They were in the middle, and there the ice was soft, with water spilling and lapping about it. For five feet, or six, perhaps. Beyond that, it looked firm. There was no guarantee. Diniz said, ‘I’ll go first, and catch you. If I don’t manage, don’t try to help me. Go back.’
‘All right,’ she said. It saved time. She wouldn’t leave him.
He withdrew his hand, and settled his feet, and balanced, and jumped. She saw him land on all fours, and slip sideways, and then thrust himself over and over, rolling away from the glistening gruel. She could hear him breathing harshly when he got up. He held his hands out, and she jumped as well, into his arms.
He hugged her and said, ‘On a tightrope next, with a hoop,’ and seized her hand and began leaping, this time, towards the far shore. And arrived there.
There was a little cover: some frozen bushes, the shanks of a sparse piece of woodland. They had already made their plans: he to race off to the nearest farmhouse; she to keep close to the road and make her way, fast, in the direction of the oncoming travellers, where he hoped to join her with horses. It was almost fully dark now, and the road glimmered hoar and white as its surroundings, defined only by the uneven cleared ground at its edge. The cloud had lifted, and there were stars in the sky, except over the town at her back, where the smoke haze had turned red from the massed torches.
Diniz said, ‘About what we spoke of. I shall remember. But Henry isn’t alone, you know. He does have the St Pols.’
So he did know. He kissed her briefly and went; she set to walking. When she felt safe even from the eyes on the battlements, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Her attackers crept up so quietly that she heard nothing until one sprang before her and the other seized her arms from behind. They were armed, with metal under their cloaks. One of them said, ‘And who are you spying for, jonkvrauwe? Or is it really jonkheer?’ His hands delved; she kicked him; he gasped, swore and hit her. She bit her tongue: through watering eyes, she glared at him, and then addressed him in vicious, clear French. ‘Listen to me, son of a pig. I have escaped from the town. I have urgent news for Monseigneur Louis de Gruuthuse. I am Egidia van Borselen, his wife’s cousin. Take me to him, and you may not be hanged. Indeed, you might be rewarded, if I ask it.’ Then she said it again, this time in Flemish. Far in the distance, she heard hooves. Diniz, with one horse from the sound of it, and about to rush up and be killed. And further off, surely, the rumble of a great number of riders. And wheels.
It was either Louis or the convoy. The men holding her were either scouts from one of these or two of the disaffected from Bruges, and whichever they were, they were very likely to dispose of her now. It was a gamble, but she had nothing much to lose. She drew a breath and screamed, ‘Diniz! Go and get Louis to help!’ and received another blow as Diniz came hurtling into view, saddleless on a horse like a carpet. He had his sword drawn. The two men released her and drew theirs. She kicked one, and achieved a lock on the other, her knife at his neck. She said, ‘Move, and I’ll kill. This is Diniz Vasquez. Friend of mine. Friend of Monseigneur’s. All you have to do is come with us to Monseigneur.’
‘I know you,’ said one of the men, staring at Diniz. ‘He’s who she says he is. So why are you here then?’
‘To tell my cousin that the portcullis is down and there are cannon at the Ghent Gate. They’re expecting him.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said the man. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I did,’ Gelis said, lowering her knife and awarding him a single, smart blow on the ear. ‘You weren’t listening.’ Then the rumble of hooves became thunder, and a mass of horsemen filled the Ghent road ahead. The banners were the ones she had hoped for, and the blazon was plain now in the torchlight on the sleeves of the two scouts as well. The blazing twin cannons and the motto, Plus est en vous, of Gruuthuse.
It had been a long ride; he must have been tired; but he was an exceptional man, Louis de Bruges, seigneur de Gruuthuse, Count of Winchester, Prince of Steenhuse, first chamberlain and chevalier d’honneur of the Duchess and Countess of Flanders; and the splendour of his plumed helm, his silver cuirass, his velvet housings and jewelled harness was only the outer manifestation of his quality. The conference was swiftly held there, on the spot, that was to determine what was to come, and all the rest—the surprise, the censure, the commiseration—was relegated until later. With his lieutenants about him, he gave his orders, and only finally turned to his cousin. ‘Go behind to the wagons and wait. I am sorry the night is so cold, but it should resolve itself soon, and then you can come in and be comfortable.’
The wagons. It was not just Gruuthuse’s troop they had met, it was both the parties expected that night. Gruuthuse had overtaken the convoy from Nancy.
She did not know that she was weeping, mounted on the shaggy horse behind Diniz as it plodded slowly down from the head of the troop, past the massed ranks of armed men. She did not think of what she had just heard, or consider, just yet, the fate of the town at her back, and all those within it: Adorne and his men; her own child and Tilde’s at the Hof Charetty-Niccolo; Kathi’s children in the Hôtel Jerusalem, separated from the mother who waited with her cousin in the Hospital of St John, among the blood and the shattered glass. And then, yes, Gelis stopped weeping, for this was what Kathi was waiting for.
There were four carts, and perhaps eight men on horseback, dismounted at present, with the reins in their hands, talking in low voices by the roadside. Six were escorts, and two were better dressed: former prisoners well enough to ride. There were two other horses, loosely tied to one of the wagons. The wagons themselves were well made, and quilts and straw and pillows could be seen in the darkness under the hoods, and the muted glow of travelling braziers. Everything possible had been done to make the journey bearable, but of course nothing could help the vibration of the unyielding wheels on the frozen ruts of the road, or prevent the cold air from whining through crannies. There was almost no sound from inside the wagons. Later, Gelis realised that Tobie had been sleeping, exhausted, with his patients slumbering about him. At the time, she saw only John le Grant, grimly awake, silently busying himself in the ultimate wagon, cleaning and setting out handguns. There were only four, and some crossbows. The freed prisoners of Nancy had not expected a fight.
At the sound of the hooves, the engineer set down his rag and looked up, clearly anticipating one of the escort. Then he stayed very quiet, looking at Diniz, and at Gelis seated behind, her hand on his shoulder. Finally he said, ‘Is Kathi with you?’ and lifted his head a little when Gelis shook hers.
It was Diniz who saw what to do: dismounting with Gelis and extending his hand until John took it, stepping heavily down to the road and moving across to the side, where they all three stood, apart from the others. He did not look dirty, or wounded, or starved; simply very much older, with the vigour gone from his hair and lines bitten into his skin. He said, ‘I’m sorry. They say we can’t get into Bruges because of some rising. Ghent is the same. The Duke seems to be doing as much damage dead as he did when he was living, the bastard.’
Gelis said, ‘It shouldn’t be long.’ She added, ‘Kathi is waiting with Arnaud quite close, in the Hospital of St John. We’d only just heard you were all coming. Then we were afraid you might be involved with the fighting. But Louis will do something, I know.’
John said, ‘I thought you would be in Scotland.’ It seemed to be beyond him to say what had to be said.
Then she saw what he was in fact saying. She said, ‘Nicholas is in Scotland, intent on behaving like the Mastiff of Brittany, as usual. I shall take Jodi there later. Kathi might join us one day, with her children. The Berecroftses would want her.’
She saw that somehow, at last, she had helped him. John said, ‘He is still alive. He’s in there,’ and nodded towards a dark wagon. ‘Tobie is with him.’
She climbed in gently, Diniz behind her. A brazier glimmered, softening the cold. Far at the back, the shape under the quilt on the makeshift mattre
ss of straw was still and silent, and the face of the man lying there was invisible. Nearer at hand, the doctor lay on his back in deep slumber, his hat askew on his pale, balding head; his creased cloak and rucked doublet and jacket far from the standards expected by Clémence. Diniz said, ‘He’s all right as well. They’ve only got to get through these gates … They can’t stay here all night.’ His face was wet.
Tobie opened his eyes.
Kestrel’s eyes, pale round the dot of the pupil. There is a problem. I am assessing it. He looked exhausted. Gelis said, ‘We’re outside Bruges, waiting to clear the Gate and get in. Diniz and I came out to see you.’
Tobie sat up. ‘You’ve seen John, then.’ They were speaking in whispers.
Diniz said, ‘He told us Robin was here. That is all.’
‘That’s all right then,’ Tobie said. ‘He’s sleeping. What’s happening?’
Diniz looked at him and at Gelis. ‘I’ll find out,’ he said, and took the horse and rode off. The cohort ahead hadn’t either moved or dismounted. Sitting in the wagon by Tobie, Gelis watched Diniz ride its full length and vanish. Tobie didn’t speak and, being at a loss what to do, she was silent. Then suddenly there was movement ahead, but not what she expected: one of Louis’s captains, with Diniz, riding quickly towards them. They stopped at each of the wagons, ending with hers. Diniz looked different. He said, ‘It’s over.’
It was over because Louis de Gruuthuse, out of hearing and sight of his troops, had ridden alone to the Ghent Gate of Bruges, a torch in his hand, so that they might see without doubt who and what he was. And there, when the shouting had died, he had told them that they could have what they wanted, and that, if they came to the Hôtel de Ville in a day, they would hear read out the Duchess’s promise that the rights of the Franc of Bruges, as the Fourth Member for Flanders, would be suppressed.
He was surprised (he said) that they had put Lord Cortachy and the good Master Breydel and his son to such trouble, for between friends, it was only necessary to talk. And, especially, he had hoped to find a welcome this day, when he had come expressly from Ghent to escort men who deserved better from Bruges than to be held up in the cold and the dark while some petty matter of money was settled.
He asked the burghers of Bruges to open wide (he said) the gates of their town to the heroes of the town. The wagons, toilsomely come the long journey from Nancy, which contained the men who had fought for the Duke, and had suffered for it. Those who had given not merely money but their liberty and their health that the states of Burgundy should remain proud and free. ‘Will you welcome them?’ said Louis de Gruuthuse. ‘Will you open your gates, and let them see that they have not fought in vain?’
Ahead of Gelis, the wagons were already lurching into motion. The horsemen remounted, John and Tobie in silence among them. Those who could sat up in their carts, their cloaks wrapped about them, and peered out as they rocked past the troops and made for the stretch of white road that led to the bridge and the great Gate of Ghent. Gelis and Diniz, separately horsed, rode behind. As they approached, it could be seen that, with effort, the carpenters had raised and secured the portcullis with chains. The mob, weapons forgotten, took their torches and lined all the way, bridge and drawbridge and archway into the town, shouting and singing. And the carts, rumbling, passed over between them and entered the avenue that led to their homes. The people followed. Only then did the troops of Louis de Gruuthuse stir, and without drum or trumpet silently enter the town and disperse as commanded. And Louis himself, after commending all his stalwart captains and the troops of the Burg, took Anselm Adorne and set him in the great chamber of his own Palace, his best wine at his side. ‘Seaulme, what would I do without you?’ he said. ‘And we’ve brought your Robin home.’
WITHIN THE TOWN, nothing of all this was known in advance. Within the Hospital of St John, time stretched out, and Katelijne Sersanders occupied herself with dogged persistence: rallying the frightened women; setting the carpenters to work; making up the beds that might be needed, should the inevitable happen. She had sent Arnaud home to his wife and, after demurring, he had gone. She did not see how, after all this, it could end in anything other than gunpowder and bloodshed and misery far into the future for Bruges. And in the midst of it were the prisoners, freed at last to face such a homecoming. She did not allow herself even to conjecture that Robin, alive and well, would still be among them.
When the cheering began, she unbarred the door herself, shaking, to permit one of the servants to slip out. When they let him in again, he was too excited to speak. Then he told them that the fighting had stopped. The lord had come alone, and stood at the Gate, and promised Bruges all that it wanted. And the prisoners had arrived and were entering first. The lord had read out all their names, and the husband of the lady Katelijne was among them.
Then the cart had turned in under the archway, with Diniz and Gelis and John le Grant, mounted, beside it, and Tobie was already beside her, talking in a kind, chattering voice about Robin. A long, tiring journey. A bed. A quiet room here, in the Hospital for a day or two, before going to the Hôtel Jerusalem. If she liked, he would have Robin installed, while she took and saw to this list he had written. It itemised drugs that were needed; certain ointments from the Dispensary. If she waited there, he would come to her directly.
Silently, she took the paper and went.
The Dispensary had been cleaned out and swept. She found most of the things on the list, but they did not reveal a great deal by their properties. Tobie would know as much. Tobias Beventini of Grado, friend and physician to armies, had dealt, through the years, with many hundreds of widows and wives; and knew that he had conveyed enough for the moment. She was to see Robin in bed; not before. The others, they told her, had gone. Clémence, too, would be waiting. She thought how tired Tobie had looked, and was stricken.
When he came, she had found some wine for them both, and made him sit.
He smiled a little. ‘I am being cosseted.’
‘It is about time,’ she said. She looked down, and then straight at him. ‘The wounds are as Nicholas said? Or did he not tell it all?’
‘He didn’t know it all,’ Tobie said. He waited, and then spoke with simplicity. ‘Nicholas thought he saw Robin die. He is experienced and, ordinarily, he would have been right. The shots should have killed. But Robin is young, and he is here for you, alive. He is here, and he is going to survive. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And whatever you are going to tell me, it doesn’t matter.’
His face altered a little. ‘I know that, my dear. Here it is. There were several shots. The first was as bad as we feared, and has lost him one leg. The others hit higher. They could have killed, but they didn’t. He has his sight, and his speech, and his hearing. They didn’t alter his intellect by a shred. But they have deprived him of movement, from shoulder to foot, on one side.’
‘On which side?’ she said.
‘On the left. The side of the leg he still has.’
‘Is he in pain?’ Kathi said. ‘No, how silly. Of course.’
‘It is getting less. It will go.’
She said, ‘Does he wish that he’d died?’ and was surprised when he laid his hand on hers.
Then he removed it and said, ‘Yes, at first. Then he remembered you, and the children, and us. I think he is grateful, now, that he didn’t. But he needs time.’
And us. She thought how wise Tobie was, in some things. Dear as she was to Robin, and he was to her, they shared their trust and their friendship with others. She said, ‘Is he ready to see me?’
‘For a little,’ Tobie said. ‘Then he must sleep.’
He took her to Robin’s door, but she went in alone.
He lay on a low pallet bed, looking up. Tousled brown hair; deep eyes; wrist- and finger-bones frail on the coverlet; and the young, young face full of calm.
‘Kathi,’ said Robin of Berecrofts. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t walk.’
‘I know,’
she said, and sat carefully down, and slipped her hand into his, which tightened a little. The other was under the cover. She said, ‘If you can’t suffer it, then you needn’t. But we all hope that you’ll try. Will you try?’
‘It’s why I came back,’ he said.
Then she laid her cheek on his, and stayed there, her hands curled at his neck, her weight where nothing could harm him. When she kissed him, he closed his eyes, and did not open them again for a long time.
ON FRIDAY, THE seventh day of March, 1477, an orderly crowd, ranged below the balcony of the sugar-spun Hôtel de Ville of Bruges, heard read out in French and Flemish a solemn undertaking, on behalf of the Duchess and Countess of Flanders, to return to the town all its communal liberties, its commercial monopolies, and its lordship over Sluys and the other towns of the Franc, including superiority over the commune, now the new town of Middleburg. This was followed by a joint announcement by the Deans of the trades, to the effect that their members, having laid down their arms in their guild-houses, were now free to disband. The bells rang, the crowd dispersed, and those who had lost money by neglecting their work over the past few days returned to their workshops and tables, while preserving their privilege to meet, as had become the custom, to further develop their opinions over an ale-pot in their parlours and taverns.
Anselm Adorne ceased for a while to frequent the Poorterslogie at the top of Spangnaerts Street, but took the chance, over several days, to visit his son Maarten’s Carthusian convent, to call upon his daughters similarly immured in Sint-Andries and Steenbrugge; to visit his youngest son Antoon, who was training for the priesthood, and to confirm that his married son Pieter in Ghent was still safe. He knew that his eldest son Jan, in Rome with Cardinal Hugonet, was frustrated as ever, but secure. Elizabeth and Marie had good husbands who would protect them. And of course, first of all, on the very night of the rising, he had gone to comfort Arnaud, of whom he was proud. Arnaud’s wife was of the good blood of the Nieuvenhoves, but frail after the birth of her daughter. It did not look as if she was preparing for another infant just yet.
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