The week before his enthronement, the future Charles, King of Burgundy, ordained and presided over a series of extravagant entertainments designed to dumbfound his hosts, and to express his gratification at the outcome of the past seven weeks. Nicholas made a token appearance. Then he left to keep his appointment with Katelijne Sersanders, and the man, the Scotsman she had chosen to marry.
It was then the third Saturday in November, and the coronation was five days away.
*
Until now, the glorious weather had held. Watered by the light rains of September, the countryside had burst into a second flowering. Cherries ripened, trees blossomed; the vines above the Moselle, picked into October, were thick-perfumed and heavy with juice. Even yet, it was warm; although the mornings in Trèves were veiled by a softening mist which lingered until an hour or two before midday, blotting out the low hills about it, so that even the further bank of the broad river vanished.
Now it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was yellow and mild as Nicholas made his unhurried way out of the flagging city. The Imperial boats, with their banners, lay bright and clear in midstream, while the jetties were crowded with barges, and the arm of the toll-crane whined and palpitated. Upriver, the water combed through the nine massy piers of the bridge, thirteen centuries old, and flowed on past the pale city walls, winding north-east between vineyards and far-off afforested hills to where, eighty miles off, it would enter the Rhine at Coblenz.
Nicholas turned along the right bank, the gentle breeze fresh in his face. No one looked at him twice: no one heeded a man strolling at leisure, dressed in an anonymous pourpoint and cap, with a satchel over his shoulder. Soon he had left the bustle behind.
The river curved. There was no long view of either bank. On the opposite side, a low red slabby escarpment cut off the sky, with sunlit trees at its foot like gold fountains. There were trees on his side as well: some bright as embers, some laden with heraldic red and white berries, some with broad yellow flags. A baldaquin of living gros point, better than Hercules, or Alexander, or Jason.
There were fields beside him now, with cows, sheep. A fisherman. A hamlet, with the single piping voice of a child, talking, talking. Then silence again; the quack of a duck; the metallic chirp of a finch, and the soft hush at his side of deep water. He didn’t look for her, because he knew she would watch for his coming. She had wished this for him: this solitary passage, robbed from the hubbub. Then she called, and he heard her.
She had found a vine arbour outside a small, crooked tavern. The fruiting was over: the leaves arching over the wooden table were yellow and large, half concealing sprigs of deflated black grapes. She had been seated facing him, opposite Archie, whose light hair he could glimpse. She jumped up. Like himself, she wore simple clothes: a plain cloak, with her brown hair scattered unbound over it. Not to be unbound, of course, for very much longer: protocol was strict about that. Her face, roused to colour by the fresh air, wore an expression he might have called resolute; then she ran forward saying, ‘You came.’ Berecrofts rose and emerged from the arbour as well.
It wasn’t Berecrofts.
It was Berecrofts; but it wasn’t Archie. It was Robin.
To show nothing would have been the second greatest feat, perhaps, of all his thirty-two years of play-acting. To respond with immediate cheerfulness, as he did, was the greatest.
He said, ‘Kathi! I understand, of course. All those weeks on the Svipa. Father Moriz has issued an ultimatum. Come and be kissed.’
She came and, holding his arms, lifted her cheek. Not an Icelandic kiss, this time. He already knew, from their faces, that there was no question of an enforced marriage, or he would never have joked. He turned to Robin. Robin, who was half his own age.
He had matured, both in appearance and manner. That had already become obvious. He had the compact build and fresh skin of his father, and the steady gaze which was all his own. He was well born and landed; not only the son of a merchant. And two years ago, at the time of the Florentine ball game, Robin of Berecrofts had been placed under his own hand, to be trained as a gentleman, as a squire, as a knight. Most of Robin’s skills were inherited, but the rest had been learned from Nicholas de Fleury of Beltrees. He had given Kathi her husband.
Robin said, ‘You didn’t come to see us. We thought you were shocked.’ He was smiling, but his eyes held a shadow.
Nicholas said, ‘I think only the truth will serve here. I didn’t see you at that window with Kathi. I saw your father.’
‘And now?’ Robin said. ‘I know I am young.’
‘Are you young?’ Nicholas said. ‘You never seemed so.’
‘I can look after her, you see,’ said the boy.
And then, suddenly, Nicholas was swept by proper feeling; for this was true. Death had always been close to Kathi, fetterless sprite that she was. She had faced it, and was stoical. But now she had an anchor, a shield. A resolute person who was both of those things, but also high-spirited, and courageous, and quick. So, of course, was Archie his father. But Archie was his own age.
Nicholas saw that he had no right to think of himself, and Kathi in relation to himself. She was matched with Robin. The bravery she had shown in Egypt and in Iceland, had been equalled by Robin on the battlements of Edinburgh Castle; at the Markarfljót. He owed Robin his life. That moment of wordless reunion with Kathi, never spoken of since, had been vouchsafed him by Robin, whose face, triumphant, content, he could visualise now, printed against the cold snow, under the flamboyant skies of Hlídarendi. Kathi had fought to bring Nicholas his son; Robin had not only loved Jodi but, protecting him, had suffered hurts and humiliation in silence.
And for little reward. After Diniz, after Felix, Nicholas had distanced himself, of intent, from all the impressionable young who wished, eager, affectionate, to enter his life.
No longer. No longer for this one, at least. The boy waited, his eyes steady and clear as a shepherd’s. Nicholas laughed with sudden pleasure and, walking over, gripped Robin by the shoulders, as he might a drinking-companion, and turned him round into his arm. He said, ‘I am so glad about this.’
The boy’s face melted. ‘Now you have both of us,’ Robin said.
Smiling, Nicholas shook him and let his arm fall, moving on. The water lapped. A leaf of gold kid eddied drunkenly down to the grass; his eyes followed it. Sunk beside it was the satchel he had brought. Nicholas lifted it with meticulous care. He said to Kathi, ‘I have brought you a present.’
She recognised the pouch as soon as he placed it before her, and studied it as it lay on the table. Then she opened it slowly, and drew out Glímu-Sveinn’s chessmen.
She said, ‘No.’ Her eyes were wet. The boy looked from her face to that of Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘They were given to me in Iceland for a service in which we all shared. I should like her to remember.’
‘Take them, Kathi,’ Robin said. And she took them.
They called for wine then, and he made them talk and then laugh, while they drank it. They were to be married quite soon. The story of Paúel Benecke and Tommaso’s picture was the success of the afternoon. By the time they walked back, the sun was yellow and low, warm as amber; and a barge, overtaking them, flitted upstream like a dragonfly, with a light at its muzzle and two fine silver wings on each side.
They had talked of the white bear. They had said nothing of death, or divining, or music, or the greatest spectacle in the world, which was God’s own work, or the devil’s. They had said nothing of Zacco. He wondered if they knew of Uzum’s two great defeats. He wondered if they knew that Zacco’s son had been born, six weeks after his death. He hoped they did not know – but they probably did – that he and Gelis would come to the end of their particular road on the day that Duke Charles was crowned.
There was no reason for them to be concerned with any of these things, for they had each other. He wondered how Nostradamus had known.
*
At the gates of the Archbishop’s Palace he
was met by the Chancellor’s secretary, saying, ‘Where have you been? You must come at once.’
He thought of arson, armed conflict, serious breaches of etiquette at the Duke of Burgundy’s conspicuous celebration. Even when he reached his own room and found Hugonet pacing his chamber, he felt only impatience. Then Hugonet said, ‘Are you not being paid well enough? I need your help. A matter is developing which must be dealt with, and before the Duke hears. I have to go to St Maximin. You must talk to the Emperor’s men. You must do what you can, and I shall come back and continue tomorrow.’
‘What is it?’ said Nicholas. He paused. ‘The Emperor wishes to change the date of the coronation?’ He had ordered his life, so he thought. He had ordered part of it, at least; and was about, given time, to marshal the other. He realised he was incapable of waiting very much longer.
Hugonet said, ‘He wishes to withdraw the crown. He wishes to countermand the coronation. He must not be allowed to.’
The dreadful campaign began. For two days, furious ministers met, and the secret of the potential disaster was confined to the reverberating walls of the Emperor’s chambers. Outside, the Duke’s gracious festival ended, and his guests thronged back, refreshed, to wrestle with the astonishing, the profligate, the ruinous preparations for his crowning. Astorre and John and Julius were among them. Nicholas, closeted with Hugonet’s officers, was sworn to secrecy, and the Duke’s state of divine exaltation was unimpaired.
It could not continue for long. On the third day, the Lord of the World summoned the Burgundian Chancellor and delivered his final decision. It was just before midnight. Afterwards, Hugonet called upon Nicholas. When he had gone, Nicholas sent for his partners.
They came, blinking, in bedgowns. Nicholas sat, fully dressed, drinking water. He said, ‘Sit down. Prepare for a shock. The coronation is cancelled.’
They looked at him. ‘Merde!’ said Astorre.
‘Why?’ said John.
‘Someone, no doubt with a French accent, has persuaded the Emperor that a greater Burgundy would threaten the Empire. Frederick wants the matter dropped now, and brought up at a Diet next year.’
‘Mother of God! Does the Duke know?’ Julius said.
Nicholas glanced at the hour-glass. ‘Not yet. Hugonet will break the news. Then the Emperor will send his official regrets later tomorrow. The day after that, the Duke will be called to the Palace for the final leave-taking, at which he will be shown every honour. I quote.’
‘That’s Thursday!’ Julius said. ‘He’s leaving on the day he was supposed to be crowned! My God. The Cathedral. The robes. The hangings. The carpentry. The provisions …’
‘And all we’ve done,’ said John slowly. ‘Nicholas! The choirs? Everything gone?’
‘Not at all,’ Nicholas said. ‘Move them around. The street decorations can stay; everything else can be stuffed into the Palace for the Emperor’s reception on Thursday, barring the crown and sceptre and banner, of course. At least the Duke’s leave-taking should be spectacular, and the Emperor will have to foot all the bills. You can start on it tomorrow. Today. I have to go to the Abbey.’
‘The Duke’ll be mad,’ Julius said. ‘But I suppose that you feel you must go. And you’ll want to arrange what to do about Gelis.’
‘That was in my mind,’ Nicholas said.
He had sent her a note, asking her to receive him on Wednesday. Today. Even now, he had not broken the embargo: merely stated that he had been forced to alter his plans. She would realise why, soon enough. Soon enough, the whole of the Burgundian court would explode, like Hekla, scorching everyone within reach. He didn’t know what would happen after that, and he didn’t want to wait to find out. He wanted to come to the end of this conflict, this mission, today.
Her note, agreeing, came just after dawn, brought by a man who had had to shoulder his way through the crowds in the streets. The news was out. He couldn’t go out yet himself, although his own arrangements were well in hand: he had seen no point in going to bed. Now, he had been warned, he had to wait for an audience with the Emperor. He supposed he was about to be thanked and even paid for all he had done these two months, on secondment from Burgundy. For the sake of the Bank, he must comply.
The moment that he entered the Imperial chamber, he realised that he was wrong. The gifts were there on a table: a pair of silver-gilt goblets, a sable-lined cloak, a pouch, a paper folded with the Imperial seal. The Emperor sat in his chair of state, preparing to deliver them. But the man at his side was Ludovico da Bologna, who specialised in demands, not in thanks.
This time, it was the Emperor who, after the presentation, after the praise, sought to know the precise position of the Banco di Niccolò in the war against the Ottoman Turk.
Nicholas had replied, as he was expected to reply, that he was a servant of Burgundy, and that Burgundy was constrained by the threat from King Louis.
‘It is understood,’ said the Emperor. ‘But does it seem to my lord of Beltrees that Burgundy’s power, augmented by the might of the Bank, will be directed against the Most Christian King of France? Or will it be required to waste its strength on small issues, from which the Bank might draw rather less credit?’
The voice of Sigismond of the Tyrol. The voice, even, of Eleanor of Scotland, his wife. Nicholas said, ‘Highness, I understand the issues. I have to consider what will best serve the Bank. It had been my hope to return to the East representing both the Empire and Burgundy. That hope has gone.’
‘Does it seem so?’ said the Emperor. ‘My friend the Patriarch appears to think differently. He thinks the Duke might be willing to allow us to retain your services for a little.’
‘For the sake of the future,’ said the Patriarch. His crucifix, big as a stirrup, reflected the unshaven part of his jowls, and his grin. ‘You could take your wife and child with you. Consult them. Consult monseigneur your illustrious Duke. My lord Emperor merely requests that you give him your reply by tomorrow. He offers you material rewards, which will be made explicit. I offer you rewards at a throne higher than his.’
Then they had let him go, and he could leave for St Maximin. He spoke to Astorre, and gave his papers to Julius. He had already visited all his team. Anna said, ‘But you are coming back?’
Nicholas said, ‘I think it is likelier that you will all come to St Maximin. There may be ill feeling. One will have to choose one side or the other.’
She had smiled, shaking her head. ‘I don’t mean to suborn Julius. But I did hope that the two courts would become one. Will you tell Gelis that, whatever happens, I wish her all happiness?’
‘I hope you can tell her yourself,’ Nicholas said.
It was John who forced a bodyguard on him, and insisted on accompanying him to the Abbey. He was right. The people of Trèves, after eight weeks of idle soldiery and rocketing prices, had lost patience at last and, crowding the streets, were shouting abuse at every foreigner. Once, it must have seemed that the Great Encounter was going to bring a flood of prosperity to the Electorate and its capital. Now, having exhausted its supplies and its patience, the princes had cancelled the finest free show of them all, and left the citizens to the Burgundians’ anger. There were no trumpeters on the Porta Nigra today.
If the atmosphere in the city was ugly, that in the Abbey precincts was one of boiling rage. Everywhere men stood in groups, and shouting sounded from casements, while servants and wagons crowded the courtyards, as the great households slowly began their dismantling. In all this, there was no likelihood whatever that Nicholas would be received by the Duke. He could try to see Hugonet. He dismounted.
John said, ‘Are ye worried? About the bairn and your lady?’
Nicholas said, ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve seen them myself. Why not go and find Tobie? I’ll come later.’
Hugonet was asleep, but had left word to be wakened if Nicholas came. He sat, grey-faced, on the edge of his bed and listened. At the end he said, ‘I spoke to the Duke. I recommended that, as the Duke’s loyal se
rvant, you should be allowed to remain at the Imperial court if invited. You are not, however, to take your men-at-arms, or promise them elsewhere without sanction.’
‘The Duke has my word,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am grateful.’
It was done. Everything was done, but for one thing.
At his door, Pasque let him in, full of lustful delight over the morning of drama. She was alone, but for the Lady. Mistress Clémence had gone to the herb gardens, and Master Jodi was asleep in his room. Nicholas sent her back to her charge. Then he spoke Gelis’s name, and her voice replied from the parlour. He had only to open the door, and walk in.
Five years. It was a long time for an estrangement. But for Godscalc, it would have been three, and he wouldn’t have gained what he had gained; and lost what he had lost. He stood, and thought of Gelis on the other side of the door, waiting for it to open. Now, the moment of truth; no longer the fencing, the irony. He pressed the latch, and went in.
She stood facing him, motionless as a painted wood quintain. He thought of carnival-time in Bruges, and the fat, raucous child who had commandeered his company and perhaps averted a killing. The obsessive, competitive child from whom had grown the quick-tongued, vigorous girl, the magnificent lover, the ruthless opponent, and now this fine-boned, high-mannered woman with no flaw as yet in her beauty.
She said, ‘Well, Nicholas?’
He did not want to begin. The hour had arrived: the culmination of all he had lived and worked for since their wedding day, and from now onwards, whatever happened, it would be different.
She said, ‘I am told you have won the Emperor’s favour.’
‘And the Duke’s,’ Nicholas said. ‘I can choose which to serve, or serve neither. That is all I had to establish.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And now you find it hard to begin?’ She still stood.
He said, ‘Yes. I have no script today, Gelis, and no masks.’
‘No music,’ she said.
He made a sound. ‘It is bad enough, without music. Do you want me to begin? Or shall we toss?’ Reminded of something, he added, ‘Mistress Clémence would have made a good arbitrator, except that she would learn rather too much. No one would be able to refuse her anything ever again.’
To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 78