There was a great deal of noise: so much that even the clamour of the Cathedral bells hardly penetrated the walls of the castle. It was at Brixen also that they discovered the Duchess’s pipers. She employed three, as well as a number of trumpets. Nicholas slept very little and, when he did, kept senselessly dreaming of Kerasous, once in the empire of Trebizond. He couldn’t imagine a reason, unless it had to do with alum or Amazons, both of which Kerasous and the Tyrol had in common. At the end of the first week, the mistress of the Duchess’s ladies took him in hand, appearing at his side in the hall when a gambling dispute between Teutonic princelings was reaching its height, and both the singers and the dogs had become inaudible.
In the quiet of her chamber, he thanked her. Her name was Gertrude. A graceful woman, no longer young, she had been in attendance all through his first expedition with Eleanor of Scotland. Here, she was in charge of the cohort of young, well-born maidens who formed the Duchess’s retinue. Most of them had been educated at Sonnenberg, the convent whose laxity had so enraged the late Cardinal Bishop of Brixen. It reminded Nicholas, briefly, of Haddington, which reminded him in turn of other things. The woman said, ‘I know you prefer water, but the wine is weak, and has nothing in it that will harm you. Sit down. Close your eyes, if you wish.’
‘That would be ungracious,’ Nicholas said.
She said, ‘I brought you here for your own sake, not mine.’ She was thin as a gazelle, with a long face and deep eyes below her elaborate headdress. The jewelled bands on her sleeves were very fine. She poured a goblet for herself and sat opposite, the cup in her hands. She said, ‘Her grace means you well, and has told you the risks. But it is greedy, the pendulum.’
‘Greedy?’
‘Of life. Of energy. It is German, I think.’ She smiled.
He said, ‘Why do you say that?’ Presumably she had been told to do this. He could not guess, yet, what she wanted.
‘Because the civilised world regards us as boors. We think it a banquet to lay a plain cloth and put on it a dish of poached and boiled eggs, a plate of minnows, a bowl of turnips and a platter of peas in the pod.’
‘You are quoting?’
‘From the Burgundian envoys recently entertained by the Duke. They were offered bread on the point of a knife, and wine from two brimming silver-gilt cups, the squire holding the lid of each cup under Duke Sigismond’s chin as he drank. The Duke wore a robe he had already appeared in at Arras.’
He summoned his energy. ‘They must eat heartily, who inhabit fierce lands. They hunt in France and Scotland and Italy, but face only the beasts.’
‘Other travellers have been less generous,’ the lady said. ‘Our nauseating food, our bitter wine, our coarse customs, our unsafe roads and disputatious, turbulent unlettered peoples – that is how the German States are regarded by those from softer countries. Cardinal Bessarion is godfather to the Emperor’s only son, but was thankful to leave. Prosper de Camulio – do you know him? – thought us barbarians. And Pope Pius! How he hated Vienna, and his time as the Emperor’s secretary.’ She paused. ‘Aeneas Piccolomini, he was. He came twice to the Tyrol. Duke Sigismond took him stag-hunting.’
Nicholas kept his voice mild. ‘They knew one another, I heard, when the Duke was a boy at the Emperor’s court.’
‘He formed the Duke’s tastes in many ways, Piccolomini. He taught him which books to esteem. He was not in Holy Orders as a young man, of course.’
‘He had elevated standards,’ Nicholas said. ‘As I remember, he was critical of the common people of Scotland as well – poor and rude, with their cabins covered with turf. Although the women were white and beautiful and very prone to love, he remarked.’ He waited.
‘One of them gave him a child. He was less impressed by the Duchess’s father, who was murdered the following year. He considered the King small, fat and hot-tempered, and content with less state than one of the meaner burghers of Nuremberg. I have heard the Duchess quote that.’ She was silent. Then she went on.
‘When Duke Sigismond was sixteen, he asked Piccolomini to write a love poem he could send to his mistress, and he did. She succumbed, I am sure: his verses were paeans to desire. “He who has never truly felt the flames of love is but a stone, or a beast,” he wrote to someone else. “Into the very marrow-bones of the Gods has crept this fiery particle.” He was a good teacher, Aeneas Piccolomini.’
‘You are explaining a marriage,’ Nicholas said.
She smiled faintly. ‘Oh, the Duke of Burgundy arranged the marriage, not Piccolomini. Rude though it is, the Tyrol lies on the highway to Rome. It is the way the barbarians came. It has to remain in Imperial hands. So the Duke of the Tyrol was married to Eleanor, Princess of Scotland, a country too distant (whatever its aspirations) to endanger the imperial succession. And the Duke of Burgundy won an ally north of England. Indeed, the Duke married his niece to King James, the Duchess’s brother.’
Nicholas stirred. ‘You are saying that the third King James is showing an inclination to aspire?’
‘I am sure he would not be so ill advised,’ his hostess said.
‘No. And you are also saying that the marriage between the Duke and the Duchess Eleanor must endure, because any other alliance would be dangerous?’
‘Fortunately,’ said the woman called Gertrude, ‘my lady has studied him, and he is comfortable with her. She is level-headed and can achieve much when he is absent, although she cannot cross him – few can – when he is here. She knows the courts of France and of Brussels, and has effected what changes she can without many resources. She has made him into a collector of books, and encouraged him to regard himself as a student of advanced thought. She has made friends of some powerful women and men, and she is not unhappy.’
‘And the succession?’
‘I do not think,’ said Gertrude dryly, ‘that the Emperor is altogether disappointed that they have not produced an heir. It may even be another reason why the marriage is encouraged to continue. And meantime, as I said, she studies his needs.’
He had wondered, looking at the red-faced little Duchess and her troop of winsome attendants; thinking of the half-grown young he had already seen in the castle. The Duke of Burgundy could afford to beget powerful bastards who would form a circle of reliable leaders but never usurp the place of the heir. Sigismond’s love-children were seeded like grass, brought up amiably and amiably cared for, but born of no line that might threaten the Imperial throne.
The woman was watching him. She spoke gently again. ‘I respect the Duchess,’ she said. ‘She has been impressed by you. She asked me to find out if there was anything you might want. The castle has some resources. But I think you need rest.’
Nicholas smiled, although he had not been unaware of the charms of the Duchess’s maidens. He said, ‘I know my place as a guest. I am glad to be here. You are kind.’
He looked at her directly, and she smiled in her turn. She said, ‘That, too, in my time. But there are several younger and prettier to choose from. Or it might simply suit you to sleep. There is an inner room here.’ Her voice was soothing and had become very soft.
His lids closed. He thought at first the lamp had gone out. The room was cold and quite dark, and he was overcome with a lethargy so immense that it was beyond him to open his eyes or to move. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘No. Stay where you are. I will lock the door. Now.’ She stopped speaking. There were movements: the warmth of a brazier pulled close, the weight of a blanket, something soft into which his head sank. She said, ‘Sleep where you are. You can have a bed later.’ She spoke hastily, as if she knew what was wrong, and disapproved.
When he woke later, it was to the same shadowy chamber lit by the flickering red of the brazier and a single lamp, shining on the waist-length hair and pale bedgown of a woman sitting quietly watching him. Gertrude, whose bedroom it was.
She said, ‘You must be warm.’
Under the rug, he was still fully clothed. She rose and stooped to draw the
cover away. He smelled a scent deeply placed. She was about Marian’s age. The age Marian would have been. He said, ‘I am not sure what happened.’ She was bringing him wine.
‘You found silver,’ she said. ‘They will ask you to look for other things. It is not just the climbing which tires you. The other man died.’
‘She told me,’ he said. His throat was dry, and he drank.
‘But not why. He was not looking only for metal. He could find anything. Anything. He could find, and he could cure. Sick people came, and he sent them away well.’
He put down the wine. He said, ‘Don’t tell Father Moriz.’
She stood by the small tongues of flame, her own cup in her hand. Her fingers, like her face, were long-boned and fine, and the damask of her gown was half opaque. Oh God, a tub of water. Steam, and long hair, and untouched fires, ready for rousing. That was not a dream.
The woman beside him spoke with insistence. ‘I have told you the truth. It killed him, for he took the ills on himself, instead of making himself only the instrument. He told me. If Duke Sigismond finds you have this gift, he will not let you go.’
Steam, and a bath, and a conflagration. ‘The Duchess will tell him,’ he said.
‘No. Nor will her household.’
He said suddenly, ‘He could find anything?’
He had startled, even frightened her. She, too, put down her wine. She said, ‘He found a man who had died in the snow.’
‘How?’
‘He knew him. He thought of his face.’
‘But if he didn’t know him? If he didn’t know what he looked like?’
She said slowly, ‘Then he could not find him. Unless he had something – a shoe, a glove. What is it? What is it? I am to help you. She said I was to help you!’
‘No one can help me,’ he said. It was not quite true. Marian, Katelina … Their paths had crossed, and if he had given, he had taken as well. But no one had opened this door to him. He could find anything.
His cup, which had been empty, was full. His hands, which had held his cup, had gathered something else. Her gown lay on the floor.
He woke at first light, in a bed, in what he perceived to be the inner room. He was alone, but remembered not being alone. No one else was there, either in this chamber or the next. He dressed, and left.
Very soon now, Nicholas supposed, he would receive his summons from Duke Sigismond, and would be able to move, finally, into the arena he had chosen so carefully to compensate for the one he had lost. He had still, of course, to face the Vatachino, his enemies; but he had few misgivings, and felt confident that – of the two years of his separation from Scotland – this segment at least would be well spent. What happened over the rest of the time would depend on how well he had read the mind of his wife of a year and four months.
He set himself to wait, and also to be careful. He had received a grave warning. He had received a passing gift, which he acknowledged for the courtesy that it was. And there had been bestowed on him – unearthed for him – a talent of singular price.
He could find anything.
Winter advanced upon autumn. It was known, now, that Nicholas de Fleury was locked in the Tyrol. The news had reached Julius at Venice, and had stolen from there to Alexandria, from where it spread to a man called David de Salmeton.
Julius, who never lacked confidence, was not afraid of what the Vatachino might get up to in Egypt. In six months, John le Grant would be there, and Nicholas with him. If in the meantime Nicholas chose to negotiate loans and hunt chamois in preference to joining his wife, the Bank could afford it. And Julius could look forward, himself, to another year at the helm of the business.
His henchman Cristoffels made no complaint, although he missed the German priest he had been promised. De Fleury had sent him a personal note about that, as sometimes he did. Occasionally, Cristoffels fulfilled special commissions without reference to Julius. One such had concerned the Genoese Prosper de Camulio. Another had taken him to Murano, to a family called Buonaccorsi with whom Nicholas had apparently struck up a friendship. The making of spectacles in Murano still brought the Bank extraordinary profits.
At the same time, and purely for his own interest, Cristoffels kept an eye on the island of Cyprus, where the King’s marriage-bed was still empty. The resulting reports he filed and kept for himself. The padrone had not asked to be told about Cyprus.
Intelligence about Nicholas de Fleury reached Scotland in stages, relayed across the country from Govaerts in Edinburgh to Oliver Semple and Cochrane at Beltrees, where the embellished tower was proceeding to completion, and the horizon was blackened with pyre-smoke from heaps of dead marigolds. The castles of Kilmirren and Dean were, of course, empty.
As soon as she heard, Katelijne Sersanders turned up in the Canongate office and extradited the parrot to Haddington. The Berecrofts boy helped. Being busy at sea, the shipmaster Crackbene wasn’t consulted.
James, Lord Hamilton, received the news thoughtfully, and conveyed it to Joneta, his natural daughter. Then he sent a hind to his son-in-law Davie whose uncle Jack had gone abroad and married a German.
When told, Whistle Willie said nothing, but kicked a specially made drum with the side of his slipper. The King, with his jewel coffers full and his Palace finished and furnished, was more philosophical. When, instead of de Fleury, another distinguished foreigner arrived, James of Scotland made him all the more welcome.
Gregorio, in Bruges, was not philosophical.
He had compelled Nicholas to come back for Godscalc. His other reason, unconcealed, had been to halt his foolhardy overextension in Scotland. In this he had succeeded. The haemorrhage of silver in Scotland had ceased, but others had stepped in to reap all the benefits. And Nicholas had repaid Gregorio as he had repaid the interference of Tobie: by cutting him out of his confidence.
Nicholas had said nothing, leaving Bruges, about going to the Tyrol. He had encouraged Gregorio to look for Gelis and Margot while already aware, it would seem, that Gelis planned to waylay him at Florence, and that Margot would not be there. Margot had written to him twice, but had not come to see him, nor told him where to come. Presumably she was with the child. If there was a child.
And, of course, Nicholas had not gone to Florence. He was not going to Alexandria this year. And if he had changed his mind about that, did he intend, on leaving the Tyrol, to meet his wife and child in Venice as planned? And if so, what next? Put them both on a galley and take them through Turk-infested seas to hunt for his gold?
No. Margot was not going to be free in eight months. Nicholas had allowed Godscalc to debar him from Scotland, but in the wake of that one decent promise had, as usual, cheated them all.
So Gregorio was not moved to sympathise when Gelis van Borselen returned from her wasted journey to Florence, nor when she paid her one visit to Spangnaerts Street. She did not bring Margot, and professed not to know where she was.
He knew (and had told Margot) that the child born to Gelis had been fathered by Simon. He hadn’t told anyone else. Gelis never attempted to speak of it, knowing his views as she must. Perhaps she recognised, from what Margot told her, that he would preserve the child’s name so long as Nicholas did.
But that was all. He himself would never forgive Gelis for what she had done. For what she had made Nicholas do. For what had happened to Nicholas.
Chapter 28
IN THE WAR Gelis was waging, the contempt of Gregorio played a part, but only a small one. She called at Spangnaerts Street, certainly, to check on her credentials: meeting the searching blue eye of Tobie; the warm regard, born of Africa, of Lucia’s son Diniz and hence of young Tilde his wife. She did not stay there – she had taken up residence in her former house outside Bruges – but it was November, and couriers always passed between Nicholas and his officers, wherever he was. Gregorio would not tell her the news, but the clerks would.
In fact, there was little. He was still in the mountains, and had received some messages, but those he sen
t had more to do with Bruges and Venice and Scotland than with any plans of his own. She had got more information out of Tommaso.
Then Tilde’s sister Catherine had joined them with her handsome friend Nerio who, it appeared, was familiar with Florence. Gelis thought him inquisitive, but did not seek to avoid his questions about the Medici and Monna Alessandra and the Acciajuoli family. He knew – as did some of the others – the one-legged acquaintance of Nicholas, but had never met Donatello. She did not mention the drawing. All in all, she supposed she had proved that she had not passed her time in libidinous living.
She left her husband’s house soon, and found no reason to make frequent visits thereafter. She was not likely to be lonely. Bruges would always find time for a wealthy van Borselen. Chaperoned by her maid and her manservant, she accepted the invitations that came her way from the upper merchants and nobility of the town, and her cousin Wolfaert van Borselen’s new wife was happy to entertain on her behalf.
It was there that she first detected a certain unease which evidenced itself in the burgh as an undercurrent of dubious excitement. Eventually, Wolfaert told her the reason. Mary of Scotland was coming to Bruges. His niece, the Countess of Arran, whom Gelis had served. After months of exile in Denmark, in Germany, the Princess was coming, together with her refugee husband, the Earl, Thomas Boyd.
‘Here?’ Gelis said. ‘They want shelter? Isn’t that dangerous?’
Wolfaert had shifted his bulk. ‘Extremely awkward, at least. The Earl has been condemned to death for attempting to harm the Scots King, and all his lands forfeited. My father is Admiral to the Duke. The Duke is married to the English King’s sister. To invite my unhappy niece to this house would have implied some sort of Burgundian endorsement. No. She and her husband are going to stay with Adorne.’
‘Poor man,’ she said.
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