The differences between now and ten years before were, however, also impressive. Then, they lived in houses that were chiefly offices, and occupied by their lessees or owners for only a few months at a time. They were ornamental and reasonably comfortable: suitable for entertaining and for meetings, and with room for a family. But someone who lived here for five years, and came to spend time in other homes, to frequent centres of learning, and to keep company with men of literary or artistic or musical interests, would gather about himself the products of all these encounters; would have to find room for books, and for pictures and for instruments, and a workshop or office for his own experiments, as well as a table he would not be ashamed to offer his guests. A man who hunted and shot with his friends would have hounds, and horses, and birds. A family man, whether in business or not, would require clerks who paid his debts and collected his income, together with the great circle of his suppliers: the builders, the merchants, the fleshers, the bakers; the water-carriers, the smiths and the lorimers. He would know by name or by sight everyone who lived in his town, and in business, in sport or at his fireside, would rub shoulders daily with most of them.
All the men who had once belonged to the House of Niccolò, including its former owner, now lived in homes which possessed a permanence which the peripatetic life in Flanders had never encouraged. The exception was Anselm Adorne, whose beautiful Hôtel Jerusalem in Bruges had been a testament to generations of culture, and was paralleled by nothing he had attempted in Scotland. Either he did not wish to try; or else his busy life was sufficiently served by his homes in Linlithgow and Edinburgh and Blackness, which were handsome enough, and his use of the Berecrofts house in the Canongate. And certainly, within these parameters, his entertainment was princely; as he himself was entertained, as he always had been, by men of consequence. His daughter, a silent, merry four-year-old, flourished in Haddington.
Nicholas saw his own twelve-year-old daily, but the other son not at all, until the time he took delivery of his new ship at Leith, on a lowering day of wild weather which had frightened off pirates and allowed the Jordan, in all its three-masted glory, to plunge round the coast and come to rock in the river.
It was the latest of several ships he now possessed. He had given new names to them all. Ships did not have long lives, and there would never be another Ciaretti. Of his acquisitions, one was a converted Hanse fishing vessel, and two were useful Biscay-type trading ships he had picked up at a sale. His flagship, the Fleury, was the merchant vessel he had renounced when he gave everything up, and which Gelis had paid to recover. The Fleury mattered, because of that. This one mattered, because it bore Jordan’s name: the first public manifestation of the young Jordan de Fleury, not the old Jordan de St Pol.
Because of that, it was Jordan his son who was first on board, and Jordan who, once high on the poop, noticed his cousin Henry caught, vexed and impatient, in the press of people on shore. Since Christmas was close, and the Border fighting had slackened, men were coming back to their houses in Edinburgh. Returned to Kilmirren House with his grandfather and Simon, Henry came across now and then to see to his horses. There was a piece of St Pol land near Dunbar which offered good grazing, and removed the stud from the orbit of Simon, who disapproved of the venture. This information (of course) came from Julius via Sir James Liddell of Halkerston in the Mearns, who had a house in Dunbar. It was the only piece of information Liddell seemed to have supplied, in the long evenings Julius spent with him.
The crowd on the wharf were all friends, come to help Nicol celebrate his new vessel. Knowing what was expected, he had opened and stocked up a warehouse with ale, and something to eat with it, and in due course they all packed themselves in, and there were some mock speeches and a lot of coarse jokes. Nicholas, playing his part, assumed that Henry had departed in a cloud of malignancy; until he suddenly saw him outside, looking searchingly up at the ship. At its name. Of course, hell and damnation: at its name.
Nicholas started to leave. As he began to move from person to person, he saw that Gelis had reached the door and was already walking over to talk to her nephew. She spoke, and it looked as if Henry asked her a question. He looked superb, but not dangerous; not with Gelis. They went on talking. Nicholas, half-emerged, hesitated.
Gelis had seen him. She called across. ‘You know more about this than I do. I was telling Henry that he should try another sail with you all. But not in this weather.’
‘It’s a challenge,’ Nicholas said. She had spoken, thank God, as if she had never heard of the scene with Muriella. Nicholas, too, adopted a level that Henry would recognise: vaguely impatient but not at all unfriendly. He said, ‘Do you want to come on board and look? It’s roomier than you’d think.’
‘I’m sure,’ Henry said. ‘No, thank you. I hear you’ve been to Elcho. The nuns have reformed Muriella then, have they?’
Gelis stayed quiet. Nicholas said, ‘It was Bonne I was going to see. After the pike fishing,’ He didn’t look at Gelis.
Gelis said, ‘It isn’t fair. He’ll believe you.’ Magnificent Gelis.
Nicholas said, ‘Well, he ought to. It’s true.’
‘That you went to see Bonne?’ Henry said. ‘Or didn’t you?’ He was looking at Gelis, his expression somewhere between pity and contempt.
Nicholas said, ‘I didn’t really go to see Bonne. Or not especially. I was at the Lake of Menteith for the pike—’
‘So you say,’ Gelis said.
She staggered slightly as someone bumped into her. Unbelievably, it was Jordan. Incredibly, he was making for Henry, whom he had last met, in brutal circumstances, at Muriella’s house. He addressed Henry, regardless. ‘I told them you were here. Has he told you about the pike fishing?’
He had caught the word. Jordan was trying to do something, and Nicholas could only hope he knew what. He picked up his cue.
‘Nobody believes it,’ Nicholas said. He made it sour.
‘That’s because you explain it inadequately,’ Jordan said. Henry’s long lashes batted.
Jordan said, ‘Let me tell him.’
It didn’t take long. Nicholas hadn’t believed it himself when Rob Colville had first described the whole farce, and then had actually got them to come back to Doune and take part in it. It was a fishing competition for pike. The fishing was done by local geese, with baited lines tied to their legs. Once the goose was dumped in the water, it beat across the loch to the home of its master, hooking its fish as it went. As the goose-owners lived all round the loch, it ensured a good, thorough fishing.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Henry; but beneath the scathing tone, there lay something more natural.
‘We got soaked,’ Jordan said. ‘It’s stupid really, for fully grown men.’ His two wayward dimples contradicted him.
‘It sounds it,’ said Henry. ‘Did you catch anything?’
‘We won!’ Jordan said. ‘We brought these two geese from home …’
‘We got another one,’ said Nicholas in an apologetic aside. Something told him that Henry had been treated to a graphic account of Simon standing in mid-street wringing the neck of a goose. Henry was biting his lip.
‘And they both hooked a fish?’ Henry said. He could still manage a drawl.
‘They hooked each other,’ said Jordan. ‘But no one else hooked anything, so we won. They weren’t hurt. It’s really funny. Of course, it’s silly as well. You should come with us next time and see.’ He caught Henry’s eye.
‘You’d have to lend me a goose,’ Henry said. His sole dimple appeared, and was banished.
That was all. A crowd suddenly arrived to collect them, and Henry walked off.
At home, Jordan tried to explain to his father. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, but he doesn’t know that I heard him at Malloch. Unhappy people are cruel and tell lies. You never see Henry with friends.’
‘He probably kills and eats them,’ said Nicholas encouragingly. ‘All right. I know what you mean, and it’s kind. Keep trying. But don’t f
orget: unhappy people aren’t always consistent. Don’t get hurt.’
IN KILMIRREN HOUSE, an unwise friend mentioned the occasion to Simon, who later carried the news to his father. ‘He’s called the ship Jordan!’
‘There is no law against it, so far as I know,’ observed his father. ‘But you say Henry was there?’
‘Talking to de Fleury and the boy. Someone saw them. He said nothing to me.’
Jordan de St Pol eased his weight in the chair, and the chair emitted a groan. ‘I sometimes think,’ said the lord of Kilmirren, ‘that your technique with that youth could be improved upon. He should be married by now.’
Henry’s bachelorhood was becoming a nuisance. St Pol had spoken to three families, who had expressed guarded interest. Henry displayed no enthusiasm for marriage, but a great deal in the maidens under discussion, who reciprocated with zeal, to the distress of their parents. The best method with someone of Henry’s looks was to sign the parents up first, and tell him about it later on. Then he could do with the girl as he pleased.
Chapter 37
Off archerye the rewll allhaile thai beir.
The men with men fechtis apone fute,
And the women with strang bowes thai schut.
IN TIME OF war, every winter is precious. It is the close season; the time when men return home to their families, and celebrate Christmas, even in scarcity, with glad hearts. It is a time for acts of liberality.
Anselm Adorne took his little deaf daughter Euphemia from her convent at Haddington and travelled with her to Stirling to visit the old lady, Bel of Cuthilgurdy, who had made the opposite journey so often to teach, in the way she had learned from the deaf Scottish Princess Joanna. With him he also took Mistress Clémence, the splendid Frenchwoman who had been married to Dr Tobie from his house, and who had nursed Jordan de Fleury from babyhood.
It was an unusual thing for him to do, and Mistress Bel bided her time, entertaining the child and making Lord Cortachy welcome, before Clémence, whom she knew very well, offered to take the child, well wrapped up, to run and slide in the meadows.
The child was very like Phemie, with her direct gaze and abundance of energy; and constant care had given her a confidence denied to most of her kind. A child of many mothers, she was happy with Clémence, as Jordan had been.
‘Jordan was lucky,’ Lord Cortachy said. ‘And now he has his own father and mother, which he appreciates to the full. It was about that, in a way, that I wished to speak.’
‘Jordan is very attached to them,’ Bel remarked. ‘And now, I hear, there is a ship bearing his name. I know who’ll mislike that.’
‘It is rumoured already,’ said Adorne, ‘that Simon de St Pol has taken extreme umbrage; especially as Henry his son apparently had said nothing of it. They are at odds with one another, as usual. The youth ought to be married, but every arrangement so far has failed. Not because the maidens don’t like him—the opposite!—but their land-owning fathers are shy. Kilmirren thrives in good times, but Simon is not a disciplined man, and the same could be said of the boy. No one offers an heiress to a potentially run-down estate, or to a hapless life in Madeira, at the end of the day.’
‘Not while Monseigneur is alive,’ Bel observed. ‘But I agree. Those bonny blue eyes have been conquering girls since before his voice broke, and his elders have been daft not to curb it. Fortunately, Efemie’s too young, and so is Kathi’s wee Margaret. Whoever they get for the lad, they’ll want her in the marriage-bed quickly.’
‘It should be an interesting Yule,’ Adorne said. ‘Were you thinking of coming to Edinburgh?’
‘Not with all that going on,’ Bel said caustically. ‘After your sixtieth birthday, it pays to be selfish, in my view. And yourself? You’re not staying in St Johnstoun of Perth?’
He took a moment before he replied. ‘I’m not sure. I’m going to see Master Julius’s step-daughter at Elcho. Nicholas wishes to invite her to stay with himself and Gelis for Christmas, but I think he is unwise. Her arrival from Germany caused trouble with the St Pols and with me, as Father Moriz has possibly told you. It might happen again. Julius apparently doesn’t want her in the Canongate house. It’s a dilemma. Like young Henry, she ought to be married.’
‘From all I hear, she’s too poor to be considered for Henry,’ she said. ‘Why does Julius not want her? Because she reminds him of his wife?’
‘I think certainly so. And Nicholas, of course, feels responsible because Bonne’s mother was a de Fleury.’ He paused. He knew, from Kathi, she assumed, what the other possibilities were. He said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve met Bonne?’
‘No. What did you make of her?’ asked Bel.
‘We got on very well,’ said Adorne, ‘so long as she remembered which of us carried the purse. She knows she is intelligent. She will make a good marriage partner for somebody.’
‘But not for you,’ Bel suggested, her shapeless face innocent.
‘Not for me,’ he agreed. ‘Bel, you know what I am asking. It is for Nicholas. He carries responsibility enough.’
‘You are asking me to take Bonne. For how long?’
‘Until January,’ he said. ‘Or earlier, if you are a miracle-worker who can find her a husband. I should like to see Nicholas free of these tangled relationships, and able to get on with his own life.’
‘He is free,’ she said. ‘Julius likes to be inquisitive, but I am not holding Nicholas back. He knows virtually all that I know.’
‘As does Mistress Clémence?’ he said. ‘I suspect you chose her for Jordan. You have never said how you met.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But you can imagine. She’s French, and I was in France with the two Scottish Princesses. I knew she’d be fine for the bairn, but it was the time of the war between Gelis and Nicol, and I didna want to propose her myself.’
It was understandable. Adorne wondered when Nicholas had discovered the complicity, and what he thought of it. He waited, and then said, ‘I thought perhaps you knew her because of your grandchildren. You mentioned them once.’
‘Did I?’ she said. ‘Maybe I did. Well, I’ve only the one grandchild now. And since Henry Arnot kindly let out that my ae son was in cloisters, you have to suppose that I have a married daughter. I have.’
‘In France, then,’ he said. ‘And if Clémence wasn’t her nurse, she was connected to your son-in-law’s people? The family who couldn’t come to her wedding?’
‘Ask her,’ said Bel.
He studied her. ‘But you’d rather I didn’t.’
‘I suspect Nicol would rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘But you must please yourself. As for the lass Bonne, I ken nothing about her, but if it will help you and Nicol, I’ll take her over the season. Is there anything more I can tell you?’
‘You are generous,’ he said. ‘And in return, I shan’t ask the question I’d put to you, if I were Nicholas.’
‘And what would that be?’ she said. ‘Why is an old besom like me so tolerant of a devil like Jordan de St Pol of Kilmirren?’
‘Yes,’ said Adorne. ‘That is it.’
‘Aye.’ she said. ‘There’s a half-answer to that, which he knows. There’s a whole answer that maybe he guesses. But that’s between him and me and St Pol.’
SHE WENT TO Elcho the following week, accompanied by a doubtful Father Moriz, brought to authenticate her credentials. The Prioress, whose manners were beautiful, charmingly set the small chaplain to entertain Sister Monika in German, while she heaped praise upon Bel for opening her hospitable doors to the poor young orphan, the demoiselle Bonne.
Bonne, brown-haired, stalwart and formidably composed, sat with her hands folded throughout, saying little, but watching the nun and the priest with something close to private amusement. Sister Monika, it had been established, was to stay at the Priory over the festival. Bonne did not look sorry.
The Prioress rose to arrange for refreshments. Left alone with the girl for a moment, Bel said, ‘She’s a right talker, isn’t she? What are the other n
uns like?’
The blue eyes turned upon her. ‘The same as everywhere,’ Bonne said. ‘Dull.’
‘But safe, I suppose,’ Bel remarked. ‘I mind being glad of some nuns when I got back from that trip to Africa. What did ye hunt with the Graf? Bear?’
‘Sometimes,’ Bonne said.
‘It’s more deer about here, but it’s lively, and I ken a man with some falcons. What about shooting?’
‘Shooting?’ said Bonne. Her voice was mild.
‘With a crossbow. At the butts. Have ye not done much of that? And there’s snow sports, of course, but that depends on the weather. Moriz!’
‘Yes?’ said Father Moriz, rising smartly.
‘She thinks I’m blethering. Come and tell her Yule in Stirling’s not so bad. I had one look at her shoulders, and I knew she was a lass who could kill things.’
Bonne looked for the first time uncertain. The Prioress was re-entering the room. ‘Perhaps,’ said Father Moriz testily. ‘But, my friend, it does not do to scream the fact all round the cloisters. I hope, demoiselle Bonne, that you can put up with this woman. Nations have tried in vain to subdue her, but she still insists on going her own way. You’ll have a terrible time.’
Across the room, the Prioress had turned. Sister Monika sat, looking worried. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Bonne. Her face, to a searching eye, had almost cleared. She said, ‘You had no need to arrange this. I am grateful.’
‘It was Lord Cortachy’s notion,’ Bel said. ‘But don’t go and tell the St Pols, or they’ll set the pigs on him.’
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