‘Then come with me,’ said de Fleury, and threw the feather away.
Riding north through the long, sunlit morning, Gregorio wondered what other visits his partner might have paid, secretively or otherwise, to this countryside, and what he made of it. Marsh and peat moss, lakes and patches of timber, small turf and wattle settlements with their churches and keeps, makeshift fords, dirt roads deep in mud – none of it, surely, could appeal to a man brought up in towns, used to the rich buildings, the comforts of Bruges, of Venice, of Florence.
The wild mountains of Trebizond had been set about with precious churches and monasteries, and the marble halls of the lords of Byzantium. Nicholas de Fleury, with Loppe at his side, had fought and worked in the sugarfields under the hot sun of Cyprus, but had lived in a sumptuous home, in a land still touched by Gods, where pillars, arcades, amphitheatres dazzled the eye, and painted treasures breathed in the shadows. In Africa, destitute of all but the means to survive, there was still Timbuktu.
Kilmirren lay in this green, empty land with its small towns and its rolling land contoured with cloud-shadows. The Bretons, Normans and Flemings who came here in centuries past found a country not unlike the one they had left and, settling, married into the families that they found here. So the St Pols must have come. But now, such settlers must be aware of two worlds. A man of land and power in France, Jordan de Ribérac seldom came to Kilmirren, and the lure of high living and chivalry called Simon, too, from the land and the mundane duties that went with it. Yet he would want it, for Henry. A man without land was at best a tradesman, a mountebank.
Which brought one to Nicholas de Fleury. But for Simon’s denial, Nicholas, son of Sophie de Fleury his first wife, could have hoped to claim all this land in due course. He had dropped the claim. But since then, he had been given reason, if any man had, to return the injury Simon had done him.
From what Julius said, he had already inflicted on Simon – and received – as much punishment as the quarrel warranted. Lucia’s death surely had not been intended, but Katelijne, who had been there, had little to say about it and Julius, who had a great deal, had not been a full witness. Nevertheless, but for the quarrel, Lucia would not have died, or the child Henry been drawn into trouble. Before others were hurt, de Fleury should bring the feud to an end. Instead, he bought land.
He could have no feeling for Kilmirren, or Scotland. At best, you could say that its language was one of his tongues; that he had merchant acquaintances; that he could make himself acceptable now and then in court circles. Set against all the rest the world offered, it was nothing.
But he also had a wife and, now, a family. Owning Kilmirren – all of it – he could do what Jordan de Ribérac had done: instal an agent, and take his comfort abroad, as a landed man with possessions and title.
Jordan would never sell. Even threats against Henry would not make him. So Nicholas de Fleury would have to acquire Kilmirren in some other way. As the son of Simon – but how could he prove it? Or as the survivor, of course, as, one by one, his family continued to die.
Gregorio caught his first sight of the castle at noon: a keep with rambling accretions, set in a large, irregular yard with high walls. Naturally it was empty: the vicomte away; Simon and his son safely dispatched overseas until Henry’s misdemeanour was forgotten. The personal staff had gone with them. Gregorio wondered which lordly household had the training of Henry at such times. Anyone, probably, would be better than Simon. He reined in, finding he had come upon clusters of low, turf-roofed houses too scattered to be called a village. Twenty people and as many children had come to watch them pass, and dogs began to run at their heels. Chickens squawked and a pig stood in his way.
The de Fleury men were well trained, and rode carefully. The glance of their padrone was equable, but he did not stop. It was known they were coming: the Kilmirren steward had even offered the hospitality of the castle, in the vicomte’s absence. An acceptance, however, would have alarmed him. All those who served Kilmirren would know who this man was, and what their lords thought of him. A mile away, Gregorio could still feel their gaze on the back of his neck.
Then they came to a fence and a hedge, and a kitchen garden well hoed, beyond which was the Little Hall, the two-storeyed building which had been the home of Lucia de St Pol y Vasquez.
Nicholas de Fleury dismounted. A burly man strode from the doorway – Oliver Semple, second cousin to Sir William. Gregorio had met him in Edinburgh. Semple said, ‘I brought two grooms. The stables are still in good order. And good day to ye both. Ye do well?’
‘Well enough,’ his new employer said. ‘Master Gregorio has found the ride rather long. Perhaps you and I should talk first, and he could wait for us in the parlour. Is there someone there?’
The factor said, ‘How did ye guess? Ah, Sir William. Aye, Mistress Bel, her of Cuthilgurdy, rode round. If it pleases ye, there’s enough in my hampers to serve the lady as well.’
‘How extremely provident,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘We shall see you later then, Goro. Tell the lady we shall not be too long.’
Bel was alone. She looked exactly the same: round as a melon in a thick gown for riding, with her pepper-grey hair bound into a stoutly ironed selection of napkins. Her skin was like unbaked dough. It had never taken the sun, even in Portugal, when he had first met her as companion to Lucia. Even when, sick and gaunt, she had arrived back with Diniz from Africa. Her face stayed the same, and her spirit, and her gravel voice saying, ‘Well, Goro!’
His eyes were wet, hugging her. It had been a long time since she left Bruges for Scotland, and the news he had had of her from Julius was odd: once closer than most, she had seen almost nothing of Nicholas. And the occasions on which she had seen him were disastrous – the first, the stabbing by Henry, and the second, the drowning of Lucia. She had seemed, Julius said, to hold Nicholas responsible for everything, including the weather. Julius did not take old ladies seriously.
Now Gregorio set her down and sat down himself. There was a brazier, lit presumably by Semple’s orders. Nicholas felt the cold. Bel said, as if he had spoken, ‘Let Nicholas be. I ken why he sent you. I want to hear your news. Where is Margot?’
‘With the child,’ he said. ‘You know of the child?’
He was speaking quickly. At the same time, he remembered something that ought to come first. He said, ‘At least – you know the bad news, as well?’
She looked down. She said, ‘No.’ It was all she said.
He looked at her anxiously. ‘Mistress Bel? I’m so sorry. About Tilde.’
Her chin lifted. ‘Ah, Goro, I’m a stupid auld callant. Yes, I kent. Aye, I’m famished with sorrow. They’re young, they’ll have bairns in plenty. But the lassie would grieve.’
‘We all did. It needn’t have happened. It needn’t have happened but for that vicious old –’ He couldn’t speak Jordan’s name.
She said, ‘I can guess. Lucia might hae given him the benefit o’ the doubt, and so will I. But the good news is that Gelis is delivered?’
‘Of a son she has called Jordan de Fleury.’
She was silent. Then she said, ‘So tell me, and fast.’
‘Nicholas hasn’t seen him,’ Gregorio said. ‘You understand, the child came early. The news was delayed. There was a birth-feast for him later, of course, and Gelis should be back in Bruges now. Bel, speak to him. No one can.’
‘About what?’ she said. And as he didn’t reply, ‘No. All right. She is withholding the bairn. All is not well with the marriage. He is here, instead of in Bruges. Is that why he is here?’
Gregorio said, ‘I don’t know. No, it has something to do also with Simon. It must. But Simon isn’t here; Nicholas surely can let his schemes go. He has to stop the vendetta with Simon and go back. He has to go back for his own sake. And hers.’
‘And the bairn’s, wouldn’t ye say? She’s named him Jordan de Fleury. Why?’ Her eyes were directly on his.
‘To cause the deepest hurt,’ Gregorio said.
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‘The which that would do. Aye. And if ye all ken so much, Master Gregorio, whyfor are his friends not urging the man to go back themselves? What can I do, unless I hear the hale story?’
‘He won’t listen to me. No one else knows what has happened but Margot. And I’ve given my word not to tell.’
‘Then Nicholas is a lucky man,’ she said. ‘And she’s a lucky woman, your Margot, whatever you may think o’ it all. The differ being that Margot deserves it.’
He looked up. She had never removed her eyes from his face. He said, ‘Umar is luckier than he is.’ Then he heard footsteps on the stairs, and she dragged her eyes away as Nicholas de Fleury and Semple came in.
The factor went to pour wine. Nicholas put down the papers he was carrying and stood still, like a crossbowman judging his target. Bel of Cuthilgurdy said, ‘You’ll have come for your rent?’
The factor wheeled, flask in hand. Nicholas said, ‘I didn’t know, when I bought Lucia’s land, that you had a house on it. I understood you stayed with her here.’
‘Times I did. Times she wanted company. She had a furnished bedchamber, too, at the castle. You’ll find a good mattress there, and some taffety skirts and a mutch cap and some preens and an Inglis brown gown in a kist, if you think that they’ll suit you.’
‘Diniz sold me the land,’ Nicholas said.
‘And his Madeira land too?’ Bel said. ‘With his one babe cut off, he’d be easy persuaded. He didna come with you, I see, to visit the grave of his mother and, of course, collect a few rents in the bygoing. It must have been a real trial to you both, rearranging her money.’
The factor stood, a cup in each hand. He said, ‘You’ll excuse me,’ and laid one at her side. His employer took the other and held it out to Gregorio. He said, ‘Thank you, Master Oliver. We’ll join you below. Mistress Bel is upset.’
The door shut on the factor. Nicholas sat down between Bel and Gregorio. He looked at Bel. ‘Whatever the complot, you could have spared Semple,’ he said. ‘He knows well enough where you stand. As a matter of interest, Diniz wouldn’t bring Tilde to live here. And he still owns the quinta.’
‘Whatever the complot?’ Bel repeated.
‘There isn’t one? Then what have you and Gregorio been wasting time talking about?’
‘How to send you back home,’ Gregorio said.
‘For Simon’s sake?’ He rose, smiling, and filled a cup for himself. Gregorio saw it was water, again.
Gregorio said, ‘For everyone’s sake. This is not how you and Bel should be talking.’
‘And how are you going to send me back home?’ the other man said. He was watching Bel.
‘What do you see when you look at me?’ she said. ‘Apart from dule, dule and sorrow? Where is your babe? Where is your courage, that you turn your back and run from a failure? And what is your excuse for being here, if not the death of Simon and Jordan?’
‘Why do you defend Simon and Jordan?’ Nicholas said.
She looked at him. ‘I have defended you in your time. Did you deserve it?’
‘Most certainly not. Well, what would reassure you?’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘Gregorio, tell her. I am here in Scotland for profit. To develop some land. To set up some trade. To allow, yes, some marriage difficulties to settle themselves. But I shall be returning to Gelis. I don’t mean to stay here for ever. And whatever ensues, you are secure in your house. After all, I killed Lucia to get it.’
Gregorio rammed down his cup. Bel said, ‘I don’t want the house.’
Gregorio said, ‘Bel, the house is yours without rent for as long as you wish. Do you think he’d put you out, or exploit you?’
‘She has a house at Cuthilgurdy,’ Nicholas said. He cleared his throat. ‘Her son stays there. If I’m right?’
Cuthilgurdy was not far from Stirling. Her livelihood, they all knew, came from there. She had once been married, they knew, but had never mentioned a family. They had never asked.
Bel said, ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Given our last conversation,’ he said, ‘it seemed advisable. I have no plans for your house. If you want to leave it, that is your affair. Make your arrangements with Master Oliver.’
Her lips parted. Then she said, ‘Aye. I’ll do that. And now I think I will go.’
Gregorio looked from one to the other. He said, ‘Nicholas?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
She left. On the threshold she glanced back at Nicholas de Fleury and Gregorio glimpsed, for a second, the look that they exchanged. His breath caught in his throat, for he recognised that he had seen it before: this silent collision of pity and pain. The woman again had been Bel. The youth – the child – had been Simon’s son, Henry.
For all the rest of that journey which was to take them, in the end, to Beltrees, Gregorio was thankful for the presence of Oliver Semple, broad and weathered and slow and emphatic of speech, who rode beside his new foreign employer, and to whom Nicholas de Fleury spoke all the way, evenly, of practical things.
Until they left behind the Little Hall and Kilmirren, Gregorio did not realise how much he had been counting on Bel to reach Nicholas: to stem and dissolve the coating with which, film upon film, he was separating himself from them all. Now he saw that it had already been too late last winter. If Bel had not then shaken his purpose, she was not likely to soften him now.
Deep in thought, Gregorio rode. There was one formal call still to make: passing through Semple land, they must pay their respects to the owners. Arrived at the thick-walled fortalice of Elliotstoun, Gregorio roused and saw for the first time the long valley flashing with water and the wooded slopes beyond which they were bound. About him, the scented air sparkled with birdsong. It came to him that he was looking at beauty.
Since duty required it, he passed indoors with the rest. The goodwill of the Semples was essential but, as the afternoon waned, he saw that Nicholas was concealing impatience. They were close to Beltrees and the tower he was building. In the nature of things, he must be anxious to see it, for it was plain that his stay in Scotland was not going to be brief. He had said he was returning to Bruges. He had not said which month, or which year. Eventually he stood and made his excuses, and finally they all resumed their horses outside, and the last part of their journey began.
It was short. They rode along the south shore of the loch, the sinking sun flashing gold in the reeds and on the moorhen spinning furrows among them. Far away, fish were rising. Elliotstoun was a mile and more behind them when Oliver Semple turned his back on the water and put his horse to a flowery lane that meandered uphill between alder and thorn, winged with leaflets.
It was very quiet. Twice they smelled wood smoke and heard distant barking, and once a woman milking a cow turned her head slowly to watch them. Her face lay like a coin on sheared velvet. No one spoke. Above their heads a blackbird decided to make a declaration of joy and did so like one of Will Roger’s mellower clarions. The crowded houses of Bruges seemed by comparison a russet Necropolis. Poring over papers, exercising the legal, the actuarial skills, Gregorio had failed to allow for enchantment.
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. He spoke as if he knew what Gregorio was thinking. He did not look round.
Wait.
The lane, ascending its last, indolent curve, began to bring them to the crown of the long, flanking ridge they had been climbing. For a moment, looking back in the leonine light, Gregorio saw loch and valley changed, as the woman had been, into something of Byzantine richness; water transmuted to satin; grass to fur, set with escarpments of topaz and onyx, studded with beads and blisters of gold. His heart filled, so that when his horse stumbled, he all but left the saddle. Oliver Semple lifted his voice. ‘And here we are. But you need to go canny, my masters. These God-damned carts fairly gut the fairway from under you.’
The lane had gone. Instead, in a welter of churned stones and mud, a wide black highway had taken its place, driving along the spine of the ridge from the west, torn-up bush and shorn s
tubs at its edges. Tracks from it ploughed down the slope at their feet, descending into a distant depression. And in the depression, hell had been re-created.
Sprawled before him, raw in the sun, Gregorio saw a seething carcass set on a smoke-blackened eminence. Vibrations of sound shook the air. The air itself had turned rotten; the stench made him cough. The shock made him dry-mouthed with nausea.
‘I knew you would like it,’ said Nicholas de Fleury.
The illusion, of course, lasted only a moment. Later, he was to wonder at his own strange reaction, and at the conviction he had that Nicholas had somehow brought it about. What he had seen was only a massive building in embryo. The ribs were scaffolding; the skeletal frieze printing the sky was formed of wheels and pulleys, cranes and windlasses; the maggots, in cap, hose and tunic, were workers.
The haze that wreathed it came from lime-dust and cook-fires and furnaces, and the smell from the turf huts, the shelters, the horse-lines and the stables that clustered below. The buzz was human conversation, rising above the squeak of windlass, the blows of hammer and chisel, the clack of tumbling stone. It included laughter and the voices of women. He could see two of them scaling the rise, a basket of washing between them, their skirts kirtled up to the thigh. He could see a third at the door of her hut, speaking round her raised, dimpled elbows as she knotted the band round her hair. When she heard the horses and turned, the sun moulded itself on her body. Presently she lowered her arms and began to draw up and fasten her bodice.
The factor said, ‘You can’t keep them away, and it saves the chiels from stravaiging into the townships. They’re nice enough lassies, although there are others just as handy and cleaner. Tam Cochrane will tell you. He’s there now.’
‘And we can sleep there?’ said Nicholas.
‘Ye’d wonder, I agree, but you can. And there’s room for your men. You won’t know it when there’s a proper road made, and the grass grows, and we get some trees planted. Here you are.’
The Unicorn Hunt Page 33