To Lie with Lions

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘By now, he will. Crackbene told me in private.’

  ‘What will he do?’

  ‘Did you not hear the horses go by? Send to Leith to bring her ashore. After that, to the Castle. After that, I don’t know. He was full of good humour tonight,’ Nicholas said. She could not interpret the change in his voice.

  She said, ‘But you didn’t send to warn her away. That might have cost you your Order.’ He reclined, without troubling to answer. As always, it offended her. She said, ‘So what do you get out of Mary’s return, apart from ruining her and her faith in Adorne?’

  She knew that, in the shadows, he was smiling. ‘You’ll never know, will you?’ he said. ‘You’re going away.’

  The fire burned. He watched her, his weight indolently transferred to one hand. In a moment he would go, or would force her to leave. She said, ‘I have never shared a house with a piece of clockwork. I am tempted to stay.’

  He said, ‘Indeed. I thought an excess of carnality was the issue. Perhaps not. Now I come to think of it, the King was on the same theme. He gave me a paper. Where did I put it?’

  He began to search, and then stopped. ‘That is, there is no point if you are going away.’

  ‘No,’ said Gelis. ‘I shan’t go away yet. Not before I have made all my points.’

  There was another silence. ‘Why not make them now?’ Nicholas said.

  There was a tap on the door. He turned his head. Gelis said, ‘I should be delighted, but unfortunately, someone seems to wish to speak to you. I had better see who.’

  It was Govaerts, huddled into a night-robe as if he had been sent for. He looked past her into the room. Behind him, she noticed, the door to Jordan’s room stood a little ajar.

  Govaerts said, ‘I am sorry, madame. I wondered if …’

  ‘I am coming,’ Nicholas said. He had stepped from the bed. His face, glimpsed in the firelight, looked strange; a composition of dislike and amusement, or even just a freakish effect of the shadows. Then he was outside the door, talking quietly to Govaerts. He turned and spoke in the same subdued voice to her. ‘I have to leave. I shall probably sleep in the office. So you are going to stay?’

  She looked round the room, before she realised what he referred to. She said, ‘In the house in the High Street. Oh, yes.’ Something white on the bed caught her eye.

  ‘The note I told you about,’ Nicholas said. ‘From the King. With his especial good wishes. Good night. You have made the right decision, I’m sure.’

  He left with Govaerts. She thought he was smiling. She prepared to take herself to her room. She felt a fool, in her heavy skirts and long sleeves and rolled hair while all sane people were sleeping. She crossed to the bed to take up the paper.

  The pillow was wet. All along the depression where he had lain, the linen was grey with cold moisture from which arose a faint, costly scent. The paper, when she lifted it, was dimpled with moisture as well. She carried it to the fire in order to read it.

  She had expected a letter. It seemed, instead, to represent an exhortation, perhaps to a son going abroad:

  Avoid dampness. Thy room should possess a north window, and a juniper fire. Choose to consume fowl of all kinds, and quench thy thirst with almond water, or a little sweet wine, poker-heated. Avoid milk, and refrain from partaking of cheese, or of paté, or vegetables. Sleep for seven or eight hours; less in winter. Be merry: eschew contention and anger, and pay special heed to the gut, which requires rest for seven hours after food. When the hour of consummation is come, teach thyself to linger in preparation, and to recognise when preparation is ended. In parting, assume infinite care; so that two hours shall pass in the most expedient and lofty position. When all is done, keep thy bed for three days.

  There were two paragraphs more.

  Reject the mixtures of charlatans. Instead, take some hare meat and sugar and tooth dust, and serve with one testicle, chopped, from a wolf. That on his right side will make thee a son, whilst thou must eat of his left for a daughter.

  And:

  Should all fail, change thy country; for some cities can cure barren women.

  It was an exhortation, of a kind. It was advice. Advice on how to conceive her next child.

  She threw the paper into the fire. Then she went and sank by the wet, scented sheets and clenched her hands, because they were shaking.

  Chapter 13

  WEEPING MOTHER WITH two screaming children, the King’s elder sister arrived that same night on a Burgundian ship, and the waves of news rollicked about like the gouts from a bath-stall. The next morning, betimes (so they said), the Princess and her household were fetched to the Castle and put into her old rooms in David’s Tower, although the walls reeked of smoke and there were white footprints all over the stairway.

  A Council meeting was called, and after that, the King sent for the man who had sailed in with the bairns and his sister: Anselm Adorne, the Duke of Burgundy’s counsellor. He also called for the other Burgundian, Nicol de Fleury, him that was to blame for the King’s sore head this morning, and a deal else, the callant. But Nicol had gone out of town, so it seemed, no one knew where. That was a lad.

  Anselm Adorne, for his part, stoically endured the disaster. He had no alternative. But for Nicholas and the Boyd family, the Baron Cortachy might have made this return glorious, with his first-hand reports of the lands he had visited and his gracious letters from princes. And but for the death of the Pope, his handsome son Jan would have been with him, to present on one knee the book of their travels so painfully written, now encased in velvet and jewels and dedicated to King James himself.

  Instead, Jan was travelling to Rome, with no more promising companion than the bankrupt and belligerent Bishop of St Andrews, and no sure prospect yet of a post. Instead, his dear Margriet, with her poor raddled face and swollen body, had been forced to come with him to Court, because the Princess Mary would not travel without her. And instead, the splendid gift of this book would be forgotten; cast aside by the other gift he had inescapably brought, to everyone’s misery.

  He could not have left the King’s sister in Bruges. He could not leave in England a family so dangerous to the Scottish throne that his own future in Scotland would have been forfeit. He had only cajoled the girl herself into coming by exaggerating the hope he knew did not exist – that she, favourite of James, would persuade him face to face to let her husband come back to Scotland.

  The outcome had been as he feared. James, in the act of opening his arms to a penitent sister, had learned that Mary, shining and scented with milk, had no regrets; no wish to be released from her marriage vows. Her sole mission was on behalf of the traitor her husband, so that they might come back to Scotland in state, their lands returned, Lord Arran’s death sentence quashed. She not only wished it. She seemed to expect it.

  The open arms had not remained open. Instead of her brother’s embrace, the walls of David’s Tower had closed around Mary Stewart and her household and children. And the door to the enclosure was locked.

  Returned from his difficult audience, Adorne found Sersanders his nephew awaiting him in the big house he usually leased in the High Street. His niece Katelijne, it seemed, was in bed, having overtaxed herself the previous evening. Katelijne Sersanders was delicate. Her brother thought the family wrong to wish her to marry in Scotland, but Sersanders did not know, as his uncle did, what ageing princes could do to a country. Or young ones, for that matter.

  Anselm Adorne listened therefore to his nephew, although he was tired, and asking him to sit down, had poured him some wine. The beaker was from home. So was all their linen and silver and glassware. Margriet had insisted. He had gone just now to her room to reassure her, but had found her asleep. He was thankful. She had been weeping all day for the Princess.

  Now he said, ‘Why revile Nicholas? It was not his fault that the Pope died, or if it was, I have not yet heard the details. As for the rest, the King will recover his equanimity. In his heart, he knows that we have brought home
his sister, whom he had lost, and that her children are better brought up under his eye. What we lose, we shall recover in other ways. And I have great hopes. You have spoken to Martin. You have not yet heard all I have to tell you.’

  ‘De Fleury has a Bank behind him.’ Sitting four-square, with his father’s energy and his mother’s muscular neatness, his nephew and godson looked very young.

  Adorne said, ‘Nicholas is the Bank. That is its greatest strength and its greatest impediment. Nicholas bestowing his undivided attention upon any project is a sight worthy of awe: it leads naturally to success. It does not lead to stability; to consistent leadership; to the broadest vision which will carry a company or a family safely into the future. Nicholas is not concerned with the future – for his country, his town or himself.’

  ‘But surely!’ Sersanders said. ‘He has plotted and planned all his life! What was he doing in the Tyrol, in Hesdin, in Ham? What has he been attempting to carve for himself here?’

  ‘You would think so,’ said Adorne. It had come to him recently, the truth about Nicholas, or what he thought was the truth. He said, ‘And you are right, when you speak of his mind. But what the core of Nicholas lives by is not the present, nor what is to come. It is the past.’

  To the exasperation of all except, perhaps, the King, the sieur de Fleury continued to be absent all through the first days of the lady Mary’s arrival and imprisonment and, having by now virtually a doctorate in disappearance, remained lost.

  John le Grant, at whose side he unexpectedly appeared, bruised and sneezing, did nothing to give away the whereabouts of his padrone; but was cheered by the concentrated violence of both his language and his labours – a phenomenon often associated with a man thankfully returned from his wedding bed, or from doting dutifully over a crib.

  The business being gun-casting, there was plenty of hard work to do, and meticulous planning. When it shifted to the new boat-yard, it was scarcely less strenuous. By the time the sufferer was ready to go back, the cold had gone and the marks on his face were hardly noticeable. He had said nothing that was not to do with the work, but of that he had said a great deal to the point. John gathered that Crackbene had been left in attendance in Edinburgh, but would shortly set sail as was planned. It would be necessary soon to be seen to be divining, with which Father Moriz could concern himself or not, as he pleased.

  Father Moriz was at present with the Cistercians in Culross, conducting an experiment with a pump. John thought that, with Nicholas in this mood, it would be as well if Moriz stayed there. He did not discuss either Nicholas’s son or his wife, whom he assumed to be at the bottom of this displacement. He did enquire about the future of the lady Mary, who was known to have come back to Scotland.

  Nicholas, his face smeared, had sat back and picked up a beaker. He was drinking water again. ‘The King will keep her fast until he’s persuaded her that she’s Tom’s only chance, and that if she leaves, he’ll make sure that Tom dies. In any case, Edward will only wait so long to see if she’s coming, and then he’ll get rid of poor homeless Thomas.’

  ‘You helped her leave Scotland,’ John said. He was not in the business of protecting the sensibilities of Nicholas.

  ‘She would have left anyway. The King knows that. And I got her a nice home with Adorne.’

  ‘So now she stays indefinitely locked in the Castle?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Nicholas said. ‘In fact, she’s probably left there already. I’ve suggested she moves into the High Street with Gelis.’

  ‘What!’ said John.

  Nicholas looked at him. ‘You remember. Gelis used to be one of her ladies. The nurses will help, and the nuns. Adorne will have no more to do, and the children will love it. Margaret, Jordan and James.’

  ‘Does she know?’ John le Grant asked.

  ‘Gelis? She will by now,’ Nicholas answered.

  It had been left to Govaerts to carry the message to the dame de Fleury in her new house in the High Street, which she had occupied for less than a week.

  The prospect didn’t entirely displease him. He felt some slight proprietorial interest in the King’s sister, whom he had helped originally to escape, and had never formed a close relationship with the wife and child with whom the padrone had saddled himself. Now, when he called with his message, it was as if the Lady had fathomed its contents. Or perhaps it was lack of sleep and not shock which gave her skin its extreme pallor. She was a very fair girl, with a tart way about her.

  She said, ‘You have something to tell me.’

  ‘I have two messages, my lady,’ he said. ‘One from his grace the King, and one from your husband, to be passed to you at the same time.’

  She said, ‘You have heard from M. de Fleury?’ And then: ‘No. He would arrange it beforehand. What is it?’

  ‘A great honour, madame,’ Govaerts said. ‘The King proposes that his sister the Countess of Arran should leave the Castle and come to lodge with you here. She will bring her household and children. The message from M. de Fleury endorses this. He relies on you. No expense is to be spared.’

  ‘You mean he suggested it,’ the Lady said. She was gazing past him. There was a commotion, he realised, in the doorway. The Lady added, ‘And when will the Princess arrive?’

  Govaerts had no need to answer. ‘Tomorrow,’ said Katelijne Sersanders, whipping past him and planting herself on a seat, having snatched up the sewing which occupied it. ‘You didn’t know? He didn’t tell you? And of course, he’s got himself safely out of the way. You’ll have to do it. I can help you.’

  Of course,’ said the Lady. She was quick to recover, you could give her that. She said, ‘She stayed with your uncle and aunt. I’m surprised –’ She broke off.

  ‘It’s because of Aunt Margriet’s health,’ the girl said gently. ‘Or she and my uncle would have been happy to have her. And of course, M. de Fleury wishes to please the King. And if M. de Fleury does well, it will build a secure future for you, and for Jordan. I am sure M. de Fleury had all that in mind.’

  By sheer chance, she was putting all the arguments most calculated to be helpful. Govaerts decided to keep quiet. The lady Gelis said, ‘I see. I am sorry about your aunt. But this is not a large house. They tell me your uncle crossed with a retinue of a hundred.’

  ‘Some of them stayed in England with the Earl and his father,’ said the girl. ‘Some were my uncle’s. The Countess will have no more than a dozen, and some of them can stay with us. We are only next door.’

  ‘We?’ said the lady Gelis.

  ‘The Edinburgh house of the Priory,’ said the girl. She had reddened a little, but her voice remained instructive and bright. ‘When the Prioress couldn’t find satisfactory premises, M. de Fleury bought the house next to this, and presented it to them. I think,’ said Katelijne Sersanders, ‘that you will find the nuns very helpful, and the King’s own household as well.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said the Lady slowly. She gazed at the girl. She said, ‘I am surprised by one thing. Does the King trust M. de Fleury not to enable the Princess to cross the Border and join her husband a second time?’

  Govaerts moved, and saw the girl glance at him reassuringly. She said, ‘He wouldn’t dare: he has nothing to gain by it this time. And anyway, there will be a guard on the door, you can depend on it. Also, you might disguise her, but you couldn’t easily smuggle out a small boy and a baby. Should I speak to Mistress Clémence about them?’

  ‘Mistress Clémence may decide to leave,’ the lady Gelis said. ‘She and Pasque. And what then?’

  ‘Betha Sinclair,’ said the girl. ‘And they have a wet-nurse and a maid of some kind. But Mistress Clémence won’t leave. You know she won’t. Jordan is safe.’

  Shortly after that, Govaerts left. He saw the two women watch him go, but didn’t hear what they said.

  ‘He disapproves of me,’ Gelis said.

  ‘He’ll come round. He’s a little jealous. He’s loyal to M. de Fleury, but doesn’t understand him a bit,’ Kathi s
aid. ‘It’s Robin you’ll have all the trouble with. You know he’s going to be here as a page when he’s better?’

  ‘So I heard. Jordan will be delighted. Trouble?’

  ‘He thinks he’s M. de Fleury’s grandfather,’ Kathi said. ‘M. de Fleury gets irritated. Robin’s father is good with them both. And I thought the parrot might help. To relieve the emotion.’

  ‘Nicholas experiencing emotion?’ Gelis said.

  There was a silence. Then the girl said, ‘No. It was Robin I meant.’

  By the time Nicholas came back, the lady Mary was installed in the house with the orchard in Edinburgh; and nurses, children, cooks, stewards, chamber servants, maids, attendants and the changing ranks of the Countess’s bodyguard had all been variously established, dispersed, and given their orders by Gelis. The orchard had been partly dug up, and the household, to hear Will Roger, was being run on the lines of a military establishment. ‘If you ever lose Astorre, your lady wife could take his place.’

  ‘I really wanted to marry Astorre,’ Nicholas said automatically. ‘Gelis was just a substitute.’

  He had come back to the house in the Canongate, and had already called to see Robin next door. The boy had been jumping about with a spear in the garden, his arm all strapped up, and had wanted to join him at once. Nicholas had told him he was going away, but would see him when he came back. He didn’t want Robin with him when he was divining, or not on this trip. Archie, at least, had been relieved.

  Now he had to reassure Willie, who had come into the counting-house ostensibly to speak to one of his altos, but actually to quarrel with Nicholas over the Mystery Play.

  Nicholas said, ‘Willie, you have every expert I possess, plus the entire resources of the Abbey of Holyroodhouse, plus all the stuff I brought over from France. You don’t need me.’ On his desk in the next room were five sacks of dispatches and Govaerts, glued to his seat.