To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I have an arbitrator,’ Gelis said. ‘Open the door.’

  The adjacent room led to a passage, and to the back entrance to the lodging. It was small, no more than an antechamber; and a red-haired man was standing there, a powerful man with bad teeth whom he had last seen waving at him at the Luxembourg portal. Martin. Martin of the Vatachino.

  Nicholas said, ‘I thought we should be alone.’ Then he stepped back and said, ‘But, of course, we spoke of it.’ The sense of loss deepened and spread, bringing with it a weariness which almost stopped him from speaking.

  The man strolled forward, his knowing eye resting on Gelis. She hardly glanced at him. She said to Nicholas, ‘Have we stunned you into silence? You want to talk of achievements, competitions. Martin is here from the Vatachino to remind you how often they’ve won, competing against you; how often they’ve tricked you and bested you; to tell you of victories you don’t even know about yet.’

  ‘How kind of him,’ Nicholas said. ‘He has come to apologise?’

  She laughed: a small, excited laugh that he recognised; that once had been private between them, when no words had been necessary. She said, ‘He has come to tell you that I work for the Vatachino. That most of their successes, and your failures, are because of my advice, my information, my help.’ Her eyes were immense. Beside her, the man Martin smiled.

  Nicholas said, ‘Then he is your witness, not an adjudicator.’ His voice was quite steady.

  She said, ‘Oh, perhaps. But he is here to supply proof.’

  Alone with her, he would not have lied. Alone with her, he would have left aside the script and the mask, and told her as much of the truth as he dared. Then, beginning as they had begun, he would have moved, step by step, in the hope of an understanding. And one day, when it was all over, he would have told her, somehow, what he had done.

  He abandoned that now, but neither did he take up his weapons. Instead, he chose the middle option, the course which he himself, in his right mind, had once dismissed.

  He sat down. He said, ‘If that is so, you are a threat to the Bank and a power, yes, which it would be my responsibility to appease. So give me your proof.’

  *

  The air in the herb gardens was mild, and the gardens themselves, remote from the turbulence at the Abbey, were reposeful and quiet. Freed from her heavy morning of duties, Mistress Clémence of Coulanges moved along the patterned walks, pausing now and then, her grey skirts slurring behind her. There were still some pansies in bloom, although the Church preferred more utilitarian plants. She saw some aristolochia, and thought she must tell Dr Tobias. If, of course, the exigencies of decampment allowed.

  A voice said, ‘Demoiselle?’ There was a note of insolence in it. She turned.

  A boy. A youth, as no doubt he would prefer to be called, of twelve or thirteen, of quite singular looks. She had last seen him in Bruges, his face swollen and bruised from a blow struck by young Jordan’s father. Henry de St Pol, he was named. She said, ‘Sir?’

  ‘You don’t remember me?’ the boy said. He was well dressed, but hollow-eyed and dust-caked from long travelling. The sun glittered on his brilliant hair. He said, ‘I thought Jordan would be with you. He is called Jordan, isn’t he? The little bastard?’

  There was an arbour nearby. She turned into it and sat, pursing her lips. ‘His lady mother gave him his name. But I do not think if you have seen him, that you could call him a bastard. You are like your father. He is like his.’

  ‘His father tried to beat me to death,’ the boy said. ‘He didn’t succeed. My grandfather saved me.’

  ‘To death? That is not like Lord Beltrees,’ said Mistress Clémence thoughtfully. ‘It is generally a matter of honour to choose an opponent at least as old and as skilled as oneself. But I am glad that your grandfather rescued you. Would you like to tell me about it? Or perhaps you are hungry? I have some cheese and milk in the house.’

  ‘I am not hungry,’ the boy said. He was lying. His cheeks were hollow.

  Mistress Clémence said, ‘Then come with me anyway. Master Jodi is there.’

  ‘Jodi?’ he said. He made it sound like a sneer.

  ‘Men have little names sometimes,’ she said. ‘The name for Henry is Arigho, is it not? Dr Tobias?’

  The boy sprang round like a young mastiff. Dr Tobias, quietly approaching from behind, stood still. He said, ‘I came to fetch you. And do I need to ask who this is? The son of Simon de St Pol?’ He had pulled his cap off, an untoward gesture he made, she had noticed, when disturbed.

  ‘Who are you?’ the boy said.

  ‘No one who matters. A doctor,’ said Dr Tobias. ‘I heard you were thrashed. Lord Beltrees was beaten himself, shortly afterwards, although I am not sure he deserved it. But I think you have a family who protect you, and you should thank them.’

  She was surprised. She noticed that, speaking, Dr Tobias avoided her eyes. She said, ‘We were about to go and find some cheese and perhaps something a little better. Come with us.’

  Only then did she notice how empty this part of the garden had become, and that there were men outside the arbour who were neither monks nor ducal officials. She saw the boy smile, his eyes bright in his narrow, white face. A man appeared, blocking the sunlight. A large, fat man who said, ‘Mistress Clémence, I believe. Dr Tobias. We have heard your kind invitation and indeed, should like to accept it. A little cheese. A little milk. And perhaps even something more satisfying.’

  She looked at Dr Tobias, who had pulled on his cap. A group of unknown men stood behind him. Dr Tobias said, ‘Mistress Clémence, allow me to introduce Henry’s grandfather. This is Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac.’

  ‘So you didn’t suspect,’ Gelis said. She had seated Martin beside her and was pouring him wine. She put down the flask and raised another. ‘Water, Nicholas?’ Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. Give her that happiness now, Kathi had said. And Gelis was happy, even before the long catalogue of her scheming that he must listen to, that would prove that she was not just a sentient or a sensual being but an intelligent one. An organiser, an administrator. A person as competent as Gregorio, Julius, Govaerts. As himself.

  ‘Let me think. No,’ he said. ‘I believe I might even risk wine.’ And as she smiled and started to pour, he said, ‘Of course. Isn’t Gelis a short form of Egidia? And Egidius was the Vatachino’s third agent.’

  She said, ‘I thought you would guess that. David was convinced that you … that you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Ah yes, David,’ Nicholas said. She had hesitated, remembering Cyprus. He said to Martin, ‘So you and David enjoyed working under my wife?’ Martin missed it: Gelis ventured a glint of acknowledgement. Once, her name and David’s had been linked. Even before Famagusta, Nicholas had been sure there was nothing in it.

  ‘We worked together.’ Martin was correcting him. ‘I do not work under a woman.’

  ‘Then for Adorne?’ Nicholas said. ‘Or for whom?’ He refrained, with an effort, from emptying his cup at a gulp. He would have only one chance. And meanwhile, he might as well learn what he could. Martin said, ‘None of us knows. The owner of the Vatachino prefers to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Then it might be a woman,’ Nicholas pointed out reasonably.

  Martin stared at him with dislike. Then he said, ‘Do you want to know what else Gelis has done?’

  ‘Let me tell him,’ Gelis said.

  There were some surprises, and despite everything, he was glad of them. But in general, he was familiar, of course, with the areas where the Vatachino had bested him: in the sequestration of paper supplies, which had put a stop to his printing; in the alliance with the towns which had hindered his strategy in Scotland; in the Iceland expedition, which had been intended to tower over his supposed minor investment in herring.

  He heard now again about those, but in terms of Gelis’s personal involvement. All of it was clever. She had connived at Adorne’s vital post as the new Conservator. She had learned of his new Danzig ship and had
enabled it to be delayed. She had been deeply involved in Medici alum negotiations to his prejudice in Rome.

  Some of it hurt. She had encouraged the Duke, at second hand, to send to Scotland for the materials of the Play, and to ask for him to come as director. It bastardised all he had done, and was an insult to Adorne’s son who had died. Or perhaps only he felt that. And perhaps even he had no right to feel it.

  The recital came to an end. She had proved the point he had asked her to make. She had damaged the Bank, especially in those early days in Cologne and in Bruges; and even before that, when she had set out for the Holy Land with Adorne. She had impeded his business to the point where he would have to ask her, or to force her to stop. And he could not use force.

  She said, ‘Well?’ She looked like the girl of five years ago.

  He remembered fragments of something Kathi once had said. She may be cleverer than you are. If she will only be happy when she thinks she is, give her that happiness now.

  Kathi had been right. He had not thought so at the time. Paradoxically, his consideration then had been for Gelis: how she would feel, discovering one day that she had been allowed to prevail. And below that, another thought, born from his own experience. How, knowing what she had done – the brutalities of the wedding night; the poisonous revelations; the challenges; the cruel deceptions over the child – she would find a kind of absolution in what he, in return, had inflicted upon her. Beginning, of course, with his abduction of Jodi, and his consequent control of all that she did. For although he had invited her to leave with the child, he had known that she would not. She knew, as he did, the bond – the raw, speechless bond – that lay between them.

  But now, it was different. Now, day by day, he was beginning, despite his elation, to glimpse that he had perpetrated something in the course of this feud which might deserve a far greater punishment than anything that Gelis had incurred. He had already been made to suffer by Gelis. Now, to throw away his advantage, to concede the battle, was the final restitution he could make for both her sake and his own. Then they could surely go forward, even though Gelis did not yet know what he was capable of. And after she had chosen her prize (for he was sure what her choice was going to be), he would tell her what he had done, and the reason.

  So, he conceded. He said, ‘I don’t know what I could set against that. I could show you the successes of the Bank.’

  ‘I know them,’ she said. ‘I can tell you precisely how much greater they would have been, but for me. Do you want me to stop working against you?’

  He said, ‘You are asking me to give in.’

  She said, ‘Only if you want me to stop. If what I am doing is of no consequence to you, then I shall continue. But this time, of course, I should work openly for the Vatachino. It might puzzle some of your friends.’

  ‘It might puzzle Jodi,’ he said. He saw she had forgotten Martin. She had forgotten everything, except that she had succeeded. She had forced him to comprehend, at last, what she could do. Now, she believed, he must ask her to stop.

  As, of course, he must. He drew a breath. He saw her lean forward a little, and then bite her lip, for a door had opened quietly: the door to the antechamber behind her. Nicholas heard someone speak his name, and looked round. Tobie stood there.

  Nicholas said softly, ‘Tobie, go away.’

  And the doctor said, ‘Nicholas. No.’

  Behind him was a boy, and a man, and a group of powerful soldiers. Three of them had faces Nicholas knew: he had fought them by the Loire close to Chouzy.

  He fought them again now, as they moved into the room, but he knew it was useless. Tobie and the other man were unarmed, and there was Gelis to think of. In the end he relinquished his sword, and two of them held him until he recovered his breath and temper, and addressed the newcomers, as he should have done at the beginning. ‘Monseigneur le vicomte de Ribérac. And Henry.’

  ‘Monseigneur le bâtard,’ returned Jordan de Ribérac. ‘And madame. And – What are you doing here?’ He was staring at Martin. His draped hat, his immense cloak filled the room.

  Nicholas said, ‘Won’t you sit? Master Martin represents, as you know, the Vatachino. So, I have just learned, does my lady wife. We have been attempting, without much success, to resolve an unusual domestic embroglio. Perhaps, therefore, the lady might leave.’

  ‘Unusual!’ repeated the vicomte, with a vast and increasing surprise. His eyes gleamed, studying Gelis. ‘The Vatachino! You have been acting for this contemptible firm against your own husband, madame? For how long?’

  ‘For long enough,’ Nicholas said. ‘She has probably done you quite a bit of damage as well. You must take it up with her.’

  He watched, out of the corner of his eye, the expressions cross Tobie’s face: shock, anger, incomprehension. He wondered how this little company had forced its way into the Abbey, and then remembered that today, all the gates to St Maximin’s stood open. He tried not to look at the handsome boy, at his son, who had fixed upon him from the beginning a blue stare of unwinking hatred. He tried not to wonder where Jodi was sleeping, or whether Mistress Clémence might not unsuspectingly enter the room. He speculated on where John might have gone, having failed to find Tobie. He wondered whether Adorne, if he were the anonymous employer of Martin and Gelis, might not come to witness the discomfiture of Nicholas, and remain to expel Jordan. He thought it unlikely. He wondered how long the vicomte had been in Trèves.

  He said, in an interested way, ‘Was it your man they hanged?’

  ‘No,’ the vicomte said. ‘I am not now in the employment of France. That is what I came to discuss. But first, I am interested. Who betrayed the noble lady’s guilty secret? You have just learned it, you say?’ His gaze, roving, settled on Martin.

  Martin said, ‘She told Lord Beltrees herself. The sieur de Fleury and his lady have been in contest with one another, as I understand it, to decide who has the better talent for business. The lady has been making her case with my help.’

  Nicholas glanced at him but Martin, disappointingly, failed to drop dead. Nicholas said, ‘And since she has now done so, perhaps she might leave and wait somewhere else. I am longing to know why you are here.’

  ‘I thought I had told you,’ said Fat Father Jordan. He had taken a seat. It creaked, but could not be seen under the spread of his mantle. He said, ‘So she has put her case. And have you put yours?’

  Of all his enemies, this man could best detect what was raw, what was bruised, what was sensitive. Nicholas said, ‘The debate is over. I have conceded.’

  ‘Conceded!’ the vicomte exclaimed. ‘With all the tally of Nicholas de Fleury’s extraordinary achievements to place on the scales! Do you tell me that the efforts of one young demoiselle, however talented, can outstrip his successes at the French Court, or in Scotland alone?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Nicholas said. ‘But since you were not here when the matter was weighed, you cannot pronounce on the outcome.’

  Martin said, ‘But the matter was not weighed. Lord Beltrees put no case at all.’

  The seigneur de Ribérac stared. ‘My dear man! You must not throw away a suit without debating it! I shall be your judge. I shall be your judge and your witness as well, for few know as well as I what you have been responsible for.’

  ‘It is over,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You ceded it. Why, Nicholas, did you cede it? A girl’s skills against yours?’

  ‘Because,’ Nicholas said, ‘I prefer to live, and I am tired of being attacked in the flesh as well as in the pocket. The Vatachino have tried to kill me once too often.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ Gelis said.

  ‘You know it is true,’ Nicholas said. ‘Ask Martin here. Ask your precious David, when next you see him, how I came to be tortured, how I came to be left to drown in the cisterns of Cairo.’

  ‘You weren’t tortured,’ Gelis said. ‘As for the cisterns, the Mamelukes lied to him. But in any case, you got away easily.’ Her brows were drawn. She looked, fo
r the moment, like her sister.

  Tobie said, ‘I was there. He was tortured. He would have drowned, but for a miracle. David started it, and did nothing to stop it.’

  ‘He said you knew about it,’ Nicholas said. ‘He had your ring.’ He looked curiously at her face, and the horror on it, which she couldn’t have manufactured. She hadn’t known. He said, none the less, ‘And in Cyprus.’

  She said, ‘He was to kidnap and ransom you.’

  ‘Perhaps he meant to,’ Nicholas said. ‘But when Zacco fell ill, I was left to starve. And then of course, there was Martin, who almost managed to pitch me over the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, and sink me in Iceland. Even Sersanders, even Katelijne would have been killed, when my ship was sent to the bottom – I wonder if Adorne ever realised that?’

  Martin was standing. The fat man’s lazy regard dwelled on each speaker in turn. Then he returned it to Nicholas, as if encouraging him to continue.

  Nicholas didn’t mind. Nicholas said, ‘And there was the pact between Martin and Simon. Did you know about that, Gelis? Of course, the Vatachino and the vicomte are rivals, but Martin did persuade Simon to join him in attacking their mutual enemy, the Banco di Niccolò. It was after that pact that the wagon rolled downhill towards Jodi. It was after that pact that the ice gave way in the Nor’ Loch and the horse-shoes were spiked in an attempt against all of us, but chiefly, Gelis, against you.’

  Martin said, ‘I had nothing to do with it. Simon did these things himself.’

  ‘Did he? Who is to say?’ Nicholas said. ‘But at least I can absolve Gelis from both, whatever earlier murders she was willing to help with. In these cases the Vatachino operated against her, as they did against me.’ He turned his eyes to the fat man, brows raised. ‘So you see, I do have reason for ceding the fight. The sooner she leaves the Vatachino, the better.’

  ‘These are lies,’ Gelis said. ‘I attempted no murders.’ But her voice was flat, and she was staring at Martin. The boy Henry laughed.