Between the junction and Holyrood, the windows on both sides of the street were in demand and Berecrofts the Elder had packed his high, jutting frontages with friends and neighbours, and encouraged the wealthy foreigners on his land to do the same. Waiting, they shouted from window to window. The street was so narrow that from some upper storeys men and women could touch hands across it and the banners, when they came, would clap and slither into the windows.
In the Banco di Niccolò the upper loggia creaked with the number of neighbours and guests who packed into it, picking their choice of meat or tartlets or dried fruit from the platters they passed, and grasping their ale or their wine as they talked. They wore holiday clothes, but even so they brought with them, released by the heat, something of the odours of their calling: the smells of hide and wood-flour and metal, of malt and pig-lard and incense. The wives, in their tall folded headgear and necklaces, wore heavy scent and peered round the heads of their children at the paintings, the arras, the sconces, the chests, the tables, the enamels and the lozenged windows now thrown wide to the street and surrounded by flowers.
Nicholas de Fleury presided. He could have chosen to take his merchant’s seat in the swagged stands so painstakingly erected in the yard of the Abbey. So could Berecrofts. But business came first, and there were others who would be glad of the chance. And it was not the King’s procession today; just that of his bride and her retinue, conducted by the Abbot of Holyrood and including the eminent lords – Chancellor Avandale, the Bishops of Glasgow and Orkney – who had passed the autumn, winter and spring winkling the Northern Isles and a bride out of Denmark.
At the last moment, Gregorio left his task as joint host and climbed the staircase to the small casement window which gave on to Leith Wynd.
The first of the triumphal arches began at the bottom by Trinity College, and the light southern wind smothered the sound of the singing and trumpets, but it was clear enough from the noise that the procession was now on its way, pausing now and then for the enactment of some short pageant, or the recital of verse, or a song. The main choir, including Katelijne Sersanders, had not been wasted on the steep one-sided incline of Leith Wynd, but had been saved for the Canongate proper, where pends and roof-tops were crammed and a discerning audience awaited in the yard of the Abbey. Gregorio smiled, thinking of Katelijne, and then sobered. These young girls: what lay before them?
Katelijne, here to marry someone, no one knew who – but strong enough, very likely, to make a success of it. Mary of Guelders, come twenty years since from the wealthy Burgundian court to marry James’s father, but well equal to what she knew she would find. And twenty-five years before that, the English Queen, granddaughter of John of Gaunt, had arrived already married to the first King James of Scotland.
Her daughters had been less able. The best, Eleanor, had been sent from Scotland as soon as her mother was buried and was now Duchess of the Tyrol, and successful in all but procreation. Of the others, Joanna, deaf and dumb, had been sent home from the French court unmarried, despite Scotland’s disinclination to accept her. And aware of all of that was her niece Mary, the little Countess who had been vouchsafed a husband in Scotland and who, today, would be expected to play, for the first time perhaps, the part of a wife.
And Thomas Boyd was there. The horses came four abreast, fringed and tasselled and plumed, and between the paintpot chequer of banner and pennant and the bouncing of foxtail and feather you could see the cloth of gold of the heralds, the silver shoulders and helms of the men at arms, the host of the Danish household in its brilliant livery of gold and silver and azure with the Dannebrog Cross, and the hats tall and wide, flat and bulbous of the Scottish lords with their emblazoned cloaks, their gowns and doublets, jackets and coats in madder and russet, olive and rose.
For a long time, the Boyd banner was simply one among many, concealing the lords underneath. And then, as he passed, Gregorio saw the brown face and dark-brown hair curling thick round a stalwart neck under a hat made of beaver. A heavy chain, flashing with light, encircled a muscular chest and sturdy shoulders. The anxious precautions of Dean Castle were justified.
Then, thinking of Mary, Gregorio’s gaze fell on the little girl, so much younger, who had come so far to be wed.
Margaret, Princess of Denmark, Norway, Vandalia, Holstein and all the rest, sat on a golden chair set on a litter, surrounded by the flowery gowns of her ladies. Below her tall headdress she was round-faced and small: a pansy caught among orchids. Her eyes and her smile were both fixed, and her clear tender skin was drained of colour.
Gregorio thought, Nicholas: I hope you are watching. Nicholas: I hope you are shamed into weighing your strength against what you see there, what you see in the little Countess, what you see – yes, what despite everything might lie behind what Gelis has done. And, Nicholas, what Margot has suffered because of it.
The procession passed; turned at the junction into the Canongate and, meeting the great roar of the citizens, proceeded downhill, past Nicholas de Fleury and his guests to the Abbey of Holyrood. As it passed, the boy Robin pushed through the parlour and, after much seeking, climbed to the little room where Gregorio was. He said, ‘Master Goro? Are you tired?’
Gregorio turned and smiled, taking pleasure in the boy’s fresh face and simplicity. Gregorio said, ‘Of course not. I’ve got the best view in the Canongate. Come and see the end of the procession. Look: have you ever seen so many dwarves?’
‘No. Come down,’ said Robin. ‘M. de Fleury misses you.’
He was only a child. But his gaze, clear and steady, was troubled.
Gregorio said, he didn’t know why, ‘I’m sorry. Yes. Of course, I will come.’
‘And follow the procession. I’m going to. You should. Or you’ll miss Katelijne’s singing,’ said Robin encouragingly.
Gregorio ruffled his hair and followed him out. Nicholas, so far as he could see, had not missed him. But the boy, you could see, thought he was God. And one could not always be sure.
Later, the Scottish envoys, having deposited their charges at the Abbey, rode uphill again and passed into Edinburgh, to report to the King at the Castle.
Later, a masque was peformed in front of the Abbey, watched by the Danish Princess from her window.
Later, in a long column of white satin, led by trumpeters and escorted by musicians, James, King of Scotland, rode downhill into the Canongate to attend a private banquet, and to be introduced to his bride. With him he brought his half-uncles, his brothers and Mary and Margaret, his sisters. Their veils blew, misting all the bold colours behind them, and a blizzard of gold from their harness passed over each house as they came. The lady Mary was white.
Later, although the food and wine had not faltered, the tribune, parlour and chambers of the Banco di Niccolò started to empty at last. By dusk, even their own clerks had gone, and Nicholas de Fleury and his lawyer were alone with Old Berecrofts and Archie, come to share a last pitcher of wine by the open windows with their drooping burden of garlands.
The Abbot’s banquet was over. Returning, the lady Mary’s cheeks had no longer been pale, nor her veiling so pristine and stiff. The King’s ruddy face was preoccupied, and that of Albany wore a half-smile.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Berecrofts the elder now, from the window. ‘I hear it passed off well enough. Naebody spewed, or mistook the fire for a drain, or clapped a wench to the hurt of her laces. But she’s an awfu’ young lass. And he isna going to wait like a monk, not with the itch he’s got on him already. The Stewarts aye ripened in ae place afore they matured i’ the tither. I’m told they had a table worth seeing, with Danish sea-kings in sugar afore every place. That woudna be you?’
‘Well, I hope no one else is getting paid for it,’ de Fleury said.
Berecrofts eyed him. ‘And the wedding feast, when it comes? They had a boar’s head stuffed with flax-tufts the last time. Then they set fire to the flax. Ye could hardly dae better nor that.’
‘It must have been a gr
eat moment,’ said de Fleury.
‘Aye. But rumour says you’ve planned something a wee bittie different. And there’s the white satin today. And the chains. I’ve seen gold that thickness before, but no’ often. I hope you’ll no’ hold your breath till you’re paid for it. Jamie’s no’ got sovereign authority yet. Ye might have to wait till the autumn.’
De Fleury drank. ‘What makes you think I shall leave even then?’ It was water, again. He added, ‘There’s enough trade for us all.’
‘Aye,’ said Berecrofts. ‘So long as ye mind it.’ He got up. ‘Man, I’m auld. We’d best be off. What’s this I hear about the tourney tomorrow?’
‘A friendly challenge,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. ‘I’m well down the list. If I’m killed, Gregorio will stay on and send in the invoices. It’ll be flaming boar’s head for the wedding feast, though.’
Archie grinned. His father barked. They both crossed the yard and made for their house. Gregorio waited until Nicholas turned back indoors. Then he said, ‘I should have realised where the shoulder-chains came from. I know they can pay for it, eventually, out of the dowry. But Nicholas, gold of that weight is going to set us seriously out of pocket in the meantime, on top of the horses, the clothes, the furnishings, the artisans and all the rest for the wedding. Aren’t you getting the Bank in too deep? Even for you?’
‘And their jewels. You’ve no idea what they’ve stockpiled in jewels. No. I don’t think so. And the chains don’t enter into it. The King didn’t buy them from me. They’re the price of what I’ve bought from him.’
‘What?’ said Gregorio.
‘Personal entertainment,’ Nicholas de Fleury said. ‘Go to bed. Tomorrow night we get to share in the banquet. And before that, I have this appointment with Thomas Boyd and Sersanders. You really should have protested harder.’
‘The trouble is, it’s an honour,’ said Gregorio. ‘They decided they would propose you to do it, and I couldn’t get you released. But Sersanders will have had another fight, too, by the time he meets you. And you have had some training. With Astorre. In Milan.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Nicholas mournfully.
*
‘Of course I know. I suggested it,’ said Katelijne Sersanders with what seemed to be inordinate relish. She was fifteen years of age, and could hardly know what she was talking about.
‘Suggested your brother should encounter Nicholas de Fleury in the lists? I can see,’ said Gregorio slowly, ‘that it might appear quite exciting.’ Now he came to look at her, she seemed to be smaller and thinner than ever, although elaborately turned out in a high-waisted gown with tight sleeves. Her hair fell in a long, curly tail from a caul too small for the rump of a horse.
The dress anticipated the evening: she was not summoned for duty till then, which was apparently why she was here, in the convent’s town residence rented from Nicholas. Gregorio didn’t mind, although he didn’t mean to stay long. He added, ‘I don’t imagine for a moment they’ll harm one another. The swords are blunt, anyway. You’re going to lead your brother into the lists?’
‘So I’ve been told. Why didn’t M. de Fleury want to joust in December?’ she asked. She had been stitching her embroidery and studying a piece of music at the same time: her bright squirrel-glance reached him across two sets of frames. It looked innocent.
Gregorio smiled. ‘Merchants don’t do very much fighting. And maybe he didn’t want to face Simon de St Pol.’
‘He did, later. Master Julius said he fought with Urbino’s mercenaries and his own in the Abruzzi. He said you were all in the wars against the Turkish army at Trebizond. He says M. de Fleury fought in Cyprus for King Zacco and killed a Mameluke emir in single combat.’
‘I wasn’t there. I wasn’t in Trebizond. He didn’t kill him,’ said Gregorio. He wished Julius had kept his mouth shut. He wondered how Julius always remembered these things, and he didn’t.
The girl said, ‘I know. He cut the Mameluke’s hand off, and the King came up and finished him off. Then a Mameluke tried to assassinate M. de Fleury in Venice. Do you know the parrot speaks Greek?’
After all that, Gregorio nearly laughed. Then he met the cool, level stare and refrained. He said, ‘How do you know?’
‘I know the sound of it. When we visit you, M. de Fleury speaks to it in Spanish. Not when he thinks he is alone.’
‘And it answers?’ said Gregorio with false jocularity.
‘It repeats what it has been taught,’ said Katelijne. ‘The same thing always, and a name. I heard it at Dean, and in the Canongate since. But I don’t understand Greek.’
‘The name is Greek?’ said Gregorio.
‘The name is Nikko,’ said Katelijne.
*
As the tournament of December had been a rehearsal, so the first public celebration of the wedding festivities of James, King of Scotland, was a splendid precursor of the mimes, the plays and the music, the feasts and the dancing, the hunts and the shooting, and the increasingly elaborate tourneys planned for the élite of Scotland gathered for these weeks in Edinburgh, together with the foreign lords come for the wedding.
The critical foreign lords. Everyone knew that to arrange such a series of spectacles demanded wealth and experience. Not so long ago, when feats of arms dominated the event, the court armourer would not only come up with weapons and arms, but import everything else the Court needed, from golden harness to the fringe for the balconies.
Now people expected much more. Now the Italian republics and princes, damn them, imported artistic masters to devise the themes for their Weddings and Entries, and to choose and supervise the artists, the designers, the performers. When therefore lords from these lands were your guests, you must, whatever your resources, stage as brave a show as you could.
All through the autumn and winter, Nicholas de Fleury had taken on himself much of the role of master designer. Returning last month, he had reviewed what had been done, and set it on course for completion. Scattered between burgh and port, the workshops he had created were active; the spectacular machinery built; the flags, the devices, the effigies painted. The storerooms were already filled with the extra linen and silver, and the teams of tailors were cutting and sewing the last of the silk, the satin, the velvet garments into which, twice daily, the royal household would change, their clothes identical in colour and fabric.
All was in order and others were now in charge. For although the work had been his, he was a stranger-merchant and a competitor, and the men who had laboured with him were Scottish and well born and should not be offended. Added to which he had lost the taste for clambering about with a paintbrush in his hand. He had let Crackbene do some of that. In fact, some of the machines whose refurbishment Crackbene was supervising at this moment had come from the Duke of Burgundy’s store, at a very sustainable price.
Nevertheless, today he had risen early and, taking a clerk, had walked uphill into the High Street, speaking to the workmen he knew, passing the time of day with the porters, stopping at a corner stage which, later, would support a doubtful fantasy to do with Scotland and Denmark. The highway was thronged with speeding servants, waterbearers, cooks. Already, before dawn, the household cows had been brought in from the Burgh Muir to be milked.
Now the rising sun shone red on shutters already open, or on windows of oiled linen and glass belonging to the homes of Thom Swift, and those of the other large merchant houses within which most of the Crown’s bidden guests would be lodged. For, of course, there was little space at the Castle, where the King’s rooms were already filled with his family; and the future Queen occupied the royal rooms at the Abbey.
All the lords were in town. The town houses of Fleming and Semple would be occupied, but not that of St Pol of Kilmirren, which was shuttered and closed. Nicholas glanced at it once, as he turned downhill towards the Horse Market and lists, joining with people he knew from the Castle. Simon, Henry, and Jordan were gone, and Bel had not ridden across to save anyone this time. This time,
no one needed saving: far from it.
The freshness was turning to warmth. He stripped to white shirt and black pourpoint, his doublet slung on one shoulder, his cap in his hand. People called, crossing to join him. By the time he reached the massed flags of the lists he was part of a group. Entering the lists, the exchange of gossip gave place to technical problems and questions of protocol. He established discreetly that his own two courses, as he wanted, were separated: the tilting with Boyd near the start, and the sword-fight with Sersanders close to the end.
In between, Sersanders too was tilting, with a Danish nobleman. Nicholas wondered, outwardly grave, if Gregorio had contrived to match poor Anselm with a giant. He didn’t think, for Katelijne’s sake, that the ladies of Haddington would be helpful, even if bribed. He was reminded that Katelijne would be leading the horse of her brother, and that Betha Sinclair, when approached, had briskly offered him one of her daughters. ‘For the one specific purpose,’ she had added, ‘of leading your horse, Master Nicol; and handing your prize, gin ye win one.’
The girls were all very young: he doubted if any could keep a large courser steady. Perhaps Dame Betha would help her.
Later, he returned to the Canongate. The day’s events unrolled: no work was done, as clerks and servants rushed to the windows at every thunderous clatter of hooves. The Danish procession passed twice. At one point a cannon went off, and the sky was blackened with birds. The men he had sent to the Castle Rock came back and reported. Gregorio returned from some errand, and agreed reluctantly to share a working dinner with the padrone in the garden.
The flies kept getting into the wine but paid no attention to water. After a while, Nicholas said, ‘Let me guess. Phemie doesn’t like fighting?’
Gregorio lifted his gaze from his food. He said, ‘Mistress Phemie Dunbar is in the Castle. I haven’t seen her.’
‘That’s no answer. What’s the trouble?’ said Nicholas.
The Unicorn Hunt Page 35