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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘A son,’ de Fleury said. ‘It is born. A mite premature, so that its birth has been post-dated a little. I should be glad if you would maintain the fiction.’

  ‘A son!’ Adorne said. In spite of himself he rose and took the young man by the shoulder. Then he found his hand and shook it. He said, ‘I fear you have softened my hard heart as well. I cannot send a father to prison. I must – Let us drink to it. What excuse can we give to Margriet?’

  ‘We are saluting your magnanimity,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you mean it. And what I have told you is the truth. You have a check on me, you and your family. I owe you a favour. Despite what you have done to my courier service, I owe you a favour. Concerning which, I should like to touch on the subject of horses. If I might sit down?’

  When Margriet came back, they were drinking. It did not strike her as typical that, having brought nothing at all to his victim, Nicholas de Fleury should depart a free man, with a gift.

  There remained Gelis.

  She had not left the convent. His men, indeed, had made that impossible. It did not mean that she would comply with the directions he had given her, then or now. It was with silent amazement, therefore, that he opened and read a response.

  She agreed to the birth-date. She agreed to a visit from him, and then, later, her family. The child would not, of course, be visible: its age would be patently wrong. Its premature birth would be sufficient excuse.

  She would come to Bruges when he wished.

  He received that letter the day after his interview with Adorne. Returning from that, he had gone to his room, where there was a pile of correspondence to deal with. Julius arrived in ten minutes: he timed him. He took quite a long time, for Julius, to assimilate Adorne’s amazing restraint.

  ‘I did give him something in return,’ Nicholas said. ‘You know his courier service?’

  ‘Damned pirates!’ said Julius.

  ‘They need horses. So does Scotland. I’ve started a breeding programme – bought some stables and put a good man in charge. I’ve offered Metteneye and Adorne part-shares. They’ll make money; so shall we.’

  ‘But –’ said Julius.

  ‘And if it fails, we shan’t suffer too much.’

  ‘Nicholas?’ Julius said. Smiling broadly, he affected to swing a slow punch. Good ideas always found appreciation with Julius.

  It had been clear to Nicholas, long acquainted with ladies, that all Bruges would soon hear of the imminent birth of the baby. Reading the letter from Gelis, he resigned himself to telling his colleagues as well.

  It appeared everyone had been anxious. His hand was wrung, his back slapped. Cooks wept. Godscalc wept. His timetable, without his agreement, was wiped clean of every appointment, and a triumphal escort arranged to take him to his wife that very day. He persuaded them, with some effort, to postpone it until the following morning, and further conveyed, with even more effort, that he preferred to make this trip without personal friends.

  Everyone understood. Everyone was offended. Everyone forgave him at a bibulous supper at which he drank water flavoured with wine and parried jokes he had heard in Greek and Latin and Arabic, and usually better told. In the middle, Tilde let it be known that she wanted to see him, and when he came lifted her arms to his neck, and pulled him down to the pillow to kiss him.

  In view of the paternal rigours ahead, he was allowed to retire early, and gradually the noise died down below, and everyone else went off to bed.

  Not quite everyone. When Nicholas left the house, he was stopped at the gates by an anonymous figure, the rain soaking into the shawl it had clutched round its head. Tobie. Tobias Beventini, physician and pest. Tobie said, ‘Where are you going?’

  It was raining hard, that was true, and he was not suitably dressed. Nicholas said, ‘For a walk.’

  ‘There’s nothing out there but drunks and stray dogs and a few prostitutes.’ Tobie was grim.

  ‘It’s the dogs,’ Nicholas said. ‘I could never resist them.’

  ‘Well I doubt, looking at you, if it’s anything else,’ Tobie said. ‘Unless a death-wish for the rheum. When did you last have a night’s sleep?’

  Instead of shouting, Nicholas made his voice kindly. ‘You’re going to prescribe me a posset.’

  ‘It makes a change,’ Tobie said, ‘from sawing out cross-bolts.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I don’t need one,’ Nicholas said. ‘A refreshing walk in the rain. Nature’s remedy.’

  ‘Rubbish. Per intoxicationem, three drops: five hours’ sleep and no thinking.’

  ‘I like thinking,’ said Nicholas. He moved.

  Tobie moved too, and repositioned himself in his path. Tobie said, ‘I’m asking no questions. I’m simply saying, as a doctor, that you won’t solve the little matters of Loppe, or Umar, or Simon, or Henry, or Gelis or whatever else this way.’

  ‘By thinking,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘By imagining that you can do any damned thing without sleep. Like thinking. Like not thinking.’

  ‘What about like talking things through with a friend?’

  Tobie was silent. Then he said, ‘I wasn’t going to suggest it. I was going to remind you that you’ve stood injustice before. Thought it through, understood it, accepted it. Do it now, or nothing will mend.’

  Nicholas said, ‘I am more optimistic than you are. I think everything will mend. On my terms. Or above there will be the Angry Judges, and below will be Chaos.’

  The rain fell. ‘And that is straight thinking?’ said Tobie. He sounded tired. He said, ‘They say you’ve quarrelled with Gelis because she won’t go to Scotland. Or they say that’s why you’re going to Scotland.’

  ‘And thou shalt not sow thy field with diverse seeds, it says somewhere. Leviticus. Do you like Leviticus? Are we having an ordinary conversation now? I have not quarrelled with Gelis. The pumpkin gives birth and the fence has the trouble. Do you like quotations?’

  ‘Is that how you do it?’ said Tobie. ‘Fill your mind, push it away? But what if the block comes and goes as it pleases? What if you can’t stop the verse?’

  ‘Then I come out and talk to the dogs,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or the drunks, or the prostitutes, or some quack with an overpriced mixture. Do you know about candied marijuana seeds? They have an amazing effect in spiced wine.’

  ‘Five hours,’ Tobie said. The harshness, Nicholas knew, was to hide the relief.

  He had not meant even to appear to give in. He agreed largely because he had begun to think in Arabic and knew (O Believer, shall I direct you to a commerce that shall deliver you from a painful chastisement?) that he must cut the interview short, or soon he would speak it aloud. The well of memory. The well of his innermost being. It was one of the worst fears he had.

  Indoors, the draught was duly produced and convincingly swallowed. Gregorio had said it. Keep your pain to yourself.

  Next day, the ride to the convent was easy. The Bank supplied Nicholas with his liveried escort, and the gates were set wide in broad daylight. While his men remained below, the Abbess escorted him mirthfully to the upper chambers. ‘She is in bed, in case she is spied upon. So anxious for your good name! And her family are coming to visit her?’

  ‘Her family will join her tomorrow. And the boy? Is he here?’

  He knew the look now; the sliding, flickering glance. The Abbess said, ‘But you know better than that! The babe and his nurse are not here. But they are safe! He flourishes! I am told a beautiful child, like his father!’

  ‘You reassure me,’ said Nicholas.

  Gelis was in bed, it was true, and alone. Margot’s room, its door open, stood empty. No eavesdropping today.

  It wasn’t worth saying. Nothing much was. He saw, approaching the bed, how much time and money had been spent on the room since he saw it. The bed-frame had been changed for one of walnut, carved and painted, and the hangings were of striped voile caught back by silk and gold tassels. The towels, thick and fringed, hung by a basin and pitcher of silver, and the cushions and stools
were all new, and covered with tapestry. On the table next to her bed stood a clock. When the lord of Veere came, and her cousin Wolfaert, they would find her wealthy and cherished. Even beautiful. The twilled hair lay loose upon pale embroideries; the pillows behind her were silk. Her skin was smooth; her lips soft. Round her throat she wore aquamarines, the precise icy hue of her eyes.

  ‘Your birth-gift,’ she said. ‘I sent away for them. The cloak, although fine, was second-hand.’

  ‘I thought it appropriate,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Gelis said. ‘Well, shall we begin again, or somehow continue from there? We have a lot to discuss.’

  ‘You disagree with my plans,’ Nicholas said. He had worked out what she must know: about Lucia; about Simon; about Henry. About Adorne by now. His thinking today was exceptionally clear: he wished Tobie could have been present.

  She said, ‘You did get my letter?’

  ‘A landmark: I was touched. You didn’t mention coming to Scotland.’

  ‘Yes, that does remind me,’ she said. ‘I meant to discuss that as well. I don’t think you should go back to Scotland. And, of course, you can’t expect me to preside over the mortification or worse of my baby’s father.’

  ‘It might tickle your fancy,’ he said. ‘But in fact the prospect doesn’t arise. Simon has fled the country, with Henry. By fat paternal command, I imagine.’

  Her forefinger moved on the coverlet. ‘So he has conceded defeat. Lucia is dead. The score is settled?’

  ‘With my accepted son and heir christened Jordan? How, incidentally, do you mean to explain that away?’

  She thought. After a moment she said, ‘Motherly sentiment? A loving attempt to heal your estrangement?’ She cleared her throat.

  ‘It is still going to appear very odd,’ Nicholas said. ‘When the score is settled, that is. I hoped you would consent to come to Scotland for that. The mortification or worse of the old man. You don’t like him especially? That is, you only borrowed his name in the cause of our present skirmish?’

  She said, ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be war: people get killed in war. So you’ll come to Scotland?’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ Gelis said. ‘I don’t like Simon’s father: I loathe him. But I won’t help you attack him.’

  ‘Or watch me? You won’t take responsibility for your own actions? You started this,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Then punish me,’ she replied.

  ‘All right. Come to Scotland,’ he said.

  ‘But promise to leave them alone. Jordan and Simon.’

  ‘Simon has gone. You are saying you would rather I attacked you than Jordan?’

  ‘If you can.’

  ‘Oh, I can,’ Nicholas said. ‘As it happens, I can gratify Jordan and settle your score in one stroke. He has asked me to sell him the child.’

  Once before he had seen her like that, her skin tallow-white but for a rash of stark colour. He waited comfortably, hitched on a ledge, his hands loosely clasped, his eyes unforgiving. There was no one within call.

  It lasted quite a short time. Then she coughed again and said, ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I asked him the price. It’s a good one. Jordan rears and possesses his namesake, and I become Nicholas de St Pol, legitimate heir to Kilmirren.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t you like the idea? When I die, your son inherits everything: Kilmirren, Ribérac, the House of Niccolò. You won’t see him again, but you will have our other children to console you. I hope you are looking forward to that.’

  She was out of bed now, and already a few steps towards him. She said, ‘You can stand there! You can stand there!’

  The veils of her bedgown moved and shifted, and he kept his eyes immutably on her face. He said, ‘Could you not foresee all these moves? You married into this family on the strength of your skills. You had assessed your abilities against mine, against Simon’s, against Jordan’s. You must at least have done that. You must surely, however much you protest, have known what would happen to Simon. Perhaps you expected it also to happen to Henry.’

  ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘But it brought him into the game. Now your child is in, too. What is the matter? I thought the whole point was that he is expendable.’

  She stood still then. ‘Is he?’ she said. ‘Have you promised him to de Ribérac?’

  ‘Will you give me other children?’ he said. Unmoving, he watched the hem of her robe quivering. Then he lifted his eyes again to her face, but gradually this time.

  She coughed again. She was only a little distance, he knew, from being ill. She said, ‘Yes. If I can keep this one.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ he said; and walking across to the bed drew back the sheets tenderly and held out his hand. ‘Because that’s what I told M. de Ribérac. That I felt you and I might rear the boy better together, despite my illegitimate state. That, in fact, I had an odd feeling that were it otherwise, my life would not be a long one. And that, of course, we had plans for many dear offspring of quite impeccable parentage in the future.

  ‘I am glad you agree. I hope you will come back to bed. You needn’t fear that I shall climb in beside you. I dare say I shall overcome it, but at the moment I feel a certain repugnance. Will you come to Scotland?’

  She stared at him, her skin glistening white.

  ‘Or Bruges, then. You will come to Bruges, and we shall discuss Scotland. Or if neither of us can contemplate so early a reunion, we shall make other plans for our future. For our long happy future, Gelis, together.’

  He threw down the sheet and walked out, carefully closing the door. The guest-master knew where his room was, and he arranged to have his men fed and, indeed, joined them briefly. They made all the usual jokes, so that he hardly had to contribute at all.

  He heard by nightfall that his wife had been a little unwell and was resting. He heard the next morning that she was feeling entirely herself, and was sitting in state, prepared to receive such visitors as she must expect before evening. He was supposed to spend the day, naturally, with her. He was not sure, now, that he could. He went to see her, to find out.

  He had brought garments proper for a man celebrating the birth of an heir, and was not surprised to see that she, too, was suitably lapped in rich fabrics. She looked well, and showed no sign of illness. A little paint, he thought, had been applied. She watched him cross the room, her expression agreeable. She was one of the most gifted of all his opponents, although she had failed to take his measure last night.

  He said, ‘I thought I should be the first to congratulate the proud mother. Did you have a difficult labour?’

  She drew a short breath, and then appeared half amused, half resigned. ‘Why the concern? You haven’t asked me before.’

  ‘I thought you ought to practise some answers. For example, when was he born?’ He returned the smile, spreading his cap with its plumes on the bed and sinking into a seat. ‘Oh, not, of course, the real date.’

  ‘After midnight,’ she said. ‘An hour before sunrise. Through the night, in the dark.’ Her lips were still smiling, but she spoke with her eyes fixed on his. The words came slowly and stopped.

  Before he replied, he measured the carpet and priced it. Then he said, ‘That was the truth.’

  ‘Yes. Why not? I do falter in vice now and then. Nicholas …’ She seemed to consider. ‘The child is the only subject you speak of. This one, or others.’

  ‘What else is there?’ he said. He picked up his cap and revolved it. The jewel flashed, and roused light from her wedding ring.

  She said, ‘There are, surely, some other things we should talk about.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think that would be rash. I think the less talk between us the better.’

  ‘And yet you have decided to have children by me? When you have conquered your –’

  ‘I must apologise,’ Nicholas said. ‘It was not an appropriate word. But you have announced some decisions
quite as arbitrary. Unless you have altered your mind? You can still repudiate the boy and the marriage. You would find it difficult, though, I should warn you.’

  She said, ‘You don’t even know why I did it.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ he said. Some of it, he had guessed. He didn’t want to know more. He had no intention of putting any of it into words. It would sound odd if he did. Your sister chose me, and I obliged. She had my child and passed it off as her husband’s. You devised a singular punishment. You planned to do the same in reverse.

  He supposed that was it. There would be other reasons which were better not spoken. She knew that as well. Already, he thought, she was regretting the question. It was not to her purpose to explain, to accuse, to encumber the situation with needless emotion. With any emotion. He agreed with that, while reserving the right to frighten her when he must. It was all a question of control.

  He imagined the convoluted journey she had planned for them both as if it were a battle plan, a tough and delicate model, its bridges, gulleys, pitfalls all carefully constructed and tested. She would give nothing away, risk no words that would weaken it. He understood that, as well. He said, ‘Then you had better not say any more, in case I decide to divorce you after all. Meanwhile, you are still of the same mind?’

  He waited. It was a risk, but a small one. Whatever end she proposed, he believed that the path towards it would be a long one; that she meant to continue as she had begun, rather than end it too soon, immolating themselves and the boy – and the boys – in some self-destructive public confession. He credited her with having entertained that idea, among others. Above the gauze, the aquamarine eyes were assessing him. He was used to that, too.

  Then she said, ‘I am your wife. You are prepared to call Jordan your son. If that is what you want the world to think, I agree. I will come to Bruges. For the rest, I may need a little time. So, I gather, do you. It may not be a bad thing if you were to go to Scotland without me. How long will you stay?’

  ‘Long enough,’ he said, ‘to do what I have to do. I am building now by Kilmirren. A hall.’ He had risen to move to the door.