The Unicorn Hunt

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I’ve read that. I’ll tell you in a moment the bits I don’t like. Haddington? We’re all learning to dance: the King’s dancing-master comes out from Torphichen. Mistress Phemie has written a poem, and Will Roger has set it to music. There are three verses the Prioress doesn’t know about. Dame Alisia is going to her family for Christmas, while the rest of us attend the Princesses at Court. Thomas Boyd won’t be there: the Danish bride will be held up for months. His father has a very bad cold and a rash. We are all waiting for your ship with the cut velvet in it: if it doesn’t come soon, the Prioress will attack you with a knife, and this time it will be fatal. As you probably know, your friend Kilmirren and Henry have both gone back home. That’s a very nice lady, Mistress Bel.’

  He was sitting up, now. ‘You mean she played ball with you?’

  ‘I mean she knows what Henry did, but hasn’t told. So does Simon. And my uncle, of course.’

  ‘And the King?’ he said. There was no urgency in the question. He was well enough for that.

  ‘Believed your story implicitly. He’s rounded up all the Horse Market vagrants and released them after a thrashing. The better class of citizen would like to put you up for a civic award. What does Berecrofts think?’

  ‘The same. That I resent being robbed, and am prepared to pay to be spoiled. So spoil me.’

  ‘Pay me,’ said Katelijne.

  He considered her. He said, ‘Open that casket, and take out the two largest objects inside.’

  The two largest objects were a pack of playing cards and a jew’s trump.

  He said, ‘I am now going to teach you a very coarse game. If you win, you get the trump. If you lose, you have to walk on your hands back to the priory.’

  ‘On my horse’s back?’ she said, bargaining.

  ‘Providing you dress as you were in the water.’

  ‘And that’s only worth a trump?’

  ‘I could improve the offer. What would you do for a guittern?’

  ‘I’ll settle,’ she said, ‘for the trump.’

  It was the twang of the little instrument, and the raised voices, that brought Berecrofts to the door half an hour later. The girl left, the right way up, with her servants. Later still, when the harm had been assessed and Andreas, returned from the sickbed, required an explanation, Archie had been defensive. ‘All he wanted was news. He made her talk. She only stayed half an hour. Well, it brought him to life at least, didn’t it?’

  That much was true, and although it brought him a fever as well, he emerged his own man, primed and ready for all that had to be done, and done quickly. When next Katelijne arrived, this time with Will Roger as escort, de Fleury was in no want of news but, leaving his laden desk readily, engaged in an arrow-shower of chatter and badinage which this time was patently effortless. Katelijne, rising to combat, spoke faster and faster: it was the musician who slowed in the end, spent with laughter.

  It was not a long ride to Emmanuel. Will Roger said, ‘So what do you think?’

  Two weeks before, de Fleury had dismissed Andreas his doctor. It was because of Andreas they had come. Katelijne said, ‘Sometimes the nuns speak and think very slowly. Then I feel the way I think he is feeling.’

  Will Roger grunted. Although he made no concessions, she knew that she was watched; and that he had drawn some conclusions. He would agree, no doubt, with her parents. He said, ‘He should let his business alone for a while.’

  ‘You would. He wouldn’t,’ Katelijne said. ‘He’s cramming everything in. I think he does intend to get back to his wife by the spring. I think the Ghost is coming to take him.’

  ‘So anxious a father? You’d think he’d apply for reassurance to Andreas,’ Roger said. ‘Or is that why …?’

  ‘That’s why there is no Dr Andreas. Dr Andreas offered to study his stars.’

  ‘And got sent away. Why? I would have listened. He hasn’t offered to study my stars,’ said Will Roger.

  ‘You haven’t got any stars. You were born in a whistle. You couldn’t give me an A.’

  ‘Yes I could,’ said Will Roger, and made his tuning-fork chime. It began to snow while they were alternately singing and racing each other, but they hardly noticed, they were so entertained.

  Christmas came. Simon of Kilmirren, returned to acceptance, spent the height of the season at Court with a much qualified wardrobe, and passed the rest of his time at Kilmirren, drilling Henry. Bel of Cuthilgurdy, being of a nature which (grimly) never imposed itself uninvited, filled her comfortable house with comfortable friends, and generated some moderate happiness. Lucia, passing between homesteads, took care to see neither Bel nor her brother.

  The boy Henry did not appear at Court at all, having been beaten by Simon, the other boys claimed, and his armour sold off. The borrowed armour of Simon, the more reliable story ran, had been returned to de Fleury with an apology for the shortcomings of the Kilmirren armourer. And certainly, the Emperor of Trebizond would never have worn the suit the way it looked now.

  Nicholas de Fleury, whose entire bureau was now divided between Berecrofts and the Canongate, considered returning to Edinburgh for a space, and then reconsidered.

  Socially, he had lost his light hold on the royal brothers and sisters, and would not readily make it up in a matter of days. Nor was he anxious, just yet, to risk meeting Simon in Edinburgh. On every other level of business, his Scottish transactions had continued without much interruption.

  As for his overseas trade, transmission had slackened in winter, and any message that did come was brought him directly by Bonkle or Crackbene. Julius was now with him most of the time. As he expected, there had been no word from Gelis. There had been no word about her either: sick or well; dead or alive. If she were dead, he would hear. But if the weather closed in, he could be cut off from Edinburgh,

  If the weather closed in, his ship might be late, or might sink, which would be … inconvenient. As it was, she was due any day, with her recondite cargo. And she was to come to the port of Blackness, not to Leith, for Nicholas wanted her near him, and Blackness was only four miles from Linlithgow. That, in the end, was why he stayed at Berecrofts. That, and because he knew the nature of the Scottish Court. He had devoted three months to studying it.

  Julius had learned, now, that Nicholas was leaving in a few weeks for Flanders, without waiting for spring or Adorne’s company. Failing to argue him out of this plan, Julius proposed to come with him. Naturally, he and Nicholas would be back, having made such an investment in Scotland. Julius was not fool enough to believe that marriage counted for much to a rich man, or indeed any other, but accepted that Nicholas had to consult with Astorre, renew his status with the Duke, and review his dealings with Venice and Alexandria. By that time, his child born, Nicholas could make sure of the next, and return.

  Nicholas de Fleury was familiar with all these opinions of Julius, as indeed he should be, having implanted them. Nicholas de Fleury waited, unsleeping, vigilant, drinking water, and was rewarded, after a fashion.

  The Ghost arrived a week after Twelfth Night. Michael Crackbene, blue with cold, brought the news on horseback from Blackness, and reported that the carts had come, and she was already unloading. She was being revictualled at the same time, and soon the new freight would be in place.

  ‘Revictualled to leave? After three weeks’ hard sailing from Sluys?’ Julius exclaimed.

  ‘She’s watertight. I’m changing her crew. I know her,’ Crackbene said. ‘I know the sea in these parts as well.’

  He gazed at Julius, whom he neither liked nor disliked. Julius, a natural opponent of tolerance, glared in return, then transferred his annoyance to the ship’s owner. ‘I thought you meant to sail on that ship.’

  ‘I did. I do,’ Nicholas said. ‘But it has to be now, apparently, because of the weather. I have only three days, Mick calculates, to get out of the estuary and turn south in safety. Otherwise I could be stuck here till spring.’

  ‘Then stay till spring,’ Julius said. ‘Astorre w
on’t rot; Gregorio loves being in charge; Cristoffels seems to be managing; the Mamelukes haven’t killed John so far as I know. You could drown getting to Bruges in this weather. Keep the Ghost at Blackness. Or send it back without you, if you’re so keen to turn over your profit. Crackbene’ll take her.’

  Crackbene said nothing. That was why he had been hired. Julius, too, had been brought here for a purpose. One kept one’s temper with Julius, except when it was useful to lose it. And Julius had no suspicions. Julius would never imagine that, in the warmth of this room, anyone could be seized with such cold that he had to grip his hands together to still them.

  Nicholas said, ‘When I want a lecture, I’ll ask for one. I’m sailing with Crackbene. As I’ve already told you, you can stay.’

  ‘Not unless you do,’ Julius said. ‘Oh, come on. See sense. Leave in three days? With the Court waiting for you, and all your business going so well? Unless …’ He paused. ‘Nicholas? You’ve got the Hamilton girl into pup? Or one of the others?’

  Crackbene’s stare switched from the floor to the ceiling. Nicholas saw it. He realised that losing his temper was useless. Instead he said, hesitating, ‘There are certain problems. If you could manage to stay –’ He broke off. He felt marginally better. It was one of the functions of Julius, to make him feel better. Some, at least, of the time.

  ‘I’m not staying!’ said Julius with alarm. ‘So when are we going?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Or the next day. I don’t know. Should I announce it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ said Julius. ‘Slip away. Crackbene?’

  ‘Slip away. Easy enough,’ Crackbene said. ‘I’m packed, anyway.’

  It occurred to Julius that he was not. He asked other questions, but upon receiving minimal answers he retired presently, looking doubtful, to make lists. Crackbene sat on, having more to report and a letter, brought by the ship, to deliver.

  It was addressed to Nicholas de Fleury in Gregorio’s writing. There was no time now, to read it in privacy. Whatever it was. Rising, de Fleury broke with steady hands the seal of the packet and drew out the single page it contained. He read it once by the brazier, before holding it over the flames to catch fire. Then he set it down on the embers, and prodded it slowly and deliberately into ashes.

  Crackbene said, ‘You have blistered your hand.’ Nicholas had forgotten he was there.

  The blisters were nothing. The rod he had gripped as a poker was red from its point to his fingers. Like blood on a knife. He knew, breathing slowly, where he wanted to sheath it. He said, without turning, ‘Shouldn’t you go?’ and heard Crackbene rise.

  Crackbene said, ‘You are going on with it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Nicholas said. He turned. ‘Something made me angry, that was all. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘So I see,’ Crackbene said.

  It was the season for hunting: the season when, tempted into the open, the chosen prey turned and twisted and fled, and the young and strong and handsome raced after, to kill.

  It was the day, the cold day of Crackbene’s visit to Berecrofts, when the child Henry, bored with Kilmirren, persuaded the young hunt-servant left by his father to take him out on his pony and, collecting a group of young people, well attended, to spend the brightest hours hunting small game with them in the snow. Their sport took them to the door of Bel of Cuthilgurdy, who invited them in and gave them what refreshment she had.

  Since Edinburgh, she had not laid eyes on Henry. It had worried her. The gossip she heard of Simon’s vanity-struck disordered household gave her no confidence in his understanding of the boy, or his ability to make a home for him. Yet the constant practice, the training in chivalry in all its aspects, the concentrated attention must at least restore the child’s confidence; must make him at least feel secure. But it pained her, a little, that the boy had not come to see her.

  And now here he was. Because, it seemed, Simon was in Edinburgh, and had been for some time. Jordan his grandfather, of course, was in France. So, alone in a household of servants with his nurse, his tutor, his master-at-arms, Henry had felt himself bored and neglected, and was in the process of seeking a remedy.

  There were few chances to talk. He looked as beautiful as ever, and well; had grown a little; was boisterous and commanding in the presence of children and servants; less so with the older boys, who delivered sly pinches and blows when they were not devouring her food. He had brought them for the sake of his popularity, that was all. It was what she should have expected.

  At the end, they all politely thanked her, including the servants outside, and Henry, taking his leave, submitted to two or three questions to which he gave careless answers.

  She found the answers disturbing. She continued to find them disturbing all evening. After an uneasy night, she rose in the dark before dawn and rode out the short distance necessary to satisfy herself that she was wrong.

  When, presently, she left home again with her maid it was daylight, and she was warmly clad for a long journey, and accompanied by a party of men from the Kilmirren estate and its farms. Some, like young Andro, she had known a long time. The rest included the new steward appointed by Jordan, and the man from the east coast, from B roughton, whom Simon himself had selected. They took dogs and spare horses and food. They also took weapons. It was by then a fine day: full morning, with the sun in her eyes, dazzling white from the hoof-printed snow.

  It was a good morning for hunting. The same sun roused the King’s Court at Edinburgh, where the Castle seethed with restless young men. It was a good morning for hunting and moreover the Ghost, this Flemish ship with the fabulous cargo, had arrived, they had learned, and was lying within easy reach at Blackness.

  The King had already conferred with Alexander his brother, or possibly the other way round. By the time the sun had climbed in the sky, a royal hunting-party had left for a day’s sport to the hills west of Edinburgh.

  They planned to hunt. They planned to descend for food upon the King’s Palace of Linlithgow. Before turning homewards to Edinburgh, they planned to ride across to Blackness and inspect the Ghost and its wonderful merchandise. Among those who accompanied the King were Anselm Adorne and Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren.

  By midday, the royal party was close to Linlithgow, and Bel of Cuthilgurdy was eight hours away.

  Nicholas de Fleury waited.

  It was only the first stage, that was all. It was only the first knot in the snare, the first flick of the hook; the first hint of spin in the arrow. The first letting of blood not his own.

  Chapter 8

  A DORNE HAD BEEN to Linlithgow Palace before. The drawbridge thudded down in a sunlit cloud of snow speckled with dust and the hounds, brown and black and white, poured past the horses like salmon. Above the carved lintel, the scaffolding stood against the pellucid blue sky, marking the advance of the masonwork.

  The new rooms were to be ready by the time the King’s bride came from Denmark. Through the winter, James had ridden out now and then to look at them, but not to stay. No one stayed there at present but the artisans and the Master of Works and their cook and, some of the time, the Keeper of the Palace.

  Even to pause here for noon dinner had meant sending off a train of wagons at dawn, with food and trestles and benches and barrels of ale, and dishes and pots for the kitchen, and cloths and buckets and braziers. There were supposed to be spits already provided, and charcoal, and logs to heat the stone rooms. A host of servants in thick hooded mantles had travelled the sixteen miles with the baggage, glumly packed between kegs.

  It was as well they had sent something to eat, for the morning’s hunting had been indifferent: a few score game birds and some hares, which had hardly diminished the Princes’ energy, or that of Sersanders and Adorne’s niece, for that matter. The countryside was white with last night’s snow: even the loch above which the Palace perched was smooth as a blanket, and the air crackled with redeeming frost over the workmen’s latrines. Beyond the entrance passage and portcullis, the inner yard of
the building was stiff with mud. The Keeper stood in it waiting, cap in hand, his beard fixed in a block like winter fodder. He had just finished sneezing.

  Anselm Adorne thought of the Great Hall as last he had seen it, a hundred feet long and thirty wide with unshuttered windows and bare walls and stone seats and a black fog of fumes from the hearth. And that had been in autumn. He wondered if the well froze. Maintaining a lofty Burgundian calm, he exchanged a silent flicker of woe with Jehan Metteneye.

  Behind, the rest of the party, losing animation, had fallen pettishly quiet, in the way of those about to blame someone for something. Katelijne was among them, with the nuns and her mistress, young Margaret. Adorne could hear Mistress Phemie’s encouraging voice, supported by the rich tones of Will Roger. He smiled.

  The stables at least were prepared, and the hounds were led off. Adorne greeted the Keeper, and took his place of honour in the cold procession shedding mud and snow up the flight of stone steps to the hall. Andreas was behind him, and Scheves. He caught sight of Kilmirren, clad in a sober wool cloak and black cap, taking the steps two at a time.

  Kilmirren was in favour today, having driven the game the King’s way, and refrained from taking the best. Kilmirren, working hard since his son’s joust, had devoted his time to pleasing the King, and no less to warmly befriending Adorne who, as it happened, felt no pressing need of his company. He usually passed him to his nephew, who talked to him about jousting.

  Now Simon, having sprung to his side, produced an apology for their surroundings. ‘Linlithgow is not the Princenhof, I’m afraid. But even the Duke of Burgundy’s palaces are stripped in winter, and cold.’

  ‘It is so everywhere,’ Adorne said. ‘When his grace the King and his mother lived here, I make no doubt it was handsome, and will be more magnificent still. We understand: we are dining alfresco.’

  The Keeper had reached the top of the stairs with the King, followed by the King’s two half-uncles with Alexander of Albany behind. Mantled in quilted pourpoints and jackets and furs, they looked from below like a press of cattle, jammed fast at the neck of a gate. Adorne heard upraised voices.