‘Well, don’t wait too long or I’ll catch her for Jordan,’ Nicholas said. And after that, he let the talk lapse in favour of more interesting things, of the kind that had earned them a reputation in Bruges when he was an apprentice and Julius was supposed to be governing him. Stupid pranks, on the knife-edge of criminality and dangerous in the extreme, which remained enjoyable even when muted, out of respect for their whereabouts and their age. Then their escort made its appearance, and they had to behave.
The summons to Cardinal Bessarion came on the third day. When Nicholas saw him, his face grey, his long beard spread over the sheets in the darkened chamber of state, it reduced him to silence.
Dying, the Greek who had laboured to bring together the Latin and Orthodox churches had been given an impossible task: to induce Louis of France to conduct the ecclesiastical affairs of his country according to the Pope’s wishes; to reconcile France and Brittany and Burgundy, and induce them to turn their minds and resources to stemming the Grand Sultan’s advance to the west.
Bessarion would not succeed. Whether presently frustrated or victorious in France, the Duke of Burgundy’s mind was not on the East, but on freeing himself from his overlords, and on increasing his power and his lands in France and in Germany. Charles wanted nothing less than to be a king, or an emperor.
In Venice last year, Nicholas had cast his support and that of his Bank behind this ambition of Charles, and had given nothing to the present Crusade beyond a few elderly ships and some armaments. Julius, once the Cardinal’s secretary in Bologna, had abetted him. Now they received, as might be expected, the Cardinal’s measured rebuke. Without wealth, without title, without ambition, Nicholas de Fleury had stood against the Muslim in Cyprus and Trebizond; he had listened to Godscalc, his saintly confessor, and aided his attempt to reach Christian Ethiopia. Why now, laden with honours, had he turned his back on his glorious destiny?
Julius mumbled. It was difficult, one perceived, to avoid mentioning that all these exploits had come about merely because Nicholas was in the way of making some money. Nicholas himself replied clearly, with deference. His duty at present was to Duke Charles and to the home he was making in Scotland. Nevertheless, he promised all the wealth of the Bank when the Duke was able at last to send his full might against Mehmet. ‘Do not despair,’ Nicholas said. Julius looked grave.
‘Then you must let me tell you all you need to know,’ Bessarion said.
Nicholas listened, although he expected little new. By now, the Christian fleet should be attacking the Ottoman coasts south of Smyrna, while inland, the Persian leader Uzum Hasan should have launched into action, prodded by Caterino Zeno, the Venetian envoy.
Nicholas wondered, while the Cardinal spoke, how the lady Violante, wife of Zeno, was sustaining her lord’s extended absence. That was something that Gregorio never happened to mention. They said that Zeno had bred the occasional bastard while on his travels for Venice. The connections would have been formed out of expediency, as Violante’s undoubtedly were. Former apprentices and Byzantine princesses did not usually find themselves between the same sheets. There was also her sister Fiorenza, where sheets had not been involved. His mind wandered, and he brought it back.
The Cardinal was speaking of the Patriarch Ludovico da Bologna, who had also been dispatched to Uzum Hasan’s court, this time by the Pope. Once there, he would take his persuasive tongue, for sure, to wherever it would do the most good. And from work such as his, would come the real attack, the decisive attack of the Christian forces next spring.
It was something that Nicholas, too, thought to be likely. He said so. Wishing to be honest, he added that the Bank, by then, would not be free of its commitments, but that he was certain that the Venetian Republic would do all she could.
‘It is my great hope,’ said the Cardinal, and his lips moved in a smile. ‘And I think you will find that, by the same token, their young Queen is sent this autumn to Cyprus. Whatever others may think, it is equally imperative that Venice makes sure of that island.’
Julius glanced at Nicholas, also smiling. ‘Zacco may not like it,’ he said.
‘Perhaps not,’ said the Cardinal. ‘But he would be wise not to show it. I hope he has a good friend at hand to advise him.’
He had. He had David de Salmeton, of the Vatachino. The charming David whose firm had so many connections with Genoa, which also coveted Cyprus. Adorne had been in Cyprus two years ago. Nicholas said, ‘I am sure he is well advised.’
His train of thought was evidently the same as the Cardinal’s. ‘And,’ said Bessarion, ‘that excellent knight Anselm Adorne? He has not returned to the East?’ He listened. ‘Bereaved? I am sorry to hear it. I was aware that the son had to return home. Perhaps the young man will abandon Rome, since his second choice of post may now fail him.’
‘Why should that be, my lord?’ Julius said. Anything to do with Jan Adorne fascinated Julius. ‘The Bishop of St Andrews is ill? Or about to go home in disgrace?’
‘He is not ill,’ said the Cardinal, ‘And he may go home, but not in disgrace, as you so uncharitably put it. Quite the reverse. As a papal bull will shortly announce, my lord of St Andrews is about to become Scotland’s first Primate. St Andrews is being erected into a metropolitan see, and its bishop becomes an archbishop.’
Julius opened his mouth. He said, ‘Nicholas?’
‘I believe it is true,’ Nicholas said.
The slanting eyes raked him. Julius said, ‘Welcomed by whom? The Scottish bishops who are going to find themselves suffragans under him? Have they agreed? Did they know? Did the King know?’ He paused. ‘Did you know?’
Nicholas said, ‘Four noes and a yes. Now no one has to refer an abuse to the Chair of St Peter. The Archbishop will settle it locally.’
‘They’ll love that,’ Julius said. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but a Pope two months away is sometimes a better proposition than a crazy archbishop on your doorstep.’
‘I think you forget yourself,’ Bessarion said. ‘Will age, Julius, never cure your rash tongue? The eleven cathedral churches of Scotland now lie under the metropolitan jurisdiction of Patrick Graham, by recognising which the monarch of Scotland will obtain everlasting life and the gratitude of the Pope. Your friend Nicholas not only knew, but was wise enough to help bring it about. He will explain. I do not wish to discuss it. Jan Adorne may elect to accompany the Archbishop to Scotland; if he stays in Rome, he must seek a new master. Now may we leave the subject for others more pressing?’
They listened in silence as, collecting his strength, he told them again his objectives, and exhorted them once more to lend him their help. In the end, seeing him weary, they excused themselves and with his blessing, departed. Outside the door, Nicholas found himself called back. Shrugging at Julius, he turned and re-entered, closing the door.
The sun, finding a chink in the shutter, fell across the high bed and lit the long, bearded face of the thinker named John who had taken the name of an Egyptian, the patron saint of his native Trebizond. The man patted the seat by his bed. He said, ‘Julius will question you narrowly, but I wished a little time with you myself. You are patient with him.’
‘Not always,’ Nicholas said.
‘He owes you more than he knows. He has found a gentle companion, I believe.’
‘She was in Rome. He hopes to marry her,’ Nicholas said. ‘It worries him that he cannot bring her a distinguished past.’
‘It worried him in Bologna,’ the Cardinal said. ‘But a good man will succeed, whether he can claim a father or not, and there is no shame to a woman in marrying him. Then he heads his own family, and is as a tree, sheltering those of his blood whom he loves.’ He paused. He said, ‘I speak of you, Nicholas.’
His eyes were clear. It was painful to hold them. Nicholas said, ‘I wish it were true.’
‘Then you must make up for your mistakes in the future,’ said the man in the bed. ‘Now I have no more to say that is personal. I wish to speak to you of Caffa, and of Pol
and, and of Fichet and what you must do with his printing. And then – Do you see that flask over there?’
Nicholas rose. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Ah, not yet. It is Candian wine. When I have given you all my thoughts, then I wish you to pour it, and to sit by me and to talk of something quite different. Do you remember your Greek?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes. You have listened to me, and to George and to Ficino. You have heard us speak of your namesake of Cusa. I have never heard you talk of the Dialogues.’
He ceased speaking and waited. Nicholas said, ‘Christianity and Plato? I have talked of them, but in Arabic’
The Cardinal said, ‘I was told of your friend. It was not the communion of two minds that killed him. I am dying. My chosen comfort is discourse. Indulge me.’
Outside, Julius said, ‘What happened? Poor old fellow. Did he want to talk of his great days, and got rambling?’
‘Professors of rhetoric rarely ramble,’ Nicholas said. ‘Don’t be jealous, or I’ll give you his lecture on Aristotle. He’s moving downriver soon to Ancenis. The captain says I have to wait to be summoned by Louis. He says they won’t let you stay.’
‘Why not?’ said Julius, incensed.
‘Because I’m on his payroll and you’re not. I can’t help it,’ said Nicholas. ‘They didn’t mind you seeing Bessarion, but now you have to return and do some serious besieging. If I were you, I’d go back to Bruges. Teach the women to swim in the river.’
Julius opened his mouth.
Nicholas said, ‘You came for his blessing, and you have it. I am glad, too, that you came. But now the risks have to be mine.’
He felt numb: a man divided in two, of which one half was routinely socialising, and the other was set among stars. He lay awake all that night, for it would never happen again. There was no one else left.
In the third week of August, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, arrived for the second time in the Loire valley and was directed to await Louis his master in the upright little castle of Les Ponts-de-Cé, once a favourite retreat of King René. He arrived in mellow temper, despite the heat of the road from La Rochelle and the complicated appraisals made necessary by the untimely demise of the King’s brother, the Duke of Guienne.
He knew why he had been sent for. He might not be the horseman that once he had been, but his servants were agile and efficient. The King had told him to get the child, and he had him. The boy was awaiting him now in the prisons of Les Ponts-de-Cé. By his orders the child had not been told where he was, or who had him. He had been no trouble, they said, on the journey from Beauvais. He had even tried to be helpful. It had amused them.
Jordan de Ribérac was tired. There was no hurry: the King was still at Ancenis. The vicomte retired to his chamber and slept. Then, upon rising, he refreshed himself with a change of clothes and a modest repast with some wine. Next, he commanded the governor to show him the way to the cells.
The room they unlocked had a window, lately fitted with bars, and was better provided than most, for the place was a residence more than a keep. A figure rose from a bench.
His first impression in the half-light was that the child was exceedingly fair, which was of course not necessarily impossible. The next was that it was of unusual height – indeed of 3 height which was quite impossible. The third, when it spoke, was one of disbelief. The child – the boy – the prisoner he had caused to be kidnapped gave a cry, a loud cry, of ‘Grandfather!’ Then, before he had recovered from that, the boy proceeded to howl. ‘I told them! They wouldn’t listen! Oh, Grandfather!’ The brat’s cheeks were filthy with tears.
He hated tears. He despised them. He saw, with disbelief and with fury, what he had to contend with. He said, ‘Henry.’
The boy began to rush forward.
Henry. Henry his grandson. Henry, who was no use to anyone. Henry, who couldn’t be used to influence bankers or armies but yet was uselessly here, a source of danger. A source of ridicule.
The vicomte de Ribérac stood in the cold little room, massive, unyielding, a bastion of disappointment and anger. The boy stopped.
The vicomte said, ‘What have you done? How dare you! How dare you interfere with my plans! Get out of my sight!’
Chapter 37
THEY WERE SCYTHING the wheat as Nicholas made the gentle day’s ride from Saumur north-west to Les Ponts-de-Cé, parallel with the blue drift of the Loire. The wains full of sheaves rumbled beside him and, but for his escort, he would have dismounted in some deep golden field and shared his bread and meat with the straw-hatted harvesters, and heard all their gossip. But the King of France traversed this country, pursuing the concerns of his armies, and strangers rode under guard.
It was within a few days of September, and Nicholas was glad to move. Days ago, the Cardinal had received his appointment and departed, borne on the river. He would not return. Julius had also left, to go back to Bruges, and perhaps even to Cologne: Nicholas wondered whether he would find the Gräfin waiting, or whether she would have slipped off, in her cool, competent way, to oversee some other business. He had watched Julius and his Countess together; observed the grace with which she received her admirer’s ceaseless attentions. But her eyes did not caress as his did, and if their fingers touched, her breath did not quicken. You could see why he feared a rebuff.
Yet she was sensual. From long experience, Nicholas was sure of it. She had had one husband, and perhaps many lovers. They said the child was her own. It was most likely, Nicholas thought, that she was teasing Julius into losing his head. Then they would marry, and she would hold the ascendancy. He did not see how he could interfere in any way that would do good.
He observed, towards the end of his journey, that the fleur-de-lys flew from the steep blue roofs of René’s elegant home, and that Louis had therefore arrived. There was no hurry, however. Had the Burgundians triumphed in Picardy, he would have been sent for long before now. Louis had kept him waiting because there were no secrets that mattered. Or no Burgundian secrets.
In René’s exquisite painted chamber of audience, the bees flew back and forth through the windows and were snapped at by the dogs. The room was crowded. Nicholas, waiting aside, saw men he recognised, Gaston du Lyon among them. Louis was moving about with a jingle of spurs, joining first one group then another. When he approached Nicholas at length, he was drawing behind him another who was not French at all: Philippe de Commynes, godson of Philip of Burgundy, and – until recently – the present Duke’s favourite counsellor.
‘See!’ said King Louis. ‘See, mon brave! What do we call you? The Scots have made you a baron now, have they not? See, my lord of Fleury, what other fish have leaped into our pool from the Burgundian sea! Since M. de Commynes has joined us, we know all our poor cousin’s secrets: ah, what trouble they are making for themselves in the Pas de Calais! Roving hither and thither in such anger, while all the time our captains ride ahead of them, laughing! There is nothing you can tell us that we do not already know, save only what you have done for us in Scotland. So come. Let us step aside. M. de Commynes will forgive us. Tell us – how sad it seems – why after all, our dear nephew of Scotland has found it impossible to send us an army, even though you persuaded us – you emptied our pockets – on the pretext that he would?’
They were out of earshot. At a sign, all the others drew back. Louis sat, leaving Nicholas standing.
Nicholas said, ‘Monseigneur knows that the Scottish Parliament forbade it.’
‘As you knew they would,’ Louis remarked.
‘As I was afraid that they might, so long as the King remained childless. I had private word, monseigneur, just before I left Beauvais. The Queen has hopes of a child.’
It was a gamble. The word had been no more than a whisper, and might be contradicted. But for sure, Louis would not have heard it yet.
He had not. His eyes, black as ferrets, examined him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It is early,’ said Nicholas. ‘But
it means an army may come. Also marriage alliances. It is to be hoped that the King will take the best advice about that.’
‘Yours?’ said Louis. ‘Why were you given your barony?’
‘I have made myself useful,’ Nicholas said. ‘My lord “your royal nephew was pleased to thank me for the wealth I brought him from Iceland.’
‘We heard,’ Louis said. ‘Wealth which makes it unnecessary for him to sue us for a pension.’
‘Wealth which persuaded him to invest in a ship,’ Nicholas said. ‘He has bought from me the great vessel The Lion, which will eventually bring you his army. He has nothing left. If monseigneur wishes to bind him with a pension, then I can promise the opportunity is about to arise.’
‘So!’ said Louis. ‘How subtle we are, serving three rulers and lining our purses. But we think perhaps that now, like Paris, you must approach your final decision. You cannot surely deceive your poor Duke for very much longer. And what has the Duke to offer compared with ourselves? You have seen our young friend de Commynes, who has just acquired land, wealth and the promise of an heiress to marry. The finest officers of our late brother of Guienne have chosen to join us, and not for a pittance. And Brittany! Why do you think we are here and not with our army in Brittany? Because the lord of Lescun, the ablest man at the side of our nephew and cousin the Duke, has just joined us, for a pension of six thousand francs, half of Guienne, two seneschalships, the command of a castle in Bordeaux and two in Bayonne, twenty-four thousand crowns in ready money, and – if we remember it all – our order of St Michael, with a comté.
‘You see,’ said Louis, ‘what we are willing to offer to those who serve us, and in the cause, naturally, of peace? The war in Brittany, for all practical purposes, has ceased.’
‘Monseigneur! I am amazed!’ Nicholas said.
‘Indeed. So the long-awaited English will certainly not arrive, and our unfortunate cousin of Burgundy may as well load his flux-ridden army into carts and carry them back home to Artois. The war is over,’ said Louis. ‘There is no more work for your company to do, and you are paid – poorly paid – by a self-willed man with no more wits in his head than a goose. Bring your army and join us.’
To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 61