They spent next day between the camp and the commanders. The following afternoon, leaving John, Nicholas prepared to make his one visit home before the start of the campaign. By home, he supposed he meant Antwerp. It seemed a long way away. From there, he would go to Diniz in Bruges, for he had a business to order as well as an army. He was leaving Moriz to help. And Julius might have arrived, with his chubby Gräfin.
All the women Nicholas knew had speculated about Julius and his new conquest – Julius, who had seemed so devotedly self-centred and single. They didn’t seem to consider, as Julius undoubtedly had, that at a certain stage in a man’s life he would be seen to require an establishment, and a hostess to run it. A rich hostess, for preference. Looks would hardly matter. All the time his friends had known him, Julius had had a very mild interest – almost no interest at all – in what Nicholas had always regarded as the best and cheapest pleasure in life. Perhaps he was about to be converted.
It was then the beginning of June, and the country was bowered in green. Going home, Nicholas travelled by Ghent, the shortest route back, since he had recently spent a great deal of time in the saddle. When he left Ghent on the fourth day of the month, he had something under forty miles still to cover to Antwerp. Nothing warned him to go to Bruges first, for although the thought of Gelis seldom left him – he had told Kathi the truth – he had refrained from divining.
Alone among the inhabitants of the matroneum at Antwerp, the elderly handmaiden Pasque was both carefree and happy. As she had absorbed Edinburgh, so she absorbed the quays and the ramparts and the markets of her new home; loftily inquisitive, she was acquainted with every washerwoman in the town in two weeks. Pasque preferred Antwerp to Scotland. In Antwerp they spoke God’s own tongue, if you could imagine God with a cleft palate.
Certainly, when the baby’s father departed for Arras, she tried to convince Mistress Clémence that a little visit to Coulanges and Dijon would also do the child good, but the undoubted distance between Artois and the Loire was against it. However; she was not truly cast down, even when the boy Robin arrived one day from Bruges with a message that took Mistress Clémence away (the Adorne children were ill), thus leaving poor Pasque to shoulder the labours of two. In fact, when she pointed this out, the lady Gelis hired another to help her, a devout, hardworking woman called Bita who went to her devotions at the same time as Pasque, and whose son was a baker.
Shortly after that, the lady Gelis herself was called to Bruges to meet a banker from Venice, and Pasque’s happiness was complete. Despite the young man Robin’s mild protests, she allowed the child that day to do whatever he liked; and even though he was a little sick after supper, she jigged and sang until he was laughing again, and put his dress into the tub, and promised him that next day he would wear his very best clothes. And the lad Robin, even though he pulled a long face, burst into laughter as well at her jokes. He was a pretty fellow, and was going to break a few hearts.
The next day, since she had not had time to get him quite into her ways, he objected, though politely, to some of the things she proposed, but at length agreed to go with her and the boy to the Grand Market, provided one of the house men-at-arms went along with them. The fair was on, so they had a very good time, and were given cakes by the son of her friend, and a drink of free ale by the other son of her friend, whom she hadn’t mentioned. Then, while the child had his sleep, the lad Robin went off to his lessons with the master-at-arms who had been found for him near the fort, and who was going to make him into a chevalier. Pasque had just closed her eyes too (Bita was cleaning the child’s little boots) when she was wakened by an argument in the street and the trampling of horses, very loud between the two rows of houses. She got up and opened the shutters.
Below, at her door, was the Duchess of Burgundy. Even as Pasque let out a scream, she saw it was not the Duchess of Burgundy, and that the splendid horses and harness, the liveried grooms and the upturned face of the opulent lady belonged to someone she knew: to Charlotte de Bourbon, dame de Borselen, whose husband was the lady Gelis’s very grand cousin.
The Lady, gazing upwards, was smiling. ‘Why, we know one another! Is it not little Jordan’s kind nurse? Do you think we might rest for a moment, even though your master and mistress are away? You will understand, being a woman. Pregnancy makes one a little tired.’
She had so much brocade in her gown that you couldn’t see how far gone she might be, and her headdress was sparkling with gems. She was thirty, near enough. She was no chicken. Pasque knew, without being told, that this was a lady who would dress her little boys in fine silver armour, and have two under-maids for each nurse. Without a moment’s delay Pasque tripped down the stairs and let the party into the house. There were only three of them, apart from the grooms: the lady Charlotte and her step-son, named Paul, and a bright-faced young girl with brown hair, who introduced herself as Catherine de Charetty.
Pasque had heard the name. She knew that monseigneur’s first wife had two daughters, of whom this must be one. The girl was unmarried, and the young man, Paul van Borselen, was clearly her suitor. Delighted, Pasque scampered about, scolding the steward and shouting into the kitchen and sending Bita to wake up the child.
It was the child they had travelled to see. The young man was indifferent, and the lady Charlotte of course had already met him, but the girl Catherine could hardly contain her impatience while the cakes and the wine were brought in. Then the door opened and Jordan stood there, not quite as starchily neat as some liked, for his best clothes had suffered that morning, but a proper boy for all that, with his ruffled brown hair and grey eyes and cheeks scarlet from sleep. Then he smiled, for he liked meeting people, and the Charetty girl started to weep.
The lady Charlotte patted her hand. ‘Come,’ she said to the child. ‘Come and meet your step-sister Catherine, and hear what a treat I have decided to give you. You are going to come and stay with us all. While your mother and father are busy, you will come and sail in our ships, and play with my little children, and Pasque, of course, will come with you too. Would you like that?’
He would like that, said Jordan, getting some Scots words into the greeting by mistake. Pasque, seized with ecstasy, saw that even this was a blessing, the van Borselen household being familiar with Scots. The child was in the arms of his new sister Catherine. Pasque left him there and, skipping, went off to pack.
The leader of the household bodyguard, a busybody, had sent to fetch little Berecrofts who came running, all sweaty from fighting, and looking as if the Turks had come to the door. He knew the Lady perfectly well – he had been there when the family visited – but you would have thought he was Mistress Clémence herself, the fuss he made about the child leaving home. It wasn’t until the dame de Borselen asked him sarcastically if he thought the boy would be safer with him than he would be with his own blood relations, that the youngster mended his manners.
Even then, he wanted to come and bring all his bodyguard, until the lady Charlotte, with the same chilly patience, pointed out that the household retinue of the van Borselen was perhaps adequate for most occasions. She did agree, however, that Lord Beltrees’s page might go with her, finding his anxiety – if misplaced – highly commendable. By the time they left, she had recovered all her gracious good humour.
‘Now,’ said the Lady. ‘Now at last we may do what best pleases us, and show this little Jordan the pleasures of Veere.’
Racked with anxiety, Robin of Berecrofts remained obstinately attached to the side of the child as they embarked on their journey of pleasure.
Awaiting his master in Antwerp, he had been given no office to perform, other than that of being useful, and pursuing his training. He knew that the son of a banker should always be guarded from kidnappers. He further knew that Nicholas de Fleury had enemies, and would have preserved Jordan from Simon de St Pol, for example, with his life. Unlike Mistress Clémence, he had been given no specific instructions about excluding Jordan from Bruges or from Veere, simply
because he would have asked questions, and Mistress Clémence did not. Also, no one had dreamed that the child’s mother and nurse could be absent at once.
Leaving Antwerp, Robin had considered, frantically, whom he should warn. It was the third day of June, and Nicholas de Fleury had been away for nine days and was momentarily expected to return. Meanwhile, the lady Gelis and Clémence were both in Bruges: Clémence at the Jerusalemkirk, and the Lady at the Casa Charetty-Niccolò with the lawyer Julius from Venice and a rich German lady investor. Even if Robin sent a courier now, neither could come within three or four days. Also, the van Borselen were Jordan’s own relatives: it ought not to seem as if Robin, on monseigneur’s behalf, did not trust them.
Robin scrawled a note to be given to his master, and left another for Jooris, the agent. The next rider to Bruges was to tell the lady of Beltrees that her son was in the house of her cousin at Veere.
*
Gelis and Katelina van Borselen had been members of a very great family; Gelis still was. Their territory was Zeeland, and their home was on Walcheren, the stranded island north-east of Bruges whose southern shore was the mouth of the Scheldt, leading to Antwerp, and whose opposite shore lined the Veergat, the waters of which served the trading port of Bergen op Zoom. Placed between Bruges and the Baltic, Zeeland’s wealth lay in trade and in shipping. Her lords intermarried with the Counts of Flanders and the Dukes of Burgundy and the royal house of Scotland, and were showered with formidable honours.
The late Henry van Borselen, lord of Veere, had carried Mary of Guelders to Edinburgh to become the Queen of James II; and twenty years later had borne Edward of England to his throne. Henry’s son Wolfaert, now over forty, had brought up young Sandy, the Scots Duke of Albany, and had possessed, briefly, the Scottish earldom of Buchan; his first wife had been sister to James II. Charlotte, second wife to the same Wolfaert, was of royal French as well as ducal Burgundian blood. Louis de Gruuthuse, married to a van Borselen, had become lieutenant-general for the Duke in these lands and had housed the English King during his exile. The family van Borselen were skilful survivors.
They also possessed a magnificent home. The approach to Camp-veere – the old ferry to Campen – was both by road and by water, and made to enchant a small boy of three and soothe the fears of a man of fifteen. The seigneurial boat, with its strong oarsmen and magnificent awnings, pranced over the sparkling waves, and Jordan’s new sister fed him sugar almonds. Embraced by the competent arms of her sweetheart, Jordan rode through groves and beside streams and pools full of herons, and screamed at peewits and at the black-headed birds he had fed at the Nor’ Loch in Edinburgh, which his sister called mouettes rieuses. In Walcheren everything laughed, even the gulls.
Occasionally Catherine cried, Robin observed, from pure happiness. He had heard – everyone had – of the great scandal of her silly girlhood, from which she had been rescued by her mother’s young second husband. Robin realised that she loved Nicholas de Fleury, and hence his son; and the last of his fears was assuaged.
The castle of Zandenburg, once a fortress, was now a hunting seat for the van Borselen, and also a place of business, as were their other houses in Flushing, in Bruges, in Champagne. The black and silver family arms were painted over the great gothic entrance gate, and in their chapel within the vast church of Our Lady, and flew from flags at the port: the small harbour whose jetties, though simple, could accommodate ships of any size. The anchorage outside was calm. And from Veere to the sea represented a voyage of less than two hours, free of rocks or of shoals. The Veergat almost never had ice.
So, more and more often, a little fleet from Scotland or England or Denmark was to be found unloading at Veere. And, while Bruges and Calais might at present hold the monopoly, Veere was there, with its humble advantages, and when one town or another fell out, Veere ran seductively into the gap. Veere was no virgin.
If the lord Wolfaert, his mind on these matters, was vexed by the incoming cavalcade, he was courteous enough to show no sign of it. When little Lodewijk, two, and his baby sister, screaming, made their appearance, Robin realised at last why no pains would be spared to make this visit agreeable. He found himself thankful that Pasque was the immediate quarry, substituting for her absent superior. He didn’t think Mistress Clémence would have liked Veere.
While the children were carried off to eat and to sleep, Robin found himself included, awkwardly, in the family dinner. He was accustomed enough to a table of state: his father and grandfather were not solely merchants, and round their Lanarkshire board would feed chaplain and tutor and secretary, factor and steward, just like this. As a page, his position was low, although in deference to his master he was placed at the same table. Next to him, already seated, was a boy of eleven.
Robin collected his French. ‘We haven’t met. My name is Robin of Berecrofts. May I join you?’
The boy looked up and smiled. The smile was breathtaking; his voice, low and sweet, answered in Scots. He said, ‘I know what your name is. Fuck off.’
No one from the family had noticed. There was no other seat he could take. The boy, having spoken, lowered his stupendous lashes over his glorious blue eyes; a beam of sunlight turned his hair to pure gold. Wolfaert van Borselen, from the end of the room said, ‘Ah, Robin. Is it Robin? Quite; yes. Robin, meet my young kinsman, your mistress’s nephew. Henry. Henry de St Pol of Kilmirren, a welcome addition to our little brood.’
Robin, rigid, gave a bow and sat down. The boy, lifting his head, gave him a smile as sweet as the first, and transferred it modestly to Wolfaert van Borselen. ‘My dear surrogate father,’ he said and, still smiling, hacked Robin under the table. Robin, gasping, didn’t even think to kick back.
This was the boy born to Gelis van Borselen’s sister, now dead. This boy’s father was Simon, monseigneur’s worst enemy.
The meal passed in a blur. The boy, for most of the time, turned his back on him. Robin spoke, as well as he could, to the others beside and across from him; his attempts were regularly nullified by the boy who, turning round, would engage him, always charmingly, in horrifying murmurs.
‘Don’t you agree the lady Charlotte is gross? On the other hand, you can couple with her for three months and more without penalty. I’ll show you how to unlock her chamber. Was your mother a whore?’
‘What? No!’ said Robin.
‘Paul’s was. Paul is my lord Wolfaert’s bastard,’ said Henry, waving to Paul at the other end of the table. ‘He has others, of course, but he usually pays seamen to claim them. He once had four girls in a night. I once had two end to end. What about you?’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Robin; but the boy had turned away, and the man next to him was staring, so that he began talking to him rather wildly about Scotland. It came to him, sickeningly, that this boy was Nicholas de Fleury’s nephew by marriage, and the first cousin of Jodi.
The next time the dulcet voice spoke into his ear, it was to mention monseigneur. ‘But who,’ Henry said, ‘can claim these days to be conceived in lawful bed? I can, of course. Your master does not even know who his father might be – his mother, poor bawd, was open to all passing traffic. And it is hardly to be expected that Catherine over there didn’t pick up the trick – wave! See, she is smiling! – with lusty young Claes in the same house. Then he abandoned her – you do know? – for the boys in a Trebizond bath-house, leaving her to earn her keep in the bed of a murderer. Catherine and Paul, the bawd and the bastard! A marriage, wouldn’t you say, made in heaven?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Robin said. ‘You are wrong. And even if you were not, Lord Beltrees is your own uncle.’
The change in the seraphic blue eyes turned him cold. Then, after an interval, the boy spoke, less guardedly than before. ‘Claes,’ he said. ‘The ape is called Claes, or maybe Lord Billygoat. His wife might enjoy thuggish handling, but Claes vander Poele shares none of my blood, and his son is the son of an animal.’
‘Henry?’ said the lord Wolfaert’s voice. It
was impatient, not shocked. He had heard the tone, not the sense of the outburst.
Henry turned his bright head, his face pale. ‘My lord, forgive me,’ he said. ‘But I cannot bear to hear light words of my mother, even though she is dead, and I know my lord of Beltrees is happily married. If you will excuse me, I shall go to my room.’ A tear had caught in his lashes.
‘Of course,’ said the seigneur of Veere slowly. He watched the boy leave, and then returned his heavy gaze upon Robin. The table was silent.
Robin got to his feet. He said, ‘I am sorry, my lord. The young man was mistaken. But if you will excuse me, it might be better if I go to my room also.’
‘You are excused,’ Wolfaert said; and turned to his neighbour.
Robin did not go to his room. Instead, he followed the noise to the nursery, and dragged Pasque out of the room. ‘We must go home.’
It was like holding a chicken. ‘What? What? Are you crazy? We have hardly arrived!’
He tried to explain. But even if he had known her vernacular, her desire to remain would have thrown back a legion of Goths. ‘So you and some spoiled child have quarrelled! You are the guest! Go to the lord, and apologise, and make your peace! Or if you cannot admit you are wrong, then go home. We do not need you,’ said Pasque.
‘You do!’ said Robin. ‘Pasque, he could hurt us.’
‘Hurt old Pasque? A silly boy of eleven? Go along,’ said the woman. ‘Find the boy. Make it up. I am busy.’
He saw, soon enough, that it was hopeless to argue, and that he was unlikely to make an ally of Pasque, or the bodyguard. He had no case to make, other than an account of a conversation, which the boy would deny, and a feeling of extreme foreboding. The boy was only eleven, and parroting the language of elders – but even so, what had happened was not accidental. Robin had been placed in disfavour, and it would take little more to persuade the lord of Veere to send him home. Robin did not know why Henry should want that, but he proposed to make sure it didn’t happen.
To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 55