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

by Dorothy Dunnett

  In the corner, the artist had put his name, and a single word in Italian. She had heard it before. In the trembling hand, it looked wistful.

  She became aware that her thumbnails were white; and the vellum had stretched taut between them. She calmed herself and looked up.

  Nicholai Giorgio de’ Acciajuoli, brother of Bartolomeo Zorzi, had risen and gone. She knew, however, how to reach him.

  It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Tommaso Portinari’s visit occurred the same morning.

  Tommaso himself, preparing to call on Gelis van Borselen, had changed his dark managerial gown (trimmed with beaver) for a fluted doublet in damask with twisted buttons of gold, and hose whose embroidery did not conceal the interleaving of sinew and muscle between dainty ankle and thigh. An osprey feather from his hat mingled with his clinging black fringe, and his well-bred nose and high cheekbones carried the unmistakable lustre of success.

  He was forty-four years of age, and his career was at last attaining its peak. He was manager for the Medici in Bruges. He was the favourite merchant and banker of Duke Charles of Burgundy, and served on his council. His pompous brother Pigello was dead; the other was manager in Milan, and Pigello’s sons would perpetuate the Portinari association with the Medici. Messer Piero had promised it.

  He had got to Florence before Messer Piero’s health became worse and had obtained from his swollen hand the renewal of his partnership contract, securing him, for an input of four hundred pounds groat, a percentage of twenty-seven and one half on all future profits in Bruges, an increase of two and a half.

  Best of all, there was no doubt that Messer Piero was going to die and his petty restrictions would perish with him – unless something wholly ridiculous happened in England. And buried with Messer Piero would be his threat to disband Tommaso’s two precious Burgundian galleys.

  Further, to perpetuate Tommaso’s association with the Medici … he had been offered a wife, and had met her.

  It was no hardship, therefore, to be home in Florence, at the height of the season, dressed as befitted one’s station, and calling upon a member of the well-connected van Borselen family.

  Tommaso stood on the threshold of Gelis van Borselen’s chamber and bowed with great charm, and then, advancing, kissed her hand in court style and, stepping sideways, took the seat indicated as her house-servant withdrew and the lady Gelis sat in her turn.

  She looked older. Her hair, drawn back and veiled, revealed good enough bones, but there was a self-possession one did not look for in a woman of – well, of course, she was old. Twenty-four. A first child at that age could unship a woman’s figure for life, and no one would know until the buckram came off in the chamber. Birthing was best begun young. And what led up to it. Youth. Unsullied virginity. That passion to learn and to please. That kitten-like, boneless agility …

  His hostess said, ‘Are you well?’ and he laughed, dabbing his temple.

  ‘It is warm. I hurried. It is such a pleasure to see you.’ He did not, these days, need to envy Nicholas.

  He had several things to find out, and conducted the conversation accordingly, with annoyingly little success. She seemed to know nothing of alum, and barely to have heard of the Vatachino firm of brokers. She congratulated him on renewing his contract, and solicited his views on the Medici succession. She asked if there were plans for his wedding.

  She knew about the old hag. That is, she had heard from Monna Alessandra Macinghi negli Strozzi that her son Lorenzo was seeking a bride. He had the pleasure therefore of telling her that the lord Piero de’ Medici had honoured both himself and Lorenzo by directing them to take in marriage two maidens of the same parentage.

  ‘You and Lorenzo are to marry sisters? How delightful!’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘Tell me immediately.’

  One did not trust the enthusiasm. One gave oneself the satisfaction, none the less, of describing one’s angelic bride: the maiden Maria, daughter of Ser Piero’s friend Francesco Bandini Baroncelli.

  ‘Bandini?’ said his hostess.

  He did not allow his smile to diminish. Pierantonio Bandini Baroncelli was head of the Pazzi, his most serious competitors for alum in Bruges. It was the Medici way, to knit together rivals in marriage. He said, ‘I am overwhelmed by the honour. Lorenzo as well. Monna Alessandra was speechless. My dear Maria will join me next year.’

  ‘Next year?’ said Gelis van Borselen.

  He said, ‘I have to go back to Bruges after the marriage. Almost at once. It is sad.’

  ‘Tommaso?’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘How old is your wife?’

  ‘By next year? She will be turned fully fourteen,’ said Tommaso Portinari. ‘I know I may count on you to make her welcome in Flanders. Our children will grow up together.’

  She gazed at him in the considering way he disliked. She said, ‘You are sailing back with your ships?’

  He realised she meant the Burgundian galleys. He said, ‘No. They left Civitavecchia five days ago, laden with Tolfa alum.’ It had been a small precaution, in case Piero had had some idea of cancelling them. Or even promising them for some crusade.

  She said, ‘They have sailed? They are not returning to Porto Pisano?’

  He was surprised by her tone. He said, ‘By now, most ships have sailed. It is the season. I doubt if you would find any galley still there save, perhaps, the Ferrandina. The King of Naples has sent word to hold her.’

  ‘But the Santa Reparata is there,’ she remarked.

  He was further intrigued. ‘You may be right. My captain did say that all the lesser galleys had left. But I could send, if you wish it, to confirm. You had some goods on that ship?’

  Her eyes were a thin shade of blue. Nordic blue. She said, ‘A berth. I am here to accompany my husband to Alexandria.’

  ‘But if the ship has sailed …’ said Tommaso.

  ‘He will take space on another,’ she said.

  There wasn’t another. He didn’t say so. He said, ‘Demoiselle … Did monsieur your husband arrange to meet you in Florence?’

  She looked at him. She said, ‘We had no assignation. But – you will discover – marriage thrives on delightful surprises. He does not know I am waiting to join him.’

  ‘You should have told him,’ said Tommaso Portinari, sounding grave. ‘Alas, demoiselle, your husband is not coming to Florence. If he meant to sail on the Santa Reparata, he must have changed his plans many weeks since. The Medici have been informed not to expect him.’

  There was a little silence. ‘Where is he?’ she said.

  ‘At this moment? Precisely where, I gather, even his Bank does not know. His route was not predetermined. And, of course, winter is now coming on. Once the snow blocks the passes, the Duchy of the Tyrol is sealed.’

  ‘The Tyrol?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘The Alpine range south of Augsburg. The mountainous country that divides the Germanies from the Italian peoples. Your husband has gone to do business with Duke Sigismond in person. So reports say. I wish him every luck.’

  She said, ‘I was to meet him in Venice, in spring.’

  ‘Then I am sure he will do his best to be there.’ He spoke in his dulcet court voice.

  Her predicament did not displease him. The Tyrol was a spendthrift Imperial duchy whose native resources offered low yields for astronomic investment. Nicholas was welcome to strand himself there and face an angry wife at the end, empty-handed. Tommaso was fairly sure that there was no profit to be had in the Tyrol. Nevertheless, the commercial restlessness of Nicholas annoyed him.

  He looked at the wife of Nicholas with genuine pity. The man was an artisan. There was no substitute for a formal, proper betrothal between persons of like rank and resources, who knew what propriety was.

  He said, ‘I am sorry. There has been a misunderstanding, I can see. But I am on my way back to Flanders and should be happy to escort you safely to Bruges. Then you can return in the spring for your rendezvous.’

  She thanked him and accepted, rather flushed. It was
a genuine offer. He had calls to make. Carrying and picking up news between the agents of France and England, Genoa and Milan, he found it convenient to seem just a Medici manager about his firm’s normal affairs. The company of a lady added to the illusion. A decorative lady with little interest in business.

  He left soon, in excellent spirits.

  He did not see her walk to a table, and pick up a drawing, and tear it across and across and across.

  Chapter 26

  NICHOLAS IS A wrecker.

  So Tobias his physician had said, having seen it happen before: Nicholas de Fleury stopped in his tracks by some fatal collision of circumstances and responding, not as a normal man would, but with every unit of force he possessed, deployed without discrimination or scruple – unless he were halted. Tobie and Gregorio were not with him now to prevent it. Fortunately, perhaps, the world was full of others who might, although none of them – even Gelis – had guessed quite what was assembling there, in his mind.

  To himself, it was perfectly clear. Since he couldn’t return yet to Scotland, his projects there had to idle without him. It meant a disarrangement in his private finances which lent Ochoa’s gold some slight importance. Associated with the lost gold were some minor scores which, filling time, he might clear off once he reached Alexandria. But, of course, he was not going to Alexandria at the moment. He was going to the court of Sigismond, Duke of the Tyrol.

  It amused him, to keep that to himself the whole length of the journey to Ulm. There were four principal passes over the Alpine mountains to Italy. The one that proceeded past Ulm to the Brenner was not an unusual choice for August, and no one questioned his route. Of all the experienced band who accompanied him, only Father Moriz showed impatience as they rode south, clearing his throat as if he would ask a question, or desired to be given some answers. He did not, however, actually speak.

  John le Grant, on the other hand, travelled with his mind fixed on his empire in Egypt, and was far from amenable when, in a private room in their warm German tavern at Ulm, Nicholas finally made his announcement.

  John repeated it. ‘We’re going to the Tyrol, not Alexandria.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re expected to winter at Innsbruck.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not going to Alexandria at all.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Later. After the winter.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you,’ said John le Grant. ‘For I’m going there now. That was my intent.’ The chaplain shifted his feet. Le Grant glared at him.

  ‘If you like,’ Nicholas said. ‘Mind you, the ships for the Levant have all sailed, but you should get one in six months or so, if you’re keen.’

  ‘You’ve already got places booked. On the Santa Reparata.’

  ‘I cancelled them.’

  ‘You have ships of your own.’

  ‘They’re in service. I would have told you before,’ Nicholas said, ‘but I had to promise to keep it a secret. Burgundian politics. Even my wife doesn’t know. Poor Gelis, no meeting in the spring.’

  ‘You haven’t told her?’ said Father Moriz in his deep German-Flemish.

  ‘I couldn’t reach her,’ said Nicholas sadly. ‘It seems that she left Bruges and set out for Florence. She hoped to come with me to Egypt.’

  ‘Your wife is waiting for you in Florence?’ said John.

  ‘So I’m told. But Tommaso Portinari is due to arrive there very soon. I am sure,’ Nicholas said, ‘that he will see her home safely. Or you will. Perhaps you’d like to take her with you to Alexandria?’

  Le Grant stared at him. Father Moriz coughed. He said, ‘Myself, Master Nicholas, I hope you will not mind if I come with you to the Tyrol? It ill becomes me to say it, but from the Rammelsberg to the Schwaz, I have found nothing so gripping as the mysteries that lie under the mountains.’

  ‘Mining?’ said John le Grant.

  ‘Ah,’ said Father Moriz. ‘I do not compare my talents with yours. But perhaps you have heard of my colleague – my late famous colleague – Johannsen Funcken?’

  Under the red hair, the red eyebrows lowered and the fiery eyes moved and fixed. ‘You bastard!’ said John le Grant.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ said Father Moriz good-humouredly.

  ‘Not you. Him,’ said the engineer. ‘Also the most devious … Father? You knew about this?’

  ‘No. I guessed. I knew you were a pioneer, whereas you didn’t know I was a smelter. I knew that Burgundy was involved with the Tyrol and that my friend Nicholas here had certain interests, and wished to offset any reverses in Scotland. I knew that his rivals, the Vatachino, were extremely watchful. No doubt you perceived as much as well,’ said Father Moriz cheerfully. ‘But coming from Augsburg, I was perhaps more aware of the possibilities. It is romantic to search for lost gold, but there are wider opportunities to be gained, maybe, in an area closer to the Bank’s current efforts. Am I not right?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Nicholas said. ‘I just want to hunt chamois, and I hoped John would come with me.’

  ‘Damn you!’ said John. But his tone was lacking in venom and there was a renewed gleam of vitality in his eye. The priest sighed.

  Nicholas was used to the signs of exasperation and the signs of relief. He knew just how far to go to get what he wanted. He didn’t see why life had to be dull. In truth, he quite looked forward to some chamois-hunting.

  He did not know that he was the chamois.

  From then onwards, the journey was not precisely luxurious, even before they noticed that something was wrong. With the Swiss cantons hungrily eyeing them, the men of the Tyrol were perpetually nervous. The effect of the great new Burgundian pact had not necessarily percolated here, where each pinnacle had its own lord, its own castle; and the sound of the signal-horn wailed and hooted and replicated itself from crag to crag wherever strangers were seen.

  As far as the ducal centre of Innsbruck, the journey was painful but passable. They met snow and mud in the high range south of Reutte, but there were elemental inns further down. They would have been more than satisfied with the noisy comfort and coarse glitter of Innsbruck, save that there was no one there to receive them. Duke Sigismond and his court had gone south. Nicholas presented his letters and dragged his retinue forth in pursuit.

  They did not enjoy it. On the edge of September, bitter winds scoured the Brenner, and there was frozen mud underfoot and fields of snow on either side. Beyond, they moved downhill from winter to autumn again: from high pastures to meadows studded with pillars of hay.

  Here, their way should have been clear. Instead they found themselves pursuing paths which had become steep and ill-kempt and winding, in a land without towns. The smoking hamlets that occupied higher ground shut their doors at the sound of the horns; and it seemed as if, higher yet, eyes were watching, although nothing moved but the slow-grazing cattle and the clustered flecks on the hills which were stags.

  When, after a day of blustering wind and chill rain, Nicholas sent the guide ahead with Donat his huntsman to ask hospitality at the gates of a tower, Donat returned white with anger, stripped of both armour and arms, and dismissed with brusque threats of dismemberment. And yet Duke Sigismond knew he was coming. Word by now should have spread.

  On the third day, they were forced to live off the land: hunting, fishing and cutting timber for fuel, without which they would have gone hungry. Dionisi his cook made a banquet. On the fourth, compelled by a broken bridge to detour, Nicholas put up a hind and successfully shot it. Then he turned, startled by a loud shout.

  He saw one of his men-at-arms fall, wounded by the same kind of bow that he carried. The man who shot him sprang from the rocks, and twenty others leaped out beside him. On every side, axes flashed and spears glinted and bearded men began to rush forward, yelling. John le Grant whipped out his sword. The men-at-arms furthest off were already struggling.

  It was an instinct, to fight; but the truth was that it was hopeless. The surprise had been total. The terrain
gave little foothold; the path had already been blocked. The Flemings closed ranks and did what they could. Nicholas bellowed exhortations and warnings and heard Father Moriz shrieking in German as well. ‘What are you doing? You are attacking the guests of Duke Sigismond!’

  John le Grant spoke between blows. ‘We’ve been hunting on the Duke’s territory. They want to take and hang us in public as poachers.’ A bolt rang on his shield.

  Nicholas said, ‘What do you think? I’d rather stand trial than die now, even if we hang from a roof at the end of it. Father? Ederic? Donat? Do we surrender?’

  ‘We surrender,’ said Father Moriz and, lifting his crucifix, walked forward declaiming. Nicholas swore and thrusting past, managed to share the first blow that sent the priest reeling. John le Grant, uttering Aberdonian and German profanities, contrived to take most of the second. A dozen men fell on them. When they were eventually dragged to their feet and disarmed, it seemed as if surrender had in fact been accomplished: the head of the Banco di Niccolò was in the hands of a group of powerful tousle-haired men whose felt hats bore the badge of a lion.

  When asked what lord they belonged to, they laughed, and threw their captives on horseback and tied them. Then they set off in line.

  The bound men were all bleeding. It was late afternoon and not warm. The guide had disappeared, and they had been separated from their packs and stripped of all that was valuable on their persons. John said, ‘Where are we?’

  Nicholas said, ‘In the Tyrol.’ His head was ringing and one arm was quite dead and possibly broken.

  John said, ‘Nicholas?’

  Nicholas said, ‘It’s terrible, terrible.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said John le Grant, with familiar feeling. The German priest looked at them both. John le Grant said, ‘He thinks he knows something we don’t. Nicholas, they aren’t the Duke’s men. They’ll take us to some brute-ignorant lord who will hang us.’