Anselm Adorne himself, discovered in his office guiltily attempting to work in the face of the tempest of renovation below, cleared a seat for her and said, ‘I have no doubt that you have come, like the rest of Bruges, to see the parrot. It is on the floor above, with my niece Katelijne. How are you, Gelis?’
‘Chastened,’ she said. ‘I thought, after the way Nicholas treated you, that you ought to know that he was going abroad. He is, but not until next spring. I am sorry.’
He touched her hand. ‘Nicholas and I are not enemies. Oh, I know what happened in Scotland. He did what he did in desperation, not out of cold blood. I won’t deny’ – he smiled – ‘that he is a stimulating opponent. He had a scheme for a stud farm which would have ruined Metteneye and myself if I hadn’t guessed what his object was. But I should never wish him ill, Gelis. He is a rare individual. Cherish him.’
‘Do you need to tell me? I married him,’ she said; and gave him a smile. ‘I must go. You are busy. It cannot be welcome, this visit. You have leave of the Duke to entertain the Princess and her husband?’
‘What do you suppose?’ said her host. ‘So long as the visit is private, and the Duke is not involved. The problem will arise, I imagine, when it is a question of baptising the infant. Ah! You did not know that the lady Mary is about to bear her first child?’
‘No,’ Gelis said. Wolfaert had said nothing of that – fearing, perhaps, that she might be moved out of pity to offer her services. That, then, was why the homeless pair had been forced to end their hapless wandering; to seek a place for the birth worthy of the Princess’s – rank, and where the child would receive public acknowledgement. She said, ‘Does King James know of this? Will he not regard you as shielding a traitor?’
‘I have consulted King James,’ said Adorne mildly. ‘His first reaction was just as you say. But he is fond of his sister, and she will not leave Thomas Boyd. And few others in Flanders could take her. One would not wish such a dilemma, for example, upon Wolfaert.’
She felt herself flush. She said, ‘Wolfaert did not send them to you.’
Adorne looked contrite. ‘My dear! Did you think that I imagined he would? No. They came because no one else could suitably give them asylum. Or because they had a little advice.’ He tilted his head. ‘Have you never wondered – were you never told who contrived their disappearance from Scotland?’
There was amusement in his voice, and some irony, and a hint of weariness. She lost all the air in her lungs, and recovered it slowly. ‘Nicholas?’
He laughed. ‘It is, I imagine, a fairly safe wager. And to think I forgave him my injury! Indeed, I received his magnanimous assurance that he owed me a favour. Do you suppose that this is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gelis. ‘But, speaking even as his wife and a partisan, let me say that I hope you will balance the score. Ser Anselm, I must go. Should I see the parrot?’
‘Yes! Yes, of course,’ Adorne said. ‘And Katelijne. You will remember her as a child – and, to be sure, she is still small for her age, and troubled by weakness – but I have to admit, although she is my own niece, that there are elements in her that Margriet and I find quite extraordinary.’
‘She has no husband arranged?’ Gelis said.
Adorne smiled. ‘Talk to her, and then tell me what I should do. Perhaps she should wait for your son.’
The parrot had red and blue feathers and was in a cage, talking Greek. That was the first jolt. The second followed immediately.
Beside the cage was a stack of striped linen edged with old-fashioned reticella embroidery. Crosslegged on the floor next to that sat the girl Katelijne, paintbrush in hand, giving her undivided attention to an immense carved receptacle with a hood. Her eyes, in the kindest phrase, were over-focused, and her tongue adhered to her upper lip like a bat.
Gelis moved. The tableau dissolved. The girl jumped to her feet, hauling down her gown which had been tucked round her hips. Her eyes adjusted. She said, ‘Oh, it’s a woman, thank goodness. I thought it was my uncle. How do you like it? Their cradle.’
She did not say whose cradle it was: the arms of Boyd and the royal arms of Scotland made explanation unnecessary. It certainly, thought Gelis, was not for herself. Small and slight as a leaf, with loose brown hair and hazel eyes in a pale, earnest face, Katelijne Sersanders looked no more than fourteen years old – even less. The age Gelis had been when she found out what her sister and Nicholas were doing.
Gelis said, ‘I’m sorry. Your uncle sent me upstairs, I think, to get me out of the way. It was a bad time to call. I’m –’
‘Oh, I know who you are,’ said the girl cheerfully. ‘Gelis van Borselen, dame de Fleury. You are lucky. Aren’t you lucky, married to that idiot of a man? Isn’t it awful?’
‘You mean Nicholas?’ said Gelis equably.
The girl gave a peal of laughter. ‘No, the cradle. I hope you had a nice one. He couldn’t wait to get home and see the baby. Is it nice being married? Do sit down.’ She cleared a book from a stool, swept her paints to a tray, scampered her fingers down the edges of all the piled linen and deposited it in three different stacks on a shelf, was sworn at by the parrot, rolled up some sewing and brought over the brazier, swore in unison with the parrot, picked up and slapped away some music, and sat down with a thump on the predella. ‘Is it nice?’ she repeated. She had a smile that darted about, quick as a fish.
‘Being married to an idiot?’ Gelis said. She felt breathless. The parrot was cackling.
‘We all thought he was wonderful,’ said Katelijne. ‘You nearly didn’t get him back. Those poor golfers! The marijuana seeds in the wine! Staggering about with the mirror for Hearty James! The dog-races … and I can’t imagine where he learned to cheat like that at cards. Was it your jew’s trump? I hope you didn’t mind that he gave it to me. It was a wager.’
‘It wasn’t mine,’ said Gelis. ‘Did he play it?’
The girl laughed. ‘He liked the drums better. But you mustn’t think he caused mischief all the time. He learned. He built. He found out about farming. And the music – well, he probably told you.’
‘You tell me,’ said Gelis. The parrot made a remark.
‘It needs Whistle Willie,’ said the girl. ‘I can’t describe it. Not just his voice. But some people carry about music buried like that, Willie says. Sometimes no one ever knows that it’s there.’
‘Whistle Willie?’
‘Will Roger. You’ve heard of him.’ Katelijne was looking at her. The girl said, ‘Perhaps you haven’t had much time together. I’m sorry. Can I tell you anything more? He did miss you.’ She was eight years her junior and spoke as an equal. But this child had never shared a bed with Nicholas, nor thought of it. The girl said, ‘I do apologise for the parrot’s being so drunk. My cousins have been giving it wine, and it shows off.’
Gelis said, ‘Like my husband, it seems. I was glad when he came back from Scotland. We were all concerned over the quarrel he had with St Pol. Sometimes Nicholas loses his temper.’
The mouth gave itself a judicial screw. ‘He can be very silly,’ the girl said. ‘You must lose patience, too. The fight with M. de St Pol was quite unnecessary, and then he lost his head. My uncle was hurt. He didn’t plan that, but he made pretty sure that M. de St Pol was going to have an uncomfortable time in other ways. Did he tell you? About buying up Kilmirren land, and smothering his ground with corn-marigolds? Then later they found the Kilmirren hides stank, and the cows all gave diuretic milk?’ The girl’s face had turned pink. She said, ‘I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be funny.’
‘It sounds fairly typical,’ said Gelis dryly. ‘What would he have done had he been well?’
‘Oh,’ said Katelijne. She paused. ‘You know what happened? At Henry’s age, children are stupid. Your husband pretended thugs were responsible. M. de St Pol should be grateful, in spite of everything.’
‘Was he really hurt?’ Gelis said. ‘Nicholas?’
The direct eyes studied her again. ‘It was a knife wo
und close to the heart. You can’t blame the child,’ the girl said. ‘But Dr Andreas was concerned for a day or two. The shock to the body; the shock to the mind. But you know Dr Andreas.’
Gelis remembered Andreas of Vesalia. She said, ‘The shock to the mind?’
‘I don’t know what it means,’ Katelijne said. She seemed to hesitate. She said, ‘He thinks your husband has dreams.’ The parrot gabbled.
Gelis manufactured a smile. ‘Most people do.’
The girl was looking down. She said, ‘You don’t know Dr Andreas predicts the future? He studied at Louvain: he claims to recognise others who have the same arts, or are possessed of similar powers. He thinks your husband is one.’
Gelis said, ‘I have never known any man as earthily human as Nicholas.’ She spoke as to a child. The parrot squawked and spoke too.
‘I don’t understand either,’ said Katelijne. ‘But he went straight to the river. He found the body. He knew it was dead. And other things, Dr Andreas says. Was there a library, once, he was afraid of?’
Silence. Some little time later, Gelis realised she had not replied. She said, ‘I don’t remember. My dear Katelijne, I think both you and Dr Andreas attribute more to my husband than you should. He is in the Tyrol, engaged in some very unromantic commercial activities.’
‘Divining for silver?’ said the girl.
Gelis said, ‘Prospecting for silver, I’m sure. The divining, I am told, is in the hands of some charlatan or other who claims to be equipped to find anything.’
She stopped smiling, for the girl was looking at her strangely again. The girl said, ‘There was a diviner, but Cavalli said that he died. They were seeking another.’
Gelis said, ‘Katelijne! Are you well?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the girl. The smile flashed. ‘Dame Margriet will tell you it’s time for my rest. I’m so glad you came. Will you wait? There’s some music Willie sent, and these notes, when you next see M. de Fleury …’
The door had opened and Anselm Adorne stood there smiling. ‘Katelijne, my dear. We must let Dame Gelis go.’
She went. The last thing she saw was the ferocious face of the child, brush in hand, eyes focused on the terrible cradle.
One week later Gregorio of Asti, called from the counting-house, entered his chamber and found there Margot, his lost love and mistress. She looked older than he remembered, and fearful, and speechless.
He gathered her into his arms, and she wept.
She would not tell him why she had returned; only that she was free at last, and could stay. She could not tell him anything of the child, because she had sworn.
He stroked her hair, and felt only distress.
Chapter 29
WHEREAS IN BRUGES and Venice and Scotland the last weeks of the decade were blustery and busy and wet, the Tyrol advanced towards the new year in the deep isolation of snow.
Chamois-hunting, by tradition, ended in the last days of December, before too many people were killed. Sigismond, as ruler of the Tyrol, had no qualms about breaking tradition if he felt restless, or particularly successful, or if he wanted to place people at odds, or achieve ascendancy over them. Chamois-hunting in the peaks of the Tyrol was for men.
The Duchess Eleanor, who was an excellent shot, always stayed at home, when they happened to be living together. The cart with the girls then left discreetly. After the zest of a kill, a man would throw to the ground anyone he could find, and after, the wine and the collops were glorious. There were enough girls for them all. Naturally, the Duke took his own satisfaction first. He liked his companions to watch. He spun it out sometimes, to tease them. He had stopped once, and had a man caned.
The man whom Eleanor had brought had been with Duke Sigismond three days when the big hunt was planned. He spoke German and shot well and did what was expected of him, after the kill and before it. His prowess at everything was a degree below that of the Duke, as you would expect of someone touting for business. Unlike the red-haired fellow Martin last week, who had wanted to show what he could do. He had gone away with a bolt through the arm. Nothing too painful: his business propositions had been good. Sigismond had accepted them.
Alum and silver. This man de Fleury was after the same: he knew that from Eleanor. The fellow was percipient. He had let Gertude get him to bed. He had held, assiduously, to other matters of proper conduct. He might forget himself quite spectacularly when he learned that the deal was already done, and he had lost to the red-haired (wounded) Martin, agent of the Vatachino. It was a pity to ruin good sport by telling him all that too soon. It was winter. There was plenty of time to deal with the chevalier Nicholas de Fleury.
John le Grant said, ‘He’s playing with you.’
‘I know,’ said Nicholas.
‘The fact that he punctured Martin in mistake for something with antlers doesn’t mean that the Duke didn’t conclude a deal with him. You may be gambling your life over nothing.’
‘Prayer will save me,’ said Nicholas. He had never yet managed to make Father Moriz utter an oath.
In any case, the matter was academic. They were already dressed and ready to go: Nicholas and Father Moriz and John indistinguishable from the other men in the party in their hooded hats and thick quilted tunics dragged down with their knives and spearheads and crampons, their horns and axes and satchels and the wooden rings which would ease a long walk on snow. Moriz, who had hunted chamois before, was armed with a throw-spear, as were the Duke and black-haired Cavalli, his current favourite adviser, who had been absent until now. None of the Duchess’s men had come with the Duke: not even Jack Lindsay. None of the Duchess’s men had spoken to them since the two households joined.
John le Grant, an expert in matters of trajectory, had brought his crossbow, and persuaded Nicholas to do the same. Among the dozen other hunters, the spear was by far the most popular. Its chief attribute was silence: necessary whatever the sport. But of course a crossbow, well fitted and covered, could also be silent. Even on flat ground, chamois-hunting would have been dangerous. In the mountains, and the way Nicholas was, it was unwise for other reasons as well.
If final proof of that had been needed, his companions would have received it the previous day, in the course of an ordinary hunt up the side of a valley, when the hounds had put up a boar.
The sale of cities and the mortgage of provinces had paid for the splendour of Sigismond of the Tyrol’s kennels and stables. Other princes kept dogs by the thousand, uniform in size and performance, and trained in sensitive packs. Sigismond’s hounds were bred for their voices.
John had heard of hound music before, but had never experienced it. If a man had enough wealth (or enough credit), he might scour the world for apt dogs of every shape: healthy fleet dogs with one thing in common – the disparity in the sound that they made. From these, he would choose and blend his perfect pack. Then, on the day of the hunt, the lord would dispatch them to their task and, taking his place of advantage, would sit in the saddle and listen, and watch.
The prey fell to music. Notes on the staves, the hounds bayed, each voice proclaiming its name and its place, signalling the course of the chase and ending in the soaring climax, the paean of the kill.
Yesterday, Sigismond had conducted such a hunt.
It had begun late in the day. They had shot in the morning, and had been confined ever since by falling snow. By the time the sky cleared, the sun was low in the west and the mountain-shadows were filling the valleys. Then word came that the kennel-master had traced a young boar close at hand. Sigismond hailed the pack and set off.
There being an order of rank to be observed, the three minor guests of the Duke of the Tyrol had ridden among the last of the party, and were still traversing the slopes when the dogs were released. Distantly, the horns produced their bronchial stutters; the barks and yelps died away; the horns spoke again. Then, remotely, a texture of sound made itself felt.
It was not, at first, at all like the voices of hounds. Muted by space
and by the swiftness with which it was travelling, it seemed to lie low and mutter, like a storm building at sea. Then it resembled more the sound a water-wall makes when it meets resistance: the snap of splintering wood, the hollow thud of breached canvas, the clangour of bells, the shrill chime of stressed rigging. Then it swelled. Then it lifted its voice, and its voice was an organ.
Nicholas stopped.
The sun still dwelled on the peaks, but there were stars in the sky. Intent on scaling the hill, le Grant did not at first notice: it was the priest who called him back. The few riders behind them began to pass. John said, ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Father Moriz. ‘It’s going to be dark very soon: perhaps we should wait for the torches. See, someone is climbing to bring them.’ The sun had left his shoulders already; his face blazed like a nugget inside his good fur-lined cowl. Beyond the side of the hill, the ground rolled and dipped to the valley where points of light, paraphrased between mounds, showed where clusters of riders had gathered. A horn, flattened by distance, began to create valances of imperious sound. The organ stopped.
‘A kill,’ John le Grant said. The hunt-servant ran up, and he leaned down and took one of the torches. It revealed the priest’s bulbous face, its eyebrows wary. They both looked at Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘Well, let’s get on.’ His skin was damp. It reminded le Grant of Trebizond. It reminded him, even, of something he did not want to remember.
Le Grant said, ‘Are you having marsh-fever? In the Alps?’
‘If I want to. Would it be a record?’ said Nicholas.
His voice sounded almost right: like that of a sober man under some slight medication. Father Moriz arrested his reins. Ever since Brixen, the priest’s tongue had been sharp. He said, ‘What were you afraid of? It is only a hog.’
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. Then he said, ‘Yes, I do. Something that happened in Scotland. It’s over. Let’s go.’ And he pressed his horse forward again.
The others followed. The last of the light had now gone, and ahead the sky was deepening to night. The snow was grey and the riders scattered over it black. As the three of them rode, the curve of the hill began to obliterate the lights ahead, one by one. The horns had ceased, and all the hound music had died.
The Unicorn Hunt Page 47