Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
The courier stood. Adorne looked at the half-open packet in his hands. Anna rose and, glancing at Kathi, tactfully withdrew to her seat beside Julius. Kathi watched Adorne unfold the missive and scan it. His face flushed, and then patchily drained. Presently he refolded it and spoke to the courier, who turned with his conductor to leave. The President said, ‘It is not bad news, I trust, my dear lord?’
Adorne looked at him. ‘News, certainly; but nothing that need disturb so gracious an occasion. Pray do not concern yourself. I shall deal with it later.’
Kathi closed her lips, which had parted. She heard behind her the happy bustle of Robin’s return, qualified as he realised that something had happened. The President, displeased, watched the courier leave and then, excusing himself, rose and walked to the edge of the field. The foot competitions concluded, and the preliminary announcements for the prize-giving began, after which there would take place the closing demonstration.
Adorne, collecting his papers, leaned over slightly and gave them to Robin. ‘Perhaps you would take care of these?’ His look, unmistakably, invited his niece and her husband to read. They did so together, at speed, crouched over the small, black angular letters as if they were chicken bones.
Charles, Duke of Burgundy to the most excellent Anselm Adorne, Baron Cortachy. It has come to our notice that … We are seriously displeased to learn … We assume that by this time you will … Nevertheless we cannot contemplate that … It is our command therefore …
Kathi looked away. Beside her, Anselm Adorne sat unmoving, his gaze on the field, his patrician profile betraying no emotion. Behind him, the murmurs continued. Before him, with laughter and shouting, announcements and awards were under way. Under Kathi’s hand, the cutting phrases covered the paper. She could hear Robin swearing continuously under his breath, and compelled herself to read to the end.
It is our command therefore that you depart from the Court of King Casimir, and that, laying all other matters aside, you return to this country at once, leaving the papal nuncio and the envoys of the Republic of Venice to represent us in Persia. We repeat. Whatever you have or have not concluded, you are to return to our presence at once
.
It was then that Zygmunt jumped to his feet, proclaiming the arrival of the one unprincipled man who embodied all the alien interests that had brought this about: the friend of Polish princes; the tool of the Patriarch; the past associate of the Venetian envoy. The child’s welcome was for Nicholas de Fleury who, from the way he was sitting his horse, had just completed a long, liquid, and highly profitable morning in and about the marketplace — any marketplace — and was now making his way, at leisure, to where Caterino Zeno awaited him with a smile.
Robin said, ‘Christ God,’ and abruptly disappeared. Anna, her colour high, was grasping the arm of her husband and Julius was actually standing, his handsome face lit with glee. Beside her, Anselm Adorne was quite silent. Kathi felt her upper lip shorten, and told it to stop. She said to her uncle, ‘We could go.’
He did not even look at her. ‘Of course we cannot go,’ he said. ‘Or at least I could not. You may, of course. I would not have you treated with dishonour.’
He was not speaking of Nicholas. He was speaking of his recall, and all it implied. She said, ‘This is not dishonour. It is expediency. The Duke knows he can trust you to do what is right; even to sacrifice your own pride for his sake.’
‘And Tabriz? And Caffa?’ he said. ‘And all my kinsmen — your kinsmen — holding their own in an ocean bordered by Tartars and Turks, in the land of the Crimean Khan? Am I to abandon them and their hopes, and allow the Genoese to be driven from the peninsula because of
expediency
?’
Kathi said, ‘We could go in your place, Robin and I. Julius is travelling to Caffa.’
‘Julius?’ Adorne repeated. He looked round, but Julius too seemed to have gone.
‘He wouldn’t harm us. He’s interested in trading, not war. I know we are inexperienced,’ Kathi said. ‘But there are men who are familiar with the Black Sea and would advise us. There are consuls, interpreters, guides who would help us pass to Tabriz. We would bring back a report for the Duke.’ She paused, feeling breathless. ‘Whatever happens, the Duke will be in your debt. You will not lose by it.’
‘You are confident,’ her uncle said. ‘Look at the man whose whim has ruined a nation, and see how he has lost by it.’
She stared at the field. They were rearranging it: setting up the marks for fast shooting from horseback; the targets, the wands. The central barrier had gone, and the archers’ mast wore a ball, not a bird. To one side, grooms were arriving with horses and weapons: a bunch of short curling bows and their quivers. A group of three well-dressed men walked into the arena, where they fell into discussion with the President and some of his officers, and then separated. The tallest of the three, in a fine pleated pourpoint and jacket, was Nicholas. The second, covered in cloth of silver, was the Venetian envoy. The third, distinguished by his figured red velvet, was, astonishingly, Julius of Bologna. His wife, gazing at him from the pavilion, wore an expression of exasperation and anxiety which exactly matched Kathi’s own. She had just signalled Anna to join her when, with a thud, Robin returned.
He said, ‘He won’t recognise me. I can’t get near him. Sir, they’re going to ask you to take part, and it isn’t fair. You ought to withdraw.’
In adversity, Adorne could be both collected and patient. Now he said, ‘Robin, I can hardly do that. What are they going to ask, and how will it be unfair?’
But it was too late for Robin to answer him. As the question was asked, the President returned to his seat, bringing with him the last person a dismissed Burgundian ambassador would wish to see: Caterino Zeno, with his glossy black hair and his sallow face round as a button. He was already equipped for his display: his left forearm, as he bowed to Adorne, was sheathed in an elaborate bracer of embossed leather, and the thumb ring on his other hand was of jade. Gifts from his wife’s uncle, no doubt, like the bow chased with gold, and the great sheaf of eagles’ wing-feathers that his servant held in their quiver, a snow leopard’s tail furled round their stems.
Foreign rubbish, Kathi diagnosed bitterly. Persian rubbish, such as Meester Nicholas de Fleury and probably Meester Julius of Bologna had been trained to handle in the Levant, as Zeno had in Tabriz. And now
they were being brought into use to ridicule the Burgundian ambassador. The former, the unwanted Burgundian ambassador. And even as she formed the thought, Zeno spoke — not in Italian but in loud and creditable Polish, addressing her uncle.
‘My lord, forgive me. I have usurped your position, thinking that the King’s jealous love would prevent him from sparing you to us. We know you must hasten to Persia, but we also know your reputation for chivalry. The President and I beg you to do us the honour of leading us in this, our small demonstration of horseback archery with the small bow. A round at the mast, a round at the butts, a round of flight shooting, and then some trick work together. My lord is familiar with all this, of course.’
He knew enough Polish by now to understand the gist of what was said. He also knew its intent. Her uncle answered, in Italian, ‘You flatter me, sir. The short bow is not my weapon. I have some skill at straight shooting, that is all.’
‘But that is all you require,’ said Caterino Zeno. ‘Leave the last phase to us, but give us the pleasure of sharing this skill with the guild. I have a bow you may use. It will serve you well at the mast and the butts and perhaps you would demonstrate a flight shot to end with. That is all we ask. Pray agree!’
Anselm Adorne had suffered one public humiliation. He would not show cowardice by trying to evade another. He said, ‘Trick archery I must leave to you. But yes, I should be glad to open with you in a display of the other kind, so far as is in my power.’
Anna was biting her lip. Robin growled. Kathi wondered what he had expected to say to Nicholas when he arrived. Perhaps to ask him not to take part, or to accept Robin as his squire, or to allow Robin to shoot alongside him. But Robin had rarely used the short bow. A first-class archer, as her uncle was, could wield it, as he had said, in straight shooting. He had excused himself, reasonably enough, from the other kind. But to save his face, and his reputation, he must excel at what he did.
They had not expected him to agree. Kathi saw the President’s surprise, and Zeno’s mischievous grin, and the air of weary resignation with which her uncle rose, shed his splendid robe, and followed Zeno on to the field in the white shirt and sleeveless pourpoint and hose that emphasised his flat shoulders and still-supple waist, his fair, whitening hair curling round his neck under his deep velvet cap. Her lips compressed and her stomach rose into her throat. She excused herself and stepped quickly out, seeing Robin’s glance of surprise as she went.
Some time, she would have to tell him, but not now. Not until her uncle had agreed to send them both to Tabriz; and perhaps not even
then. She wondered, while being sick, if Persians were good at midwifery. She wondered, with angry impatience, what had gone wrong this time with Nicholas, and at what point even Robin would see that nothing more could be done, and give up.
It started to rain.
Chapter 11
B
Y
THE
TIME
Anselm Adorne made his entry into the field of the Confrérie of St George at Thorn, every man in the ground knew that he had failed in his mission, and had been recalled by the master who sent him. His intention, alone and against odds, was to deliver a performance that would remind them, when he had gone, that he was Genoese, and Burgundian, and a knight who remained loyal, no matter what his lord chose to demand. Honour required him to demonstrate moral and physical courage against three perfidious men, two of whom had cause to harm or remove him. What he had not expected was that the elements, too, would be his enemy.
There had been a time when rain won or lost battles. It still happened. When, long ago, the gods had given immortality to the man who waterproofed the first bow, they had not ensured that the recipe was infallible. At Crécy, in the war against England, the shrunken strings of the Genoese crossbowmen had earned them the contempt of both sides. It was not by coincidence, Adorne knew, that the strings and weapon loaned him by Zeno were not proofed. The rain which he now felt on his cheek might fade away. If it grew worse, he could expect accuracy for a short time, but that was all. He did not make a complaint. There was mockery enough in the occasion: in the ceremonial ride into the field, two by two, the Venetian at his side followed by de Fleury and his lawyer. De Fleury who had inclined his head with drunken languor when they met, and smiled in conspiratorial greeting at the man Julius. The applause itself was a sham.
The bow served him for the first shot at least, which had to be taken, moving, on horseback. The mast was a hundred and twenty feet high, and the ball that topped it was much harder to hit than the papingo, which he had carried off with his crossbow so often at the St Sebastian meetings in Bruges. Then he had been shooting on foot; but he was a first-class horseman, with strong nerves and an accurate eye. He circled,
once, twice, and then shot. Against the dark sky, the golden ball burst into bright flying fragments: the unfeathered dove. The rain beat on his back. The crowd applauded as he cantered to the side, and Julius took his place as the fresh ball was hoisted.
The bow of Julius, one could guess, had been proofed, and the hundred-pound pull was no trouble to a stalwart man trained by the Bank’s own mercenary captain. An exuberant combatant, Julius was never the most guarded of performers: his first arrow glanced off the post; and his second made Nicholas duck. The third halved the ball, and his audience, disarmed by his unselfconscious good humour, cheered as he trotted back, grinning. Caterino Zeno took his place.
The rain was now becoming unpleasant. At this late stage, there was no question of closing the games; those who could not tolerate it had left, and the rest, used to brief soakings, simply pulled up their hoods and huddled closer. The water ran down Zeno’s magnificent cloth of silver, drenching the two splendid white plumes in his hat and rendering brighter still the gold, the silver, the turquoises of his quiver, and the shining, safely waxed strings of his bow. His horse, twirling, frisking, curvetting, was foreign as well, and Zeno rode it with the short stirrups and forward-leaning seat of the Persian who is trained from birth to ride without reins. As he set to circle the mast, gaining speed, he tossed the bow into the air and caught it.
‘Charlatan!’ Robin muttered, watching.
‘But also a marksman, I’m afraid,’ observed Anna. Since Julius’s competent performance, she had shown herself willing, in a resigned way, to comment. And she was right about Zeno. Having put his small speedy horse through its paces, the Venetian set it into a gallop and, riding faster and faster, rose in the stirrups to shoot. He hit the ball. But he made the shot backwards, over his shoulder. Then, amid uproar, he cantered back to take his place by the other three.
Adorne saluted him, as did Julius. Nicholas did not go quite so far. It was a feat, even if the Venetian used his own horse and bow; even if he wore, strapped to his bow-hand, the ivory trough which, by extending the draw of his arrow, added valuable power to its cast. He was a citizen of the Republic, and it was his duty to promote it. The next moment, de Fleury rode out unsensationally on his borrowed mount, equipped with his borrowed quiver and bow. The string was proofed. There was no excuse therefore for his failure, three times over, to shoot an arrow anywhere near the gold ball. One of the shafts, descending at random, came close enough to cause his three partners to scatter. The third time, the drum beat his recall and, frowning, he trotted over to Zeno, to a chorus of good-natured catcalls. ‘Messer Caterino, who makes your arrows?’