Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘And Gelis?’ Nicholas said. ‘Why do you suppose Anna should so dislike her, in that case?’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘Anna’s ambition led her to marry you, but she always wanted more than she had. If we did not exist, Gelis and Jodi and I, she would be heiress to everything that we had amongst us. If Jodi survived, she could control his fortune she thought, by wedding him to Bonne. She was greedy. But most of all, she wanted to revenge herself against me, and those I might be fond of. You were the victim.’
The slanting eyes frowned. ‘But if Anna is who you say she is, they couldn’t marry. Bonne and Jodi would be related.’
‘So I agreed to the marriage,’ Nicholas said. ‘I knew it couldn’t take place. I knew who she was.’
Beside him, he felt Gelis move. Diniz, his dark face drawn, took a breath. Nicholas looked only at Julius, whom he knew so very well. Julius said, ‘You
knew?
’
‘Could you have forgotten those eyes, once you had seen them? I was sure, but it was not hard to collect other proofs. All the small lies. Why would a woman so dark require to protect her skin from the sun? Why was so little known of her past? Then others searched, and found the facts we have told you.’
‘You knew, and didn’t tell me?’ Julius said. It sounded, on the surface, disbelieving and hard. Beneath was something that in another man would have verged on the piteous.
‘Would you have thanked me? Would you have believed me?’
‘No,’ Julius said.
‘No. And I needed you to believe in the gold, because that was the only reason she protracted my life. The mythical gold, brought by Ochoa.’
‘Mythical?’ Diniz intervened. He looked dazed.
Nicholas said, ‘Oh, it existed. But it never left Cyprus, until David de Salmeton dug it up. Ochoa’s messages told me that. But Anna couldn’t read codes, and it was easy to persuade her that the gold was coming, and once I used my password, she could have it. Then Caffa fell, and the excuse had gone, and I had to look for other ways to escape her. It may not feel like it, but you are lucky, Julius.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t see me.’ It was a cry.
‘Because she is guilty. They will keep her guarded in private just now. But when the courts are free, and they have sorted what advantages to draw from it, she will suffer, Julius,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you condone what she did, you will suffer as well.’
Leather creaked; the brazier whispered. Julius said, ‘What are you going to do?’ There was no fight in him now.
‘About Anna? I won’t bear witness against her, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’m afraid that there is enough evidence, in any case, without me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Julius repeated. He looked ghastly.
‘Go away,’ Nicholas said. ‘Once I have found David de Salmeton and dealt with him. He will be in the Tyrol, they say, until the spring. He can’t do any harm there.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Diniz said. The formality grated, even though Nicholas had imposed it himself. Diniz said, ‘De Salmeton isn’t in the Tyrol. The Duke summoned the Earl of Buchan to Nancy. Hearty James expects to spend the winter in camp, and to try to negotiate with the Tyrol from there. He has de Salmeton with him.’
Nicholas stood still. The fate of Anna left his mind, as, slowly, the hand of Gelis also slipped from his clasp. David de Salmeton was in Nancy with Robin; with Tobie; with John. No wonder the elegant Master Simpson had left Ghent with such alacrity. He could return to find Nicholas, once he had disposed of those he ranked as Nicholas’s friends. Robin, and Tobie, and John.
Nicholas was aware that Julius was watching him. He had no time to nurse Julius now. He said, ‘Why the change of plan? Why should the Duke entertain a Scottish envoy in Nancy?’
‘Because Buchan is royal,’ Diniz said. ‘And there is another guest, too. The King of Portugal is due at the end of the month. The Duke’s cousin. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been summoned to Nancy to interpret.’
Diniz was half Portuguese. The uncle of Diniz had been secretary to the Duke’s Portuguese mother. The hated grandfather of Diniz, Jordan de Ribérac, was currently living under Portuguese dominion, unaware that David de Salmeton, whom he had dismissed, was embarked on a campaign of destruction.
Nicholas said, ‘If the King of Portugal is going to Nancy, might he take your grandfather with him?’
‘It is possible,’ Diniz said. He shut his lips. Diniz would not care if Jordan de Ribérac died. Perhaps no one would. But, oh God, de Ribérac was not the only possible victim, in that war camp at Nancy, facing David de Salmeton. They were none of them fools, these former companions and friends of Nicholas de Fleury; but de Salmeton was vain, and vindictive, and clever. And in war, accidents occurred very easily.
Nicholas saw that Gelis was studying him. Her eyes, immense with fatigue, were empty of appeal, but not of love. Her hand had left his, freeing him. She understood; he did not need to explain; but, nevertheless, his eyes sought her forgiveness.
One night. They had had only one night. He could not even hope to see Jodi. After three years, he could not return to Jodi and leave him on the same day.
Nicholas turned to Diniz. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Today,’ the other man said. He was not a child any more. He was thirty, and watching Nicholas with curiosity now, aware of the complexities of what was happening.
‘Will you take me with you?’ Nicholas said. Julius stiffened. Nicholas looked at him.
Julius said, ‘What about Anna?’
‘What about her?’ Nicholas said. ‘She will be brought to justice. She will be better off if I am not there.’
‘If she is who you say, she’s your family,’ Julius said. ‘She married me because of you. Everything happened because of you. And now you are leaving me with this mess?’ The petulant, self-centred Julius of old, beginning to return through the anger and anguish.
Nicholas said, ‘I expect to come back. No one has said you need stay.’
‘Where would I go? To Moscow? To Caffa? To face Anna’s noble kinsmen in Cologne?’
‘You could come to Nancy,’ Nicholas said. ‘Astorre would welcome it. It would give you someone to fight, apart from Anna, and me, and yourself.’
‘I went to Bruges to challenge you,’ Julius said. He rose slowly. Some of his colour had returned.
‘So perhaps we should be seen to have a match,’ Nicholas said. ‘Decently supervised. On the way to Nancy, if you like. The fault was Anna’s, not mine, but I wouldn’t have you lose face for it in public. Will you come?’
Julius agreed.
Diniz took Julius off to his lodging. There was not much time, if they were to leave the same day. Then, and only then did Nicholas shut the door and turn back to where Gelis stood.
There was no recrimination in her face: only sadness. ‘You are good with Julius,’ she said.
‘I know him. Can you forgive me?’ he said.
‘I know you, too. I told you,’ she said. ‘A sensible woman would say, These are grown men, down there with the Duke. They can defend themselves against David de Salmeton. He will come back. You can deal with him in the spring.’
He said, ‘You haven’t married a sensible man. I should have had to join Astorre anyway, sooner or later. Robin and Tobie are with him because of me. And now de Salmeton is there because of me, and because of—’ He broke off, too late.
‘Because of Jordan de Ribérac?’ Gelis said.
He lost his breath. Then he said, ‘What do you know?’
Her smile was one-sided, and wry. ‘What Tilde told me. That when I was working against you, I was working for Diniz’s grandfather. I didn’t know. I never knew who the head of the Vatachino was. That doesn’t excuse it.’
‘I have done worse,’ he said. He had come close, and was looking down at her, painfully. ‘I wanted to tell you myself, at the right time.’
‘This is the right time,’ Gelis said.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know, I know.’ His eyes were blurred, for the sake of all the words that had reduced themselves to the five she had spoken. He said blankly, ‘I have to go.’
She had tied her robe in haste. He untied it, and drew the soft pads of his fingers slowly over her skin, down and down. He said, in sudden anguish, ‘Perhaps last night was wrong. It was wrong. I should have been patient.’
She took his hand where it rested. ‘Is that what your fingertips tell you? Would you rather have waited? Would you rather have something to remember, or nothing? Then no more do I. If this is all there is,’ Gelis said, ‘I shall thank God for it.’
His fingers were travelling again: shivering now, they spread and smoothed back her robe, and then parted his own. He drew a long, steadying breath. ‘It
is
a leave-taking,’ he said. ‘And therefore reposeful, and a little grave, and sparing of all undue exertion until … For as long as might be.’
‘Desire with self-control,’ Gelis said. ‘As the classicists say.’ Her tight-squeezed lashes were soaked.
His hands, circling, stroking, were bringing her inside his robe. He had to lengthen his breathing to speak. ‘It should be easy,’ he said, with soft bitterness. ‘It should be easy. We have had eight years to learn.’
I
N
THESE
, the last days of the campaign at Nancy, it was Captain Astorre’s crowning joy to find his lads collected about him again.
They were not precisely lads, except in relation to himself and elderly Thomas, his henchman. Captain Astorre was fifty-eight years old; and the oldest of them, his prized gunner John, was ten years younger than that. You could even say that the youngest, Robin, was not really his, although he had trained him for a spell on the Somme. But in the months he’d been here, the fellow had won a place in Astorre’s esteem, that was true. Deft, hard-working, steady under attack, he had a nice way about him. A nice
deferential
way, unlike that of his old sparring partner, Dr Tobie. By God before a certain battle in Italy, Tobias Beventini had never risked so much as a sore toe in battle. He’d made up for it since. Astorre had fought under Skanderbeg in Albania alongside Tobie.
Tobie and Robin had arrived in the cold of November. Next had come freezing December and trouble, of the kind you got when a war was petering out, and snow was threatening, and men were desperate to leave. But soon, the trouble had shrunk to its proper size, for one day the captain had been in the cookhouse, complaining, when Robin had burst through the door, bringing slush and snow and a freezing draught that nearly put out the fire in the oven. Then Robin had said, ‘It’s M. de Fleury.’ And by God, young Claes had followed him in, with Diniz, the lad who directed the Bruges business with Gelis van Borselen, and last, had come the Widow’s notary, Julius.
He still thought of them like that, even though Marian de Charetty was dead, and young Claes, who had married her, was now a broad-shouldered man in a mantle as big as a bear, who pulled off his fur cap and stared at him.
‘You’ve got smaller,’ said Claes.
‘To fit my wages,’ snapped Captain Astorre.
Then they had hammered each other on the back, and he had greeted the others.
The best of it was at night, when he had heard or deduced all their news (Claes had returned to his wife; the German Gräfin had proved the menace they took her for) and he was able to sit them down before a fire and a modified feast, and tell them about his war. It was, of course, due to end in a week or two. (Thomas had grunted.) The besieged Lorrainers in Nancy had now started to starve: the two months were up; their supplies were finished; and L’Enfant René had not returned with an army to save them, despite pawning the silver and scrounging a loan from Strasbourg and obtaining thousands of francs from the King of France on the quiet. The Swiss Confederation had authorised the young man to enroll mercenaries, but mercenaries had to be paid. No one would come. Nancy would have to surrender. (Thomas had grunted again.)
‘You sound sorry,’ said Claes.
‘Well. The Swiss are great fighters,’ had said Astorre. ‘Their skirmishing, you might say, is a treat. But what with the weather and one thing and another, I suppose you would have to call a good formal battle a luxury. We’ve had some trouble getting powder from Luxembourg, and our food’s a bit low. I’m glad you brought what you did. Mind you, I’ve seen better ducks.’
‘Complaint noted,’ Claes said. ‘What about your own men?’ He did all the speaking, Astorre noticed. Diniz was always quiet before Nicholas, and the lawyer sat looking upset. Tobie and John had said very little after the first shock of the trio’s arrival. Then Claes said, ‘You haven’t mentioned David de Salmeton.’
‘Little turd,’ Astorre said. ‘John and Tobie saw him: I was away the day he came through. They’ll tell you what happened.’
‘Came through?’ Claes said.
It was Tobie who answered. ‘Hearty James was only here for a day. Then he went off with an escort to Innsbruck, David de Salmeton with him. They’ve gone for the winter.’
‘Good riddance,’ said Astorre.
‘How?’ said Claes.
It had been the doctor again, who chose to answer. ‘International string-pulling. Duchess Eleanor of the Tyrol is Scottish, royal, and a sister of the first wife of Wolfaert van Borselen. Wolfaert is a cousin by marriage of Gruuthuse. Anselm Adorne sheltered the Duchess’s niece when she was exiled from Scotland, and one of the Duchess’s friends is a Scots lady called Bel of Cuthilgurdy, who seems to have Andro Wodman at her service. David de Salmeton makes threats: prosecution is not entirely possible: steps are therefore taken to send him where he can do no harm — for the moment, at least.’
‘Eleanor will feed him to the dogs,’ Claes said. He sounded shaken. He laughed. ‘I needn’t have come back from Russia.’
‘Of course you should,’ Astorre said, glaring at him. ‘Where should you be but here, like a man?’
Thomas, who once had the pleasure of bear-leading a girl half over Europe for Claes, allowed himself a snort at that. ‘Or in someone else’s bed like a man,’ remarked Thomas.
Which was all very true, Astorre granted.
I
N
FALLING
SNOW
, intelligence freezes. Burgundy, shivering in its camp before Nancy, did not know that the cantons were slowly opening their borders; that from Lucerne and Zurich, Berne and Soleure and the depths of the Oberland, ten thousand soldiers for René were being
brought to assemble in Basle, a week’s march away; that several thousand more were beginning to collect in Alsace. In the Burgundian camp, they only knew that success appeared certain, for the town they were besieging was dying. In Nancy, all the horses and dogs, all the cats and the vermin would soon be finished; the breaches made by the Burgundian guns were growing larger; and the garrison’s powder was practically done. There was no fuel for heat. The warmth came from the flames of their cannon-smashed houses, burning unquenched in a landscape of ice.