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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I expect so,’ he said. ‘And if she’s wise, she probably doesn’t know the real destination herself. Well, I can’t wait. We’ll have to leave it. You’ve done well. I think you’ll find they have some meat and ale here they won’t grudge you, and then a barn where you can sleep for a bit. I’m going back.’

  ‘I’ll give you a man, sir?’ said the captain. ‘Or more, if the Lady’s going with you?’

  He said, ‘No. I’ll go alone. It’s only four hours to Bruges.’ He would have daylight for most if not all of it. The captain, naturally, did not persist.

  His horse was already saddled when he went indoors for the last time and ascended the stairs. Margot intercepted him before he could go further. She said painfully, ‘Gelis tricked you. I didn’t know. She let it go so far before she gave in.’ She broke off. She said, ‘Sometimes I think I can’t forgive her. Or you.’

  ‘No one was hurt,’ Nicholas said. He touched her, and she flinched. ‘The screams were part of the play-acting too.’

  ‘Simon was hurt,’ she said. ‘You say Lucia is dead, and Henry in some sort of trouble. What kind of play-acting is that? I think you should leave your wife with her child, and give up what you are doing in Scotland.’

  He dropped his hand. ‘Do you?’ he said.

  ‘You can’t want this marriage. Open war, with a child in the middle? And it is escalating. You incite one another.’

  ‘I expect Gregorio would agree with you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Would you like to come back with me, now that Gelis is well?’

  ‘You don’t want me with her?’ she said.

  Nicholas said, ‘I was thinking of you.’

  Once, long ago, Margot had been forced into marriage and fled. Once, long ago, Margot and Gregorio had been unable to marry, but now her husband was dead, and they could. Except that they didn’t.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to keep secrets from Goro. I’ll wait until the official birth, and come back. She has to come back then, surely. This is no life.’

  He said, ‘He misses you. This is one thing that should not have happened. Come with me and marry him.’

  ‘Now?’ she said. ‘You think I should marry him now, after all that has been happening? No. It has been so all our lives, and it is not going to change now.’

  He said nothing more. He followed her to his wife’s room, and waited outside, and was almost beyond feeling when Margot came out and said, ‘She is sleeping.’

  Her eyes were on him. He said, ‘Let her sleep.’ He, too, had been felled.

  Margot said, ‘The child. What will you do?’

  He said, ‘I am leaving men here. She’ll expect that. She’ll probably find out how to elude them. I don’t think it matters. She’ll announce the birth when the timing is right.’ He stopped. ‘I should have liked to see the boy. Will she let me? Some time?’

  Instead of replying, Margot slowly re-opened the door, as if the answer might lie somewhere inside. The bleak afternoon light showed the chair he had sat on and the guttered candles and the brazier choked with grey ash. It showed the uprights of the bed, and the pallid rectangle upon which a girl lay like a stone, like a corpse on a beach; furled in her summer-light, bare-shouldered gown, her roughened hair spilled down her back. Her hand was sunk clenched in the pillow.

  Nicholas took off his lined mantle and lowered the furs, soft as snow, till they covered her. Margot started and stopped a small gesture. Outside she spoke. ‘Take your cloak back. We have blankets.’

  He smiled. ‘I have a raincloak as well. That will do. No. Leave it. I mean it. She will hate it so.’

  She looked at him. Her expression had changed. So far as he knew, his had not. Goro was a clever man, but transparent: they made a good pair. She said, ‘He has the best nurse that money can buy.’ Then she ran to her room.

  Riding back the way he had come, Nicholas was sensible of the difference. It was daylight. His attention, no longer compelled inwards, could play on the country about him: the bustle of birds, the sound of an axe, a fox crossing his path without haste. It was not spring as yet, but overhead the leaf-buds were thickening and the first petals were pale underfoot. He passed hamlets with pigs grunting about, and inquisitive children. There were carts on the road, and other riders, although no one he knew. Finding himself suddenly hungry, he stopped at an inn and took part in a solemn exchange on the subject of foot-rot.

  Disencumbered, exposed, the spaces of his mind were touched now and then by vagrant sound; by spangles of music which occasionally coalesced into something he had heard Will Roger devise, or the girl called Katelijne Sersanders. Sometimes the verses were bawdy. He chanted under his breath, knowing he wanted something else, and then knowing what it was. He also knew where to find it: in St Donatien’s, where – orderly, pious and calm – the trained voices uttered praise in the perpetual choir of divine service: hymn and psalm, collect and canticle, grail and anthem, cursed by Colard in ecstasy as he painted them into his missals. For evensong, Magnificat was what they would sing. He would be there very soon, and in time.

  He was singing inside his mind when he became aware that he was neither alone nor in casual company, but that the road was lonely, the trees dark, and a group of armed men was blocking his way.

  He swung his horse, looking for a way out, his sword in his hand, but it was too late, and there were too many. The attack when it came was peculiarly savage; or perhaps that was because he was so unprepared.

  There was nothing much he could do, except inflict what damage he might. He used his sword against other blades and, once, slashed a face; but they killed his horse and dragged him from the saddle, cudgels rising and falling. When the sword was knocked from his grasp, he used his dagger until his arms and shoulders were numbed. He protected his head for as long as he could, but the raincloak was thin.

  No one spoke. He didn’t argue, or plead. They were not footpads: they had not saved his horse or cut his belt or opened his purse. They knew who he was. They were what he had set upon Simon: bullies with clubs. Bullies with orders to frighten, to capture, but forbidden to kill.

  After a while he stopped struggling, since he was patently in their power and they might prefer to save their energy, too. They saved it by knocking him efficiently on the head. By then, he had worked out whose they were.

  Chapter 16

  SERVING FRANCE AS he did, the vicomte de Ribérac was not a man who frequented Bruges, and when he came there, it behooved him to stay with those families such as van Borselen, Gruuthuse or Vasquez with which his son Simon and daughter Lucia were connected. Even then, it did not always suit these gentry, however eminent, to have the French King’s adviser so close, and he would be installed in one of the family’s country manors outside the walls, and the Duke duly informed. The vicomte was generally watched, but had many ways of evading the watchers.

  Nicholas did not know the house into which, waking, he found himself being pushed and, since it was now dark and heavily raining, the landscape in which it was set was invisible. He judged, however, from the severity of his headache, that he had not been unconscious for long, and so could not be far distant from Bruges. He was pleased to think that the raincloak, though torn, had come in handy: the rain itself had revived him. Through the soreness, he felt alert, expectant, even elated. The truth was, he wanted an opponent who wasn’t a woman. He wanted someone who would hit hard, and whom he could hit back.

  The house was old, with worn tiles on the floor, but the door they brought him to was heavy and carved. His escort knocked and, opening it, ushered him in.

  It was a bedchamber. Eating in front of the fireplace, napkin under his jowl, was Jordan de Ribérac. He attended to what was on his plate, speared something on the point of his knife and opened his mouth to receive it. His jaw movements resumed. Then he looked up.

  As gross men do, he wore loose robes, buttoned tight at the wrist, with his shirt-bands not quite closed at the throat. His outdoor hat had been replaced by a deep cap of felt
swathed in white pleated muslin, which tumbled over one massive shoulder and into the napkin. Both were spotted with gravy. His knife was of silver. Its matching case lay on the cloth with his wine-cup. He said, ‘Untie his hands and wait outside. One of you fetch him dry clothes.’

  ‘Monseigneur?’ said the chief of his captors. De Ribérac was alone in the room.

  ‘Untie him,’ said Jordan. ‘He isn’t going to kill me yet. Are you, Nicholas?’

  ‘I don’t know, yet,’ said Nicholas, holding his hands out. Someone did actually cut through his bonds. He added, ‘You might simply have sent for me.’ The men who had freed him hesitated, and then left. He stood, pensively rubbing his wrists.

  ‘And you would have come alone?’ said the vicomte. ‘I don’t think so. I know the warehouse in Antwerp; and the office, the apartments, the soldiery the Bank has not been told it possesses. I cannot imagine why your guard were not with you just now. On such mistakes rest an old man’s feeble triumphs. And now you will undress for me.’

  ‘To music?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Was such the practice in Trebizond? One never ceases to learn. My son strips before me whenever he can,’ said the fat man. ‘To allow me to savour the contrast. Of course, I could summon my men.’

  ‘I expect they look the same, too,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have heard from Simon, I gather.’

  The fat man swabbed his platter with bread. ‘I have heard from Simon. I have visited Diniz. I have spoken to that fool of a woman, Adorne’s wife. I know what you did to my son and my daughter. I have asked you to strip.’ He looked up.

  ‘The Erring Nun Test? It wouldn’t work,’ Nicholas said. ‘No, I’m sorry. I must be light-headed. You want to see my safe conduct.’

  ‘Your safe conduct?’ said de Ribérac. He was peeling an apple.

  ‘A very explicit scar. Poor young Henry’s noble effort at murder. I’m sure Simon sent to ask what to do.’

  The knife moved round and round. ‘A fabrication.’

  ‘Before witnesses?’ He found a stool and sat. There would be an attack. The vicomte liked inflicting pain, or else watching it.

  ‘What witnesses?’ Jordan said. ‘Adorne’s doctor, Adorne and his niece will hardly speak for you now. The man Roger is English and coercible. Your Julius may succumb to a brawl in the streets.’

  It was surprising what he knew. ‘And Mistress Bel?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Lucia’s clucking hen you took roosting in Africa? See what a fine nest my daughter lies in,’ said Jordan, ‘through the efforts of Bel of Cuthilgurdy. She may have been soft with you once, but she will perjure what soul she has to save Henry.’

  ‘Assuming all five to be perjured or dead, then indeed there is no case against Henry. How may I help you?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘With a little information,’ said Jordan. ‘What news of this child of my line? Is the new infant born?’

  ‘Pray that it isn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘If it comes now, too soon, it will die. Or so the doctors are saying.’

  ‘Too soon?’

  ‘It isn’t due until April. You know that, my lord. And child and mother are feeble.’

  Jordan laid down the fruit. ‘We both know it is overdue now. We both know it is Simon’s. It must be born. Why are you lying? You are not fool enough to think Simon will claim it?’

  Nicholas stared at him. ‘But the father is Diniz!’ he said. The man turned crimson. Nicholas waited for the knife, or the wine, or the apple. Or a call for the bullies.

  ‘My dear boy!’ Jordan said. By sheer will-power, it appeared, his florid skin was reduced, his eyes gleaming. ‘My congratulations! So confident, and only yesterday full of terror! You speak of Diniz and Tilde, whose mediocre union will no doubt produce another mediocre child, should this one fail. I speak of your wife. What is the glorious news?’

  Nicholas pursed his lips. ‘She is reluctant to say.’

  ‘But she has given birth?’

  Nicholas pulled a doleful face. ‘I have seen her. She is no longer pregnant. Not pregnant, that is. But whether a child has been born, she won’t say.’

  Jordan wiped his lips slowly, leaning back. ‘But you would not have returned without forcing an answer. And if you did not, I shall, be quite sure.’

  ‘If you find out, you must tell me … Do you want that apple?’ Nicholas said, leaning over and taking it. ‘I heard she had no child, an idiot, or a son. I couldn’t tell you which was correct. What does it matter, if you don’t mean to claim it?’

  ‘Do you?’ the vicomte said.

  ‘It is her child,’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t mind fattening it. Life is sober enough: there is always room for a jest. Especially against the van Borselen. I shall cook and eat it next year.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Jordan de Ribérac said.

  ‘From you? Kilmirren,’ said Nicholas. ‘Then Ribérac. Then an apology.’

  ‘I am not Simon,’ said Simon’s father. ‘Simon does not know when to apologise. I do not know what the word means. You were responsible for the death of my daughter. You attempted the murder of Simon, and no doubt will try it again. Are you prepared also to kill Simon’s two sons?’

  ‘If you want me to,’ Nicholas said. ‘Certainly, there is no great enthusiasm for Henry, and the new child, if it exists, is from the same stable.’ He remained grave.

  Jordan de Ribérac was not smiling. He said, ‘Your death would solve all these problems.’

  ‘Would it?’ Nicholas said. ‘My fortune descends to Gelis van Borselen and her child. The Duke of Burgundy would take great care that it never left Flanders. Apart, that is, from the portion already invested in Scotland.’

  ‘A few houses?’ said de Ribérac. ‘The King would soon reclaim those.’

  ‘My land next to Kilmirren?’ Nicholas said. ‘Gelis and her child would inherit that. Semple allotted it. The King won’t interfere. The King needs the van Borselens, and needs Burgundy.’

  ‘The King wants Guelders,’ de Ribérac said. ‘So does Burgundy. He and the Duke may fall out.’

  ‘If Burgundy wants Guelders, he will get it,’ Nicholas said. ‘You know that as well as I. Scotland needs Burgundy. Or else you would have let Simon claim Gelis’s child.’

  ‘It is born,’ said de Ribérac slowly.

  ‘I believe it is,’ Nicholas said. The fat man was clever.

  ‘You believe?’

  ‘Legitimacy is a delicate business. It has been laid aside in some hayloft to ripen.’

  ‘Or in case you do the child harm? From your point of view, it is an embarrassment. From mine, a novelty. Give it to me.’

  ‘In return for what?’ Nicholas said.

  In the silence, he could hear voices outside the door. The clothes, arriving. Someone tapped. When Jordan did not answer, they tapped again. Then Jordan directed a single obscene sentence at the door, and the voices cut off abruptly. Nicholas tossed his apple-core into the fire and stood, watching it wrinkle and seethe. ‘La plus belle me devoit avoir,’ he said. ‘In return for what?’

  Jordan said softly, ‘What would you say to legitimacy? Legitimacy for you, as well as the child. Simon accepts you as the son of his loins. You become the heir to Kilmirren. And I rear the child, your successor.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Nicholas. He went and sat down, pausing to open a button or two. ‘One yearns and strives and, suddenly, there it all is, and so simple. I should need a statement under oath, of course, before agreeing. I don’t suppose you have a convenient lawyer?’

  ‘I can get one,’ said Jordan. ‘By the time you have eaten and changed.’

  ‘And Simon, when he hears, would agree?’

  ‘He would have no choice,’ de Ribérac said.

  ‘In spite of Henry? Were I legitimate, a child of my marriage would dispossess Henry,’ Nicholas pursued.

  ‘Henry is worthless,’ de Ribérac said. ‘You have, I should think, little love for Simon’s small assassin.’

  ‘I am glad you think the fi
ve witnesses were not entirely blind,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am glad, Grandfather, that we are agreed. And in token of it, do you know what I should like?’

  ‘Speak,’ said de Ribérac. He, too, had seated himself, but away from the fire. His skin glistened.

  ‘The ring on your finger,’ said Nicholas. ‘You remember the day we first met? I feel I should have something to remember it by.’

  ‘Mark it, you mean?’ said the fat man. He drew the band off with some trouble and gazed at it in his palm. ‘It is a family ring.’

  ‘So I see,’ Nicholas said.

  He waited. Slowly, the fat man held out his hand and rising, Nicholas crossed and lifted the ring on one fingertip. Below, Jordan’s empty hand curled and turned white.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said. ‘I was afraid you’d want my poor daughter to have it, but she has only two thumbs on each hand, and not even a human nose to put it through. But the next child might be normal.’

  Jordan’s hand closed on his wrist. Bearing down, he rose to his full height and stood, eye to eye. His skin, neither mottled nor red, had grown ashen. Nicholas laughed into his face. He said, ‘Sign my own death warrant? Will my fortune away? Did you think for a moment I’d do it? It’s time you took to your bed. You didn’t even make sure that the child was a son.’

  The hand bearing on his was quite painful. ‘And is it?’ said Jordan.

  ‘So I am told. I think I believe it. Neither you nor I are likely to see it, I fear, for some time. But it will be reared as a de Fleury, by me.’

  ‘If it lives,’ said the fat man. ‘She may not let you. She may marry again.’

  ‘That would be difficult,’ Nicholas said. ‘In my lifetime, at least. Did I give the impression that I would set her aside, or even harm her? I ought to have corrected it. I ought to have mentioned it, perhaps to Gelis herself. I expect her to go where I go, once the child is proclaimed. There will be no doubt, I assure you, of the paternity of the other sons we shall have. And when I have founded my house, my home, my land, my little dynasty, I shall take a ship back to Scotland and show my wife the waste ground where Kilmirren once was.’