Presently, he forced a digression, and filled his own cup and the other, many times.
LATER, WHEN ANDREAS had been assisted back over the road, Gelis went and sank into his place beside Nicholas. ‘Well?’ she said.
He sat and gazed at her. He looked warm, and rather shaken, but not drunk. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘He used a hogspear.’ He went on gazing at her. He said, ‘He admired the sapphire. Seaulme had left him his Unicorn Horn.’
‘And?’ she said. ‘What did he tell you?’ It was not like before, a stone wall. He was struggling to think of two things at once.
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ Nicholas said. ‘What are doctors supposed to be for? He just said that I would continue to blame myself for a long time for just about everything, and that it was damned right that I should. He said that since I had dragged everyone over here, I should either tell them what I was going to do, or let them go away and forge their own lives.’
She could see why he looked heated. She said, ‘I rather agree with all that, or most of it. So?’
He now looked mildly harassed, but not angry. He said, ‘What do you think? Where do you want to go?’
She stared at him. (Dr Andreas? What have you done?)
She said, ‘I don’t know. Perhaps we should make a shortlist. Persia? No. It’s still split over Uzum’s succession. Turkey? They’ve just retreated from Italy. The new Sultan is pro-Venice and promising, but is against Italian art: poor Bellini. And of course, Rhodes is grooming a supplanter. Cyprus? No. Not after what the Venetians did to Zacco. Venice? A new House of Niccolò, Venice?’
‘Gelis,’ Nicholas said.
‘No. Wait. Venice? It’s Gregorio’s now. Going back wouldn’t be fair. Africa? It’s less safe than before, and the English are racing the Portuguese for the gold. Poland? You liked it a lot, but you’d have to spend all your time fighting. I rather think Muscovy would be the same. The Tyrol? No. The Duchess is dead, and I don’t care for Sigismond. Spain? They’re driving the Moors out of Granada. Umar wouldn’t have liked that at all. France?’
‘Gelis,’ Nicholas said.
‘No. Wait. France? You liked Louis, but he’s dying, and the next King is a boy. You’ve had enough of bear-leading boys, and I can’t see you joining Lorraine, although old King René might have suited you well. Burgundy? The heirs are two children, and the Archduke is an unlikeable youth who didn’t stop Seaulme’s indictment, and is disliked by both Brabant and Flanders. Diniz can handle it. You’ve done enough. Milan, Naples, Genoa, Florence—do we wish to follow in the bankrupt footsteps of poor Tommaso, even though his vander Goes altar-piece is magnificent, and Filippo Strozzi has opened a third branch in Rome? Or,’ said Gelis, ‘we could go to Egypt. We could go back to the monastery on Mount Sinai, and see where Seaulme signed his name beside Jan’s. The King still has the book he wrote, hasn’t he? I wish Fra Ludovico had gone there instead of Ethiopia,’ Gelis said. ‘And perhaps, every few years, a monk would land here, rather soiled, with some dubious habits, raising funds for a new pair of sandals.’
She was crying. ‘A monk would land here,’ Nicholas echoed gently. The dazed air had gone, and he was smiling a little. He said, ‘The monk would come here, because this is where, all the time, you were really sure we would be? Am I right?’ They were still at arm’s length, but he had laid one hand on her arm, and was studying her.
She said, ‘I told you before. I will be wherever you are.’
‘Then will you be with me in Scotland?’ he said.
SHE LOOKED AT him. She had spoken out for Nicholas to John and the rest, because she thought sometimes that no one knew his stature as she did, who had fought so hard to be his equal, and had learned to accept that she was not.
She knew now what strengths she possessed, and how they complemented his own. The joy of their physical life was very real, but it was also the curtain that protected the other life which continued behind: the deep partnership that showed itself in all the work they did together, in their aims and their ideals and how they fulfilled them.
There were other parts of his being that she did not enter, or could not enter because, as with music, she did not have the key. But others did, and he was a man who could find harmony in more than one love, and still maintain loyalty, as his sweet, sardonic honour from Zacco had proclaimed. Yet again, there were privacies which he protected against every intrusion. Umar represented one. He had not confided to her what he felt about Simon and Henry, or about his own mother. He had kept the secrets of Adelina, and of Julius, and of his feelings about them both until the end.
Tonight, he hadn’t refused to speak about Julius, but had reduced the silent struggle of twenty-five years to an obedient résumé. He had expected Julius to change. He had felt responsible for him, as a relative. He had tried to ensure that no one else would suffer, until it became apparent that this was no longer possible. The end had been difficult, and he didn’t find it easy to speak of, although he blamed himself for allowing Julius to act as he had. He apologised to Gelis for that; but not for his own reticence.
It still hurt, that absence of the ultimate trust, but not as much as it had; and it made it easier to know that he confided in no one. To deal alone with such things was the source of a great deal of his strength. She believed Ludovico da Bologna was responsible for some of that; and could not regret it.
Now: ‘You want it?’ she said. ‘You want to live your life in Scotland? Are you not weary? Are you really prepared to spend your days like these tired, patient men, supporting such a King?’
He said, ‘MacChalein Mor isn’t tired, nor Whitelaw nor Huntly nor Lindsay nor Darnley nor Scheves. Neither am I. Neither will Jordan be, although he must choose for himself. And there is the Queen, and the Princes growing up.’ He drew her to him, in a manner of gentle persuasion.
‘Those countries are part of our past. That is what you were thinking? But we haven’t left them: we have brought them with us, as every merchant and student will go on bringing them here, Jordan included. And if we fail, if all the patient men fail, it’s because no one can plan for quite everything as, God knows, you and I learned. There are always happenings beyond our control. There are always people beyond our control: personalities so wonderfully compelling that, right or wrong, whole countries will follow them. History is made by individuals, not by masses. The art of directing the future is the art of choosing and grooming the leader.’
She was in the crook of his arm, thinking. She said, ‘Did Dr Andreas tell you that?’ and felt him laugh.
He said, ‘There are some things I don’t need an Andreas to teach me. Gelis, I haven’t been fair to you. I shall probably be unfair to you again. It’s a lack in me, not in you. Will you forgive me?’
Help can take many forms. She was beginning to forgive him when the door banged open and John and Tobie strode in. Tobie said, ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m allowed to kiss her. I’m married to her,’ said Nicholas fretfully. ‘Come in, now you’re in. What is it?’
He was acting. The next moment, miraculously, he was not acting, for they brought news which, on that day, should not have seemed so irredeemably comical. Further, as a scion of the Knights of St John, John le Grant should not have so revelled in telling it, in full legal vernacular.
It was a case of spontaneous spulzies, attributable to gentry who should have known better. The Order’s Preceptory at Torphichen had been overrun (would you credit it?) and three more of their places attacked. Abstracted to the Preceptor’s prejudice had been beasts (yowes, tupps and stirks), and farm graith, and oats and hay by the chalder, and fine stores of coal and peats and cheese and malt, down to a barrel of tar. By violent intrusion into the Order’s own houses, the callants had made off, in clear wrangous spoliation, with iron chimneys and noppis beds with their cloots and their arras, a Flanders kist and a great shrine, for shame. They actually claimed the villainous haul was their due, owing to the Order’s retention of deceptorious overpayments. The Order!
Deceptorious anything! Surely not!’
‘Torphichen, Lochcotes, Fauldhouse and Liston,’ repeated John, reverting to normal speech, his pale eyes shining in the reddened skin and foxy hair. ‘And you haven’t heard the best of it yet.’
‘Tell me,’ said Nicholas. He had kept his arm around Gelis, and she could feel all the high spirits suddenly surging back.
John had become unexpectedly sober. He stood looking down at the two of them, and the expression on his face was almost reverent. He said, ‘Listen. When the Johnstones and the rest got into Torphichen, they found this crate with the mark of David Simpson. Knowing him dead, they broke the thing open. It was gold, Nicol. Your African gold. Davie lied. He didn’t spend it all on Beltrees. He stored it with the last person we’d think of, his unfriend the Preceptor. He knew Knollys would take it, for if anything happened to Davie, Knollys could keep it himself.’
Tobie wore a satisfied smirk. Gelis looked at Nicholas, who sat gazing at John. ‘So why hadn’t he used it? Oh, I suppose he couldn’t flood the market with illicit gold: he’d have to find some way to get it out piecemeal. Do I understand that Knollys wasn’t there while all this was happening?’
‘No. He was at the Mass, didn’t you see him? And he came back to his Edinburgh house after that. Gibbie Johnstone thought he’d better get me, knowing we knew Davie Simpson. So I went, and I took it away.’
‘You did?’ Nicholas said. He looked worried. ‘Then I suppose I’d better start dividing it up. Gelis and I have just decided that we are staying in Scotland. I dare say Tobie will want to get back to his printing-presses, and Pavia, and yourself to the fighting, wherever it is?’
Tobie flushed. His short mouth set, and his nostrils curled like small beans. He said, ‘Is this a way of saying you don’t want us? We can move out of that house.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Nicholas with interest, ‘but it’s an idea. Where would you move to?’
John said, ‘Calm down, Tobie. He’s back to normal. You can’t trust a word that he says. Well, thank God. We all thought you’d gone daft. If you’re staying, then we are.’
‘You mean,’ said Tobie, ‘he was sane before, and now he’s gone daft again. All right. We have talked about the future, as John says, and we all felt the same, Moriz included. We’re staying. Provided—’ He stopped.
‘Provided?’ said Nicholas.
‘Provided you don’t do this sort of thing ever again. Keeping all that about Julius to yourself. And Adelina and the rest. Is there anything else we don’t know?’ Tobie said.
‘A fair amount, by the sound of it,’ Nicholas said. His eyes, no longer bloodshot, were extremely wide. ‘When not to interfere, for one thing.’
Gelis sought the eyes of John. Before anyone else could speak, Tobie swore. He said, ‘She said I wasn’t to say that. But damn it all—’
‘Who said?’ Nicholas asked.
Tobie looked surprised. ‘Clémence,’ he said. ‘She said that she hadn’t said she knew Bel, and Bel hadn’t said she knew the Duchess Eleanor, and John and I hadn’t admitted we were trying to find out about Adelina, and Moriz hadn’t confessed that he was asking questions everywhere about Bonne. She said if we wanted you to be open, we’d have to be open as well, and she thought the loftier heights of virtue beyond us.’
‘I’m sure she’s right,’ Nicholas said. He looked shaken. He said, ‘I can’t remember any major subterfuges at the moment, but if I do, I tell Clémence?’
‘That’s the idea,’ Tobie said. His tone was one of embarrassed relief.
‘And what will she do?’ Nicholas said.
‘Put you on a physic to flush out your bowels,’ said John sombrely. ‘I tell you, I’d rather have a good penance from Moriz any day. Is that some wine?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
‘And another thing,’ Tobie said. ‘While we’re on good behaviour. That old man St Pol isn’t going to live many months. You have to thank him. You wouldn’t have Jordan, but for him.’
Nicholas said, ‘Did Bel ask you to ask me?’
Tobie said, ‘No. Wodman did. You know Tom Swift has been given his and Adorne’s job? Very suitable. Conservator of the Privileges of the Scots Nation in the Low Parts of Burgundy they call him, as from now. Andro Wodman’s helping transfer all the papers. Wodman wants to see you. Then he wants you to go to the old man.’
‘The old man doesn’t want to see me,’ Nicholas said.
‘How do you know?’ Tobie said. ‘Anyway, what will we buy with the gold?’
‘Another room for you to sit in?’ said Nicholas.
Chapter 54
And sen the wanis pvnsing of the man
Is lyk in armony, him nedis than
The richt mesur of musik for to haf
To knaw the wanis pvnsing with the laif.
VISITING JORDAN DE St Pol of Kilmirren was, Nicholas believed, the last ordeal he faced, once he had made known to the lords the decision that he had just reached: to commit himself and his life to the country that Anselm Adorne had considered worth choosing. To become his memorial.
When he left Avandale’s house, his thoughts were on Scotland, and the place he and Adorne held in it. In concrete form, there was little to mark the other man’s sojourn. His life-rental of Cortachy had ceased, and the land effortlessly reabsorbed into the lands of the Ogilvies. His houses in Edinburgh and Linlithgow were rented to provide an income for Efemie, who stayed with her big cousin Saunders and possessed her own loving household.
The same was true, Nicholas supposed, of himself. He had no land, unlike Robin’s family, with their acres at Berecrofts and lucrative near-baronial land at Templehall, which two growing young sons would inherit. In town, their trade in Leith and the Canongate flourished, as it should, with all their prodigious connections. It was not everyone who was great-nephew, like Robin, to the Lord High Treasurer of the country. They had also a new small domain, bought by Robin for Kathi in Yarrow, which she said Nicholas might share if he wished. It was the land Will Roger had loved, south of Traquair, and not far from where he was buried.
After Beltrees, Nicholas had no hunger for territorial possessions, other than the houses he already owned. His business was well placed and thriving, and now his presence was permanent, he could expect to be bound into the fabric of the royal familia, with all the extra emoluments that implied. And there was music with Arnot and others, and the chance perhaps to continue what he and Whistle Willie had begun. Go on, Andreas had said. Use your life to the full.
He had come to that point when, walking quickly, he found himself stopped. He had forgotten that the nuns of the Cistercian Priories had a house in the High Street of Edinburgh, and that the Prioress Euphemia might be there. It had never crossed his mind that Bonne might be there too; removed as a maiden without legal protection from Kilmirren House. He had killed Julius, her guardian. If that were to be endorsed as a just execution, he might be regarded as having some say, at least, in her future. He had been related to Julius’s late wife, Bonne’s supposed mother.
She did not seem, when he was ushered into the parlour, to be mourning her stepfather. Prioress Euphemia, seated beside her, displayed the air of aggressive self-possession that had barely changed since their encounter at Eccles. Following the attack on North Berwick, he had seen her in passing, at funerals, as he had seen Bonne. He had avoided them both.
Which had been unfair, he realised. He greeted them and was seated, without benefit of refreshment. The Prioress said, ‘There is no need to look quite so abashed. Nor am I about to recommend that you should replace the late unfortunate gentleman as the demoiselle’s tutor.’
‘I am sorry. Then, yourself?’ said Nicholas rather wildly. Bonne was studying her lap.
‘She may stay with me, if she so wishes. It will not be for long. She may also enjoy the spiritual guidance of Father Moriz. I wished to speak to you about her support in the meantime, and about the terms of her dowry. Assuming, of course, that you approve of the match.’<
br />
‘The match?’ Nicholas said.
‘She has not had an opportunity to tell you. But the lady of Cuthilgurdy appeared to think it quite suitable, and I am sure that Sister Monika will approve. The Charteris household was certainly unproductive of offers. You know the young man, of course. The son of Constantine Malloch.’
‘John Malloch,’ said Nicholas rather blankly. The child singer in his play eleven years ago. The brother of Muriella. The half-brother of Muriella, rumour went; born remarkably soon after his mother’s marriage but, naturally, accepted as his own son by Conn. It happened sometimes. He spoke to Bonne. ‘Are you happy?’
The hard, bright eyes surveyed him. ‘Of course. Would I have accepted him otherwise?’
The Prioress continued. ‘The family is, of course, modest in means, and not well placed, so close to the Border. But the maternal uncle was a merchant, and there are connections abroad. Bonne may find herself pursuing an interesting marriage in other countries.’ She refrained from adding the obvious. Bonne had no money. This was the best she could hope for.
Nicholas said, ‘If she wants it, then of course I agree. Might I discuss it with her?’
‘Of course,’ said the Prioress, and rose. She left the door open.
Nicholas reseated himself, and Bonne looked up. Nicholas said, ‘This isn’t too hasty a decision?’
Her smile was tolerant. ‘A recoil from the death of my stepfather? No.’
‘You have never thought of finding a husband in Germany?’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘The Graf, I fear, was not my father. I doubt very much that my mother was Adelina de Fleury. I think Father Moriz came close to proving that she was not. And if she was not, then who am I?’
‘I don’t know, Bonne,’ he said.
‘And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me. You don’t want me as your daughter, M. de Fleury?’ the girl said. ‘That was one possibility, wasn’t it? That I was born to your first wife at Damparis?’
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