He said, ‘Demoiselle, it is so long ago. Is it certain that the child died? Is there a record of it, or a priest or a physician who might remember what happened?’
But she had shaken her head. ‘It is what everyone asks. But I have never heard of any such.’
He stayed as long as was polite, or a little longer, and left. But although he spent the rest of the day enquiring, he could find nothing, any more than he had found in Dijon.
And yet there should have been something, had the child died. Of course, Adelina—Julius’s late wife Adelina—had insisted that it had lived. But this lady did not think so. And Adelina had had many reasons for lying. She had been lying. If the child had lived, Marian would have told him.
He rode back to his companions in Dijon, and completed his return to the King in a state of abstraction which, misinterpreted, roused them to jealousy. They found Louis south of Noyers and hunting in Moutiers St Jean: he appeared to intend to move west, and showed no further interest in Dijon. It was some little while before Nicholas realised that he had been sent away because the King was waiting for news of a war. Then word came. Electing to go into battle at last, Maximilian, husband of the little Duchess of Burgundy, had led an army of twenty thousand against the French just north of Arras, and had won some kind of victory. That was, half the French and a third of the Burgundians had died, and the Burgundian army had been forced to retreat because the ground couldn’t be held
Nicholas was allowed to go back to Paris. In his absence, he discovered, the King had sent for his dear cousin Alexander, Duke of Albany, made him officially welcome, and set out the pension he would have, in addition, of course, to a lucrative marriage. Naturally, nothing could be done about Scotland just at the moment, but the time would come very soon.
Listening to Albany’s account at the Cock, Nicholas persisted. ‘It won’t come soon. He’s lost half his men. He’s got Maximilian against him in person. Sandy, do you want to stay here for the rest of your life? For that’s what will happen.’ But, of course, it was no good. Sandy had stormed out of Scotland. He wouldn’t go back with nothing to show for it. Sandy said, ‘You return, if you like it so much.’ Nicholas could tell, from the tone, that he knew what inducement Nicholas himself had been offered to stay. It was considerable. It did not include a new wife, but he gathered that Louis was willing to import his old one. After all, Jean de Gruuthuse had a van Borselen mother. To Sandy, his desire to leave must seem indeed like rejection.
Nicholas said, ‘Look. I don’t need to go back to Scotland at once. There are people I could visit in Bruges. Prosper de Camulio is moving about, and I’m told that the Patriarch of Antioch has just been in Tours. They both serve the Pope. They could both be helpful in ways that France perhaps can’t. If the King allows me to go, I could return to you in the autumn, and we could talk again about Scotland.’
The Duke agreed, haughtily. Being Sandy, he was not even as apprehensive as he should be. He could do without Nicol de Fleury. He had arrived in France. He was well fed, well housed, and on affectionate terms with the King. He was still confident. One could only hope, regretfully, that something might occur to alarm him. Nicholas wondered who the prospective wife was. Someone really insignificant, and Sandy would simply go home. Someone truly grand, and it would be apparent to everyone that Louis was aiming for Scotland and was sure of it, for if he failed, he would have wasted an heiress.
Sandy liked France, for he liked being spoiled. Sandy would never understand the other kinds of fascination it held for the man Nicholas now was, or for the man that Jordan de St Pol, once vicomte de Ribérac, had been. Sandy would never consider that it might be a sacrifice to go, as duty called, to confirm that Diniz was all right in Bruges, and verify that Camulio was remembering his Genoese friends.
Then Nicholas thought of Damparis, and forgot everything else.
Marian de Charetty had died there. Now, beyond doubt, he knew why. A small, proud lady, no longer young, she had intended, he guessed, to bear this baby in private; away from curious eyes. If she lost the child, if she died, he was not to be told what had happened.
He had been very young. They had lived as man and wife for less than a year. It hurt that she had not given him the opportunity to care for her, to prove his maturity. He had felt like that before, long ago, with someone else. Yet to grieve for that reason was selfish. What mattered, what merited anguish, was the sacrifice made for his sake: the silent decision; the ultimate expression of love. She would not have wished the marriage undone. She would not have wanted him present. In a strange way, she herself had died fulfilled. It was he who was left unconsoled, alone on the brink.
It had happened before.
IN SCOTLAND, IT seemed natural that Nicholas did not at once return. He was softening up Sandy. Once Sandy saw that the King of France could do nothing for him, Nicholas would bring him back.
Now that Sandy was absent, it was less necessary to keep apart from Adorne, and Gelis saw him most days that summer, on matters of trade, or in aiding the Council in their management of the King. She grew to know the administrators well, as Nicholas had done; especially Avandale, her courtly escort to Dunglass, and that active man, John Stewart of Darnley, his kinsman. The siege of Dunbar Castle had dragged on for many weeks after Sandy had left, until, accepting at last that no French army would come to relieve them, the garrison had withdrawn by sea, and the King’s troops had entered the castle. In due course, the absent rebels were summoned, but unsurprisingly failed to appear. Then sentence of forfeiture of life, lands and goods was proclaimed against John Ellem of Butterdene, captain of Dunbar, and his twenty companions. It was as Nicholas had predicted. The men who had remained faithful to Albany bore the brunt of the King’s wrath.
Sir John Colquhoun’s death had shocked every sea-going merchant in Scotland, as well as Avandale himself, who had left the siege for his funeral. The King had also been there, and the men of the west who had been Colquhoun’s neighbours, as well as Will Crichton and his Livingstone wife. And Will’s relative, Colquhoun’s powerful widow, Elizabeth Dunbar, Phemie’s cousin (O Dowglass, O Dowglass, Tender and Trewe!), glaring at her even more powerful son, the litigious Humphrey. The division of spoils, it was already apparent, was going to keep the law lords busy for a long time, as the business consortia defended their rights. Tam Cochrane, for one, had put a lot of money into these shared timber and salmon ventures. Working up north, he was making more than he was spending.
Tam had managed to persuade young Mar to go with him up to Kildrummy, once he had set the cannon in place for Dunbar. It was a question, as ever, of fortification: to keep the King’s castles in order against the sporadic rebellions in the north. Reports that came south indicated that the stay was not likely to be a long one: Johndie had already fallen out with every sheriff, bailie, baron and lord in the neighbourhood, as well as all the local representatives of the Order of St John, and was liable to start a war by himself if not returned soon. While he was away, Gelis tried to make headway with the Princess Mary, whose husband was sinking, and who would soon be her own mistress, which meant open to every influence. It should have been easy, for Gelis had once served the Princess, and Jodi was there. It was so far from easy that Gelis wondered, all over again, what magic Nicholas had performed to persuade this limp little matron to take the right course in the past. She listened to Jodi’s joyous boasting about life with the Hamiltons, and soothed his occasional anxieties about his absent father, and rode home, swallowing tears. She ought to be used to being without Nicholas. She was not. It was far, far worse now.
Kathi helped. Now Robin was self-sufficient, and busy, and safe, Kathi seemed to be everywhere at once, darting from her own children to Efemie at Haddington to Nanse Preston and the Queen’s children at Stirling; from her brother over the road to her uncle and Wodman in the High Street. She snatched time at Provost Bonkle’s hospice with Will Roger, learning new music and listening to sad reports of Hugo’s drinking and painting. Occasio
nally, the absence of Nicholas riled Will. Sometimes she made a mistake, and there would be a crash as Roger flung something. Then he would apologise. ‘It isn’t that he was a musician. It just came naturally, damn him,’ she told Gelis, later.
She also spent time on Margaret, the other Princess, seizing her interest whenever she could. The disaster at Beltrees had put an end, at least, to Simpson’s unsettling of Meg. He had set out, perhaps, with a Bailzie-like plan to seduce her, but despite his confidence in his charms he must have realised, sooner or later, that she looked upon him as old. But his admiration, his wooing, the salacious poetry, the French way of kissing and dancing had all reinforced her resistance to the English political marriage that the kingdom required. And visiting Mary, she had her sister’s example before her.
Dazzling Margaret with the accomplishments of Lord Rivers was no part of Kathi’s intention, but she did mention an Adorne cousin’s high opinion of English court life, and the remarkable beds, and how big the dress allowance always was.
What had happened at Beltrees: even now, Gelis could hardly bring herself to remember. She had never before felt truly thankful that someone had gone, and she tried not to think so now, for David Simpson had been a killer most often by default, and not by intention. But his death meant that they were safe. Jordan de St Pol came to Edinburgh now and then: she saw the house was occupied and his personal servants in town. She imagined he was satisfying his curiosity—his endless curiosity—about Nicholas. When it was known that Nicholas had gone, he went back to Kilmirren.
Henry had struck up a sardonic friendship with John le Grant, and in his time off from the Guard could be found at the siege, learning to transfer to artillery what he had already been taught about sailing. She came across him occasionally, upon which Henry would make some acid joke about Nicholas at the French Court in Paris, and she would reply in the same vein. He had quite a nice wit.
Bel stayed in the St Pol house for a while, and then went back to Stirling. During her stay, Gelis never visited her uninvited, but occasionally Bel would cross the road to see her, or call on Tobie and Clémence, or take some sweetmeats for Kathi’s children. She never said very much, but was good company, as always. Gelis thought that she, too, had only waited to learn what Nicholas was going to do.
Which was, of course, to go to France, and apparently stay there.
About his lengthening absence, Kathi spoke only once, and then obliquely, for there were some things too painful for words.
‘I suppose they will all be in Paris. What a hardship.’
And Gelis had answered, ‘I know.’
That was all. What they meant was quite different.
If Nicholas has freedom in Paris, he could contrive a visit outside. And if he reaches Damparis, he will hear confirmed what you and I tried to tell him, and Marian de Charetty hoped he would never find out.
I know. I know. I know.
EVEN BEFORE HE obtained the King’s sanction, Nicholas had sent to Bruges to tell Diniz he was coming. It was only fair, even if he was quite certain that missives would have raced from Leith to Sluys the moment it was known that he had sailed with Sandy for France. When he arrived, therefore, after some very hard riding, it was to find that the Hof Charetty (newly named but with the same familiar livery) had sent a patient employee to await him at the Ghent Gate, scene of Gelis’s magnificent sortie.
It was someone he vaguely knew (Ryke?), which was thoughtful of Diniz and quite surprising, since it was nearly three years since he had left, in no very good state after the battle of Nancy, and he had been in the East for a long time before that. Chatting, as the man walked by his side, Nicholas looked for the changes. The sounds were the same. There were some different buildings, altered in shape or in use, and a lot of strange signs. The town looked a little slip-shod and not quite so prosperous, as happened in time of war: Bruges would be paying for expensive victories like the one Maximilian had just had. But there were no signs of burning or damage. It had not changed hands like Dijon. It had only moved under the authority of the twenty-year-old son of the German Emperor, who had married the Duchess.
He was so intent on his first sight of the house that he almost missed the most welcome piece of news—that Gregorio was here, the good friend who had once been Marian’s lawyer and who now owned and managed the former Venetian branch of the Bank. ‘Master Gregorio would be so pleased that Monseigneur had managed to come! They were all so pleased!’ said Ryke suddenly. He was beaming. It came to Nicholas, with misgiving, that he had attained some sort of legendary status in his own former Bank, despite the fact that all he had done was throw away his money and leave. But he did nothing to destroy the man’s image of him, and slipped a coin in his hand as they arrived, and Diniz and Tilde and the girls and then all the staff, it seemed, were hurrying out into the courtyard. And Gregorio.
He looked older, and browner, and thinner, but the narrow face and the bony scoop-nose were the same, and so was the enthusiasm under the velvet hat, which was well made and had no lappets, nor, like the rest of him, anything of the desk-bound lawyer about it at all. Nicholas opened his arms and they hugged, banging each other on the back, while Diniz stood laughing. Then Diniz and Tilde, his wife—Tilde, who was Marian’s daughter, though not his. With the years, oddly, she had become paler and less like her mother, although her eyes were still bright and her smile loving. The little daughters, Marian and Lucia, were shy, and he kissed them both lightly and left it at that. Time enough to make them his friends. Time enough if he stayed. Time enough if he came back. And if not, they wouldn’t miss him. Then he had to shake hands with everybody else, from cooks up and downwards. He was to visit the dyeyard tomorrow. Old Hennic had gone, but there were plenty of others who wanted to see him. Then later—
He let Diniz talk. Eventually, he would have to explain that he couldn’t stay long. Not if he were to go back and get Sandy home before winter.
Indoors, he heard all their news. Gregorio had already decided to visit, after those bastards at the Signoria gave in to the Turk and upset all the merchants. Diniz and he always conferred, even though they ran separate businesses. Then he had got Diniz’s message to say Nicholas was coming from Scotland, and here he was, panting. So, what was happening?
He told them, briefly, for the alignment of power between France and Burgundy, England and Scotland affected Bruges. Then he heard their views on Maximilian and the future. Diniz said, ‘Do you think Adorne will come back?’
Nicholas said, ‘Do you think that he should?’
‘It’s better,’ Diniz said. ‘That is, the Archduke is making his own enemies, and the friends of the last administration are less of a target. I wouldn’t advise he come today, but every month makes a difference. If he comes, would you come? Or do you feel you want to do more for Scotland?’
‘It would be hard to leave just now,’ Nicholas said. ‘Ask me again when this little crisis is over, and we’re in clear water again. If the next crisis hasn’t arrived, that is.’
‘You’re enjoying it,’ Gregorio said. Once, he had worked closely with him in Scotland. He knew Will Roger. He knew what it was like. He added, ‘And I hope you got Beltrees back, after Simpson.’
Gregorio had seen it being built. Nicholas said, ‘No. The castle burned down, and he didn’t have the land, or the barony. The house was rather unpleasant, in any case. I created it for the wrong reasons, and he distorted it further. What?’
‘Nothing,’ Gregorio said. Then the conversation, as was inevitable, moved on to children.
Gregorio’s son Jaçon was aged seven, and flourishing. As might be expected, there had been no other offspring. Gregorio was not far short of fifty and Margot out of her child-bearing years. They had been blessed, to have their one well-made boy.
The same was true, of course, of Jordan de Fleury. He had no siblings. It was not intentional. It was only partly intentional. There was a limit to the number of people Nicholas felt he could protect. Or so he told himself.
Then, of course, there was the subject of Adorne’s small daughter by Phemie. ‘Does he resent her?’ Tilde asked. ‘Not just the deafness, but that she took Phemie from him? And, of course, he must have hoped for a son.’
‘No. He cares for her tenderly,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think he feels humble. Last time, you see, he chose to preserve his wife’s life and risk the life of the infant, which died. This time, the choice was not his.’
‘You sound as if you approve,’ Diniz said.
‘No. I am explaining how he thinks, not how I think,’ Nicholas said.
That night, they all drank together and it was, again, what it had been like when it was all one company. He remembered what made them laugh, and what excited them. It returned him, too, to the bright, merry level, half carefree, half watchful, that had marked all his life here. The torrent of mixed Flemish and French swept away all his Scots. Sometimes they mentioned Gelis. He had expected admiration, but was made silent, for a moment, by their obvious affection for her. When he went to bed, he slept as if felled.
The following day, he called at the palace of Louis de Gruuthuse and his wife, Gelis’s cousin, and found there, as he had hoped, the senior van Borselen, Wolfaert of Veere. With them were Wolfaert’s bastard son Paul, and his pregnant wife Catherine de Charetty, Tilde’s sister.
He had not seen her since he gave permission, in writing, for her marriage. She looked happy and fearful at once, as she should, considering the escapades from which once he had rescued her. Nicholas said, ‘I am going to take Paul aside and tell him everything. Paul, she rides like a man, and likes lapdogs.’
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