To Lie with Lions

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Clémence de Coulanges clicked her tongue and walked forward. She observed that M. de Fleury was smiling. Then, as if he knew she was near him, he turned, and drew her out where the Lady could see her.

  The lady Gelis sprang forward. Her fingers, clutching Clémence by the wrists, were painfully fierce. Then she loosened her grip and stepped back. ‘Mistress Clémence. You are well?’ She was a lady of style, Gelis van Borselen, dame de Fleury.

  Clémence said, ‘Madame, I am well and so is your son. Pasque and I have cared for him. He is safe in the Burgundian camp.’ Halfway through, she slackened the rate of her speech, realising that M. de Fleury would not stop her; that this was why she was here.

  You could see the Lady thinking so, too, the Nordic blue eyes studying M. de Fleury. He returned her gaze, smiling still. The Lady said, ‘When did you leave camp?’

  She spoke to Clémence, who replied as a good servant should. ‘Early this morning, madame. The child was sleeping, well guarded, with Pasque.’

  It was the truth; that was all you could say for it. ‘Guarded by whom?’ said Gelis van Borselen. It was a remark, not a question. A remark touched with weary contempt.

  ‘By my men,’ said M. de Fleury at once. ‘Do you doubt therefore that he is safe? Pleasures, as someone said, are best when deferred.’ He paused. ‘Shall we go in? The sun is up, and food awaits us, and entertainment of one kind or another. In case the conversation should fail.’

  He had turned. He looked unsurprised to find Mistress Clémence blocking his way. Mistress Clémence addressed him with firmness. ‘Your lady wife, M. de Fleury, is tired. Once she has rested, we shall be glad of the refreshment you offer.’

  ‘And the entertainment,’ M. de Fleury said agreeably.

  ‘This is a palace of springes,’ said Clémence de Coulanges. ‘If your wife does not know, she should be warned of it.’

  ‘I felt sure,’ said M. de Fleury, ‘that you would deem it your duty to tell her. But she knows. Everyone knows, but not everyone has first-hand experience of them. You have no objection to touring the château, have you, madame?’

  He was smiling again. The lady Gelis said, ‘If it would really amuse you. Either you have changed, Nicholas, or you believe that I have. As we walk round, would you like me to scream? Pray? Weep? Call for my mother? I shall do what I can.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like your mother,’ he said.

  ‘Then I shall call for my sister,’ she said. ‘You know how close we both were. Shall we go?’

  The refreshment he had spoken of was there, laid out on fine cloths in a parlour. Despite what he had said, M. de Fleury did not join them. His lady wife sat, while Clémence set wine before her, and food which only Clémence ate. The lady said, ‘Does he treat you well, Mistress Clémence? And Pasque?’ Her eyes said, Is this a trap? Can I trust you?

  ‘It is not a settled life,’ said Mistress Clémence. ‘But he treats us well, and it is suitable enough for the child. You know that we have chosen to stay for the sake of the child.’ She saw the mother relax, as she ought. She, Clémence, had spoken the truth.

  ‘I pray to God you will continue to stay,’ said Gelis van Borselen. ‘Mistress Clémence, what else will he allow you to tell me? Whatever happens, you must not offend him.’

  ‘I shall say what I please,’ Clémence said sharply, clearing her mouth. ‘Master Jordan is in no distress; eats well; grows; M. de Fleury has done all that he should, and has told the child you are coming. In my opinion, you should insist on going straight to the camp. There is no call for you to go through this nonsense.’

  ‘Well, madame?’ said M. de Fleury. She had not heard him return.

  The lady Gelis looked up. She said, ‘You have the esteem of your nurse. She believes that I may refuse to do this with impunity. I prefer to pay my price, and be free.’

  ‘Free?’ he said.

  She looked at him. She said, ‘I understand. It is a relative term. I place myself in your hands.’

  ‘Entre cuir et chair as of old: I know how secrets attract you. Then what are we waiting for?’ said Nicholas de Fleury expansively.

  This is a palace of springes. Springes, and springs. The Counts of Artois, two hundred years since, had made this fortress a playground for mockery; a place where high-born lieges paid for their suppers by suffering, overcoming, enjoying – if their natures were hearty – a series of practical jokes, devised to mortify and to hurt, to shock and to shame. Forty years ago, Duke Philip of the black wit and sardonic mind had had the devices repaired and improved. His son, the single-minded, the dour Charles, did not use them. But they were still there.

  As Nicholas said, everyone knew about Hesdin, including herself. Apprehension, then, was part of her punishment, followed by mortification, ridicule and discomfort. She had no redress. In losing the child, she had placed herself in his physical power, not only today, but for as long as he wanted. But whatever happened, she would see that he received no satisfaction; saw no trace of anger or fear. It struck her as curious, frightening even, that he had expected this circus to cow her. Unless, of course, he had heard what had happened when he left her childless in Venice. She had broken down then. She had shown fear and anger and every aspect of agony then.

  But that was over four months ago. She had recovered. And – blessing and pain at one time – the child was not here, distressed witness of her humiliation. Unless, suddenly, Nicholas would overstep even that boundary and produce him. Apprehension of that, too, was her lot, she assumed. Apprehension mixed with terrible hope. Nicholas generally employed only the finest of weapons, and dealt in largely invisible wounds.

  By twisting words, for example. A secret is kept between skin and flesh: a cliché for some; an intimate term, as it happened, for her. No one noticed. No one would comprehend the other phrase he had used at their meeting: Walk over with me.

  Die with me, the words meant. Or had meant when last he spoke them, holding her on a dawn such as this. Die with me if we cannot live without hurting each other. She had refused, in a cry of derision. And he had repeated the words in derision just now.

  She believed she was not going to die in the palace of Hesdin. So long as the child lived, or interested him, the long duel would afford Nicholas pleasure. He had brought her here to suffer indignity. He would mortify her, as the Dukes made buffoons of their courtiers. And then he might or might not allow her the child.

  They had begun to walk through the chateau, Nicholas a little removed from her side. By some alchemy, contrived by distance, contrived perhaps by nothing more potent than soap and water, he had sterilised the sense of the familiar which had seized her when they met. Mentally, physically, she had no sense of him any longer. He had not touched even her hand. She walked before him through every doorway, and Mistress Clémence, as due to her sex, followed next. Built over the centuries as palace, fortress, pleasure-house, the place was a concoction of wings, each containing chambers and salons, parlours and staircases and galleries, sleeping rooms and rooms for retiring, rooms for courtiers and servants and guard. She would not know, until it happened, where the first trap would be sprung.

  She said, ‘Might we pass the time in conversation? Or is it forbidden to talk?’ Her voice echoed. In all their journey so far, they had seen no one else. This was to be a private performance, it seemed, for her husband alone. Yet Clémence was here.

  He was smiling faintly again. ‘I could prevent you? What do you want to know?’

  ‘Nothing that you would want to tell me. I wondered whether some of my womanly gossip might be new to you. Does the Bank inform you of romances, of weddings, of infants born or expected?’

  ‘Of such stuff,’ said Nicholas, ‘is good banking made.’ He opened another vast door and stood aside. ‘But it is news, indeed, if you have developed an interest in feminine tattle. I am arranging for a decree of divorce.’

  Her heart stopped, and so did she. Then, thudding, it brought back her blood and her voice. She said, ‘Now you ha
ve surprised me.’

  He wore his puzzled, amiable face. ‘Have I insulted you? I thought you wanted one.’

  She gazed at him. Mistress Clémence, grimly attending, had taken three ostentatious steps from the door. Disregarding her, Gelis lifted her brows. ‘Then we are both mistaken,’ she said. ‘I thought you wanted the child.’

  ‘That would be the condition,’ he said. ‘So you don’t want a divorce? Stay there a moment.’

  ‘Not on that condition,’ she said. ‘Not on any terms that give you sole rights to my son.’ She was looking down. Below her feet was a grating. She made no effort to leave it. She observed, ‘Is the mechanism usually so slow? It will be dark in twelve hours.’

  ‘No, you can move. Your skirts were supposed to fly up to your shoulders. Some of the pumps, like the Koy’s, have got rusty, and there is not quite the same inducement to mend them. So go on. You were saying?’

  She gazed at him, then began to walk through the door. Clémence followed. Gelis said, ‘You didn’t mean what you said? You were simply putting off time?’

  ‘No, I meant it. I keep the child. If you want a divorce, you can’t have him.’

  ‘Who says so?’ said Gelis.

  ‘Money,’ he said. ‘Julius loves lending money to Cardinals. Do go on. Do you want a divorce?’

  ‘I thought you said you were obtaining one,’ Gelis said. She walked obediently forward. Half her mind was focused on what he had said and why he was saying it. The rest was surveying the room for devices. Some might work and some might not: a typical de Fleury refinement. But she would prefer, on the whole, to have warning.

  ‘I could cancel it,’ Nicholas said. ‘It would be very much more economical. I could go to Heaven instead.’

  No gratings, no jets but a distorting mirror, shifting and leering at the edge of her sight. She turned, not without cost, and surveyed herself in it, but nothing happened. She ran a finger down the holes in the frame and drew it off orange with rust. Nicholas shimmered behind her. He said, ‘Some of them work. May I interest you in the next room? How is Julius, Stupor Mundi? Romances, weddings, infants born or expected?’

  The next room had a grille in the threshold. She paused there, but again nothing happened. Gelis said, ‘I don’t wish to spoil your enjoyment, but perhaps Mistress Clémence was right. Rather than a long, fruitless walk, why not sling a bucket of soot at me now, and let me ride on to the camp? I promise not to rinse off till I get there.’

  ‘Would you?’ Nicholas said. ‘Of course, I’d rather you stayed, but if you want to go off to camp, I shan’t stop you.’

  She turned quickly and saw the two dimples: the code she knew better than anyone. She said, ‘You are lying.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You can go. Naturally, the boy isn’t there. He was moved as soon as we left. You won’t find him.’

  ‘I will,’ said Mistress Clémence unexpectedly.

  He glanced at her. ‘Yes. You will. But not my wife, unless she completes the certified course. No Hesdin, no Jordan.’

  He had hidden the child. It was what she would have done – had done often enough. Confirmation of it still made her feel sick. She said, ‘I thought I had sent you to Heaven. Is this my reward?’

  The dimples smoothed. He was studying her. ‘You are asking me to withdraw the divorce?’

  ‘Until the state of your soul is secure.’

  ‘Then we stay married,’ said Nicholas. His voice echoed. He added, ‘How simply these things are arranged. So will you kindly walk forward? It will be dark in twelve hours.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Gelis said. ‘I was waiting for the noose round my neck. In here, would you say?’ Behind her, the nurse gave a click of impatience. She had forgotten her.

  The room she had entered seemed to hold nothing but an old lectern with a book of some kind laid open upon it. The stem of the lectern was thick, and there was a mark on the ceiling above. Nicholas spoke. His voice, without the echo, was good-humoured enough: ‘The book is a volume of ballads. Go and turn over the pages. So what about Julius? You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘You know more than I do by now,’ Gelis said.

  ‘I know, certainly, about the Gräfin von Hanseyck and her daughter, the rich, the beautiful and the widowed. Then tell me about something else. Who has married, apart from Margot and Gregorio? Or is that all? Even masculine gossips know of that.’

  ‘And do they know of the second Marian?’ Gelis said. She walked to the lectern and looked. To turn the pages, it was necessary to stand under the mark on the ceiling. She did so, maintaining a weary forbearance, and set her hand to the book. Nothing happened.

  ‘Of course. Marian de Charetty’s grandchild. Mine too, since I married Marian de Charetty. You have married a grandfather. The song in the book is what the soldiers made up when Warwick died and the Yorkist King won. Do you sing? Like a lark?’

  She sighed. ‘Not as you do. Bien vienne. How could I forget? How could I forget your songs in the brothels of Cairo? I was flattered,’ said Gelis, ‘to hear you mourn me so eloquently.’

  ‘I was singing to you,’ he said. Mistress Clémence, behind, was standing in silence.

  Gelis smiled. ‘Another failed jest. So what was supposed to disconcert me here, do you think?’ She indicated the lectern, and surprisingly he strolled up to look at it. He was chanting under his breath: she realised it was the soldiers’ song from the book.

  ‘Or a-t-il bien son temps perdu

  Et son argent qui plus lui touche

  Car Warwic est mort et vaincu;

  Ha! Que Loys est fine mouche!

  ‘You should sing. What failed here? Soot from overhead, it is evident. And jets of water, of course, from the book. I must lodge a complaint. The schedule allowed for a fall of flour in the doorway, and a second cascade as you fled to the mirror. The catoptric flour of parrots and poesy. If nothing works, then I shall certainly send for some buckets. The second verse is worse:

  ‘Entre vous, Franchoix

  Jettez pleures et larmes:

  Warwic vostre choix

  Est vaincu par armes.’

  He crossed to the window, singing in a concentrated way. As she followed, he stopped. ‘And so, find something to tell me. Whose is the child not yet born?’

  There was a face outside the window: a grotesque mask which hovered, mouthing and grinning. Below it was a box, and below that nothing but air. The box was too small for a man. She said, ‘What does it do?’

  ‘It answers questions,’ he said. ‘More quickly than you do.’

  She peered at the mask. ‘The coming child? It is Anselm Adorne’s, born of his welcome home to his family in Bruges. His lady will be delivered in January.’

  He did not answer. Looking up, she saw he was watching the mask. Gelis said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Asking a question,’ he said. He opened the window and ducked. Eyes rolling, the mask emitted a brief spurt of water, and a portion of Mistress Clémence’s sleeve became soaked. She sprang back. Nicholas, straightening, addressed the face gravely. ‘Master, tell me the truth. Will the family Boyd go to England?’

  There was a pause. ‘Bien sûr,’ said the box under the mask. Its voice, a little flustered, was adult. A dwarf.

  ‘It doesn’t know,’ Gelis said, out of breath. Nicholas stood frowning quite close beside her. His doublet was scentless and new, but there was a warmth in the sun from the window. He turned away and walked out of reach again.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t know,’ he said. ‘But I do, and so do the Boyds: they’re not stupid. They’ve made off with the hermit.’

  ‘The Boyds have? What hermit?’ she said. He marched to the door and she followed him, talking. ‘Why not ask the dwarf?’ she was saying. ‘He must be horribly cramped.’ Mistress Clémence was looking at her. Gelis stopped talking abruptly.

  He didn’t seem to have noticed. He said, ‘There should be a room with a hermit. Now there’s only the Medea.’

  ‘The Medea?’ she said.
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  ‘Called after Jason’s enchantress. Duke Philip named the room after her. Otherwise known as Violante. There are eight conduits under that doorway, and three outlets for flour. Go and stand there.’

  None of them worked. She realised that she didn’t care if they did, and that in itself that was dangerous. Her fear and anger were fading; her resolve was melting; her sense of conflict was already half lost, fool that she was. Fool that she was, how could she forget whom she was fighting? There was a pain in her throat: she had to ignore it. She had to prevent herself from entering the game. His game.

  Today had been planned as a trial, a punishment, a means of underlining and studying her helplessness. He had also wanted to know what value she placed on the boy. He had probably found out all these things quite quickly and now, you would say, had tired of his role and was playing; was releasing, seductive as a drug, that uninhibited genius for mischief which could bind people to him for life. And you had to resist the enchantment, for it was never spontaneous.

  She collected herself, and saw him watching her. Then he laughed: an acceptance of failure. He was standing outside a pair of great doors, waiting for her to go in. The last room, the room of Medea. And this time, she knew, as if she had been told, that everything would work.

  Just before she walked through, she spoke to Clémence: ‘Be careful.’ She wondered what the nurse thought of them both. She thought suddenly that, if they both died, she and Nicholas, Jordan would have no one else. Then she thought of nothing but of what was before her.

  Here was no sign of neglect. This chamber was as big as a hall, its high ceiling painted blue with gold stars. Angels stood about with silver-gilt wings, their limbs and appendages turgid with pent water. Gelis said, ‘The lady Violante’s husband is going to Persia. Were you not one of her lovers?’

  ‘Julius would remember,’ said Nicholas. ‘Didn’t you mention romances? Not that the lady Violante was quite what he fancied. So what did you think of the Gräfin Anna von Hanseyck and her daughter? Is Julius serious?’