt more. The young brute had the axe, and the key. But the axe was not a sword: it was short in haft and only deadly when close. Simon surged to his feet and drove the rake with both hands towards the other man’s face. For a moment, it seemed he would reach it. Then his adversary saved himself abruptly, swerving sideways and back.

  The fellow hadn’t looked round. Being more cunning than once he was, he had committed to memory all the elements of their miniature, smoking arena; the greatest part of it taken up with the hooded bed of hot salt with its latticework of thick beams and hooks. To its right, on the deep, yielding floor of solidified scum, stood the round bath of warm brine and the tub and dipper of blood, occupying most of the space between cauldron and wall.

  To its left was the bench his captor had chosen as seat and later as step to the cauldron. The basket he had prepared remained tossed on its side on the grid while the others hung still from the roof, gently jostling in the updraught of the duel.

  On that wall, the left, were the pegs for the implements. Some still hung there: a pair of ladles, a scoop, a mallet, some bowls, a set of tongs. On the floor below them lay a hoe, and the corner between fire-hood and wall was stacked with forked sticks for porterage and spare hooked bars to join lattice to cauldron. In the front, between the firebox and the locked door lay a poker, and the bar to open the firedoor.

  These were, all of them, the arms for this contest. As much as a trial of strength, this was an exercise in improvisation, in strategy
. Simon laughed with battle excitement. I have this rake; and you have an axe. What comes next? Of course: something long-shafted. The hoe. His opponent needed the hoe.

  Bending at the end of his swerve, the other man almost had it when Simon clawed it away with his rake. Then Simon swore. It had been a feint. The rake was what his opponent wanted and got, wrenching it free and hurling it hard out of reach, while Simon himself was sent crashing on to the ground. Then, before he could rise, he was flattened under the full impact of the other man’s weight, as his adversary flung himself down.

  For an instant, Simon experienced the power of heavy young muscle; heavier than his own, and more violent. For an instant, for the first time in their lives, the two were implexed flesh to flesh; stamped together body to wet, heated body. Then, like a brand-iron lifting, the younger man abruptly started away.

  It was what Simon needed. The weight gone, he could breathe. He used his experience, twisting and kicking. And although de Fleury counter-attacked as one who had remembered quite distinctly what he was doing and why, the lapse had given Simon his chance; he fought himself free, disregarding blisters, bruises, the agony in his elbow. The glint of the other man’s axe caught his eye and as he scrambled up, he snatched at it.

  He barely touched it, but it was enough to divert its owner’s gaze for an instant. Then Simon had the firebox bar concealed in his hand, and locked in the door of the furnace so that, when he sprang back and the other man followed him, the iron door, red with heat, caught his antagonist’s shin and the fire leaped out, brilliant in the dim light. Simon’s captor stumbled and swerved, his hair brushing the cones, and a mesh of shadows swayed over the ground as the single torch streamed. By then, Simon was where he wanted to be, with his back to the wall where the tools hung. He snatched down the shears and held them before him.

  ‘Again!’ the other man said. Since that bitter Thank you he had not spoken. Nine years ago they had fought, and Claes had survived because of Marian de Charetty. But Marian de Charetty was dead.