Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
The audible thud as the arrow entered the firm chest. The muddy, lustreless stain from which trembled and swelled a body of glistening scarlet. Once, they said, Callimaco had proposed to kill a man, in cold blood, for a principle. Nicholas said, ‘You will have to write your book without me.’
He received a long scrutiny. At length: ‘You are under no obligation,’ said the other. ‘There may come a time when you think differently, and I shall still be here, I suspect, with the book as yet unwritten. You did however make me one promise. What did my cameo tell you?’
Whoever is unsupported by the Mystery of Love shall not achieve the grace of salvation. Whoever shall cast love aside shall lose everything
. ‘Something I already knew,’ Nicholas said, ‘but had tried to forget.’
‘Something painful. Shall I say I am sorry?’ Cailimaco said.
‘No,’ Nicholas said.
‘Because you deserve pain? Or because it has restored to you something of worth?’
Nicholas rose, and laid down his cup. Buonaccorsi, taking his time, did the same. Since Oliva, Nicholas was aware, the other man had changed in his perception. It was not enough, not nearly enough to urge him to confide. Nevertheless, he did consider the question, and answered it under his breath. ‘Both, I think,’ Nicholas said.
Nothing more of significance was said: he had taken his stance, and Callimaco had accepted it meantime. They parted with the light embrace warranted by their strange paper friendship, which had been replaced by something hardly less fragile. Making his solitary return to the place where he now lodged on sufferance, Nicholas found it empty of all but house-servants. Adorne and his family were out taking their leave of their hosts, as were Sidinghusen and Bock. He did not want to see them. He particularly did not want to meet the Patriarch yet. But standing there at his window, looking across at the bustling market, beneath the booming tower of the squat Burgh Halls, he was conscious, as seldom before, of being entirely alone.
Chapter 12
W
HATEVER
A
DORNE’S
opinion of Julius, it was not in his nature to leave Thorn without calling on Anna, to discover what she might need, and how her husband was faring. Kathi went with him, and stayed longer so that, alone, Anna could talk to her freely. She considered her brave. Listening to Anna, she thought of the contrast of her own night in Robin’s arms, wrapped about by new joy, while Anna might never know that comfort again. Yet Julius’s wife bore no grudge against Nicholas. ‘They are like children, careless with drink, wild with excitement …’ And she had rubbed a hand over her face. ‘It is my only fear, that when Julius recovers — and he
will
recover — Nicholas will still be here, unregenerate, and the mischief will start all over again.’
‘He will want to help you,’ Kathi said. ‘He will do anything you wish, after this. He could be of great use in the business.’
‘I know,’ Anna said. ‘And Julius would like that, of course. If only Gelis were here!’
Kathi gave a wry smile. ‘You think she could control either of them?’
‘The household could,’ Anna said. ‘Remember the poem? That was the smoke of self-sacrifice, not the indifference it might seem. Your conscienceless friend is passionate about at least one person, his son. With that small boy to rear, Nicholas would do nothing rash. From what I have seen of his nurse, Mistress Clémence is wise with adults as well as children. And perhaps even Dr Tobias would come. Robin says that he and Nicholas have fallen out and become reconciled in the past.’
‘Perhaps he would, but Gelis wouldn’t,’ Kathi said. ‘And without her consent, he could never see Jodi. In any case, he isn’t ready for Jodi, and Jodi shouldn’t have to act as his crutch. Nor should anyone else. Perhaps, if he hadn’t alienated them all, they would come and restrain him for a while, but it never seems to last long: he breaks away and does something unforgivable yet again. He has to learn on his own.’ She broke off, hearing
the bleakness in her own voice. ‘Which isn’t much help to you. I’m sorry, but I don’t think you are going to separate Julius and Nicholas that way.’ She wondered, as she spoke, why they were talking of a difficulty that might never materialise; and realised that this, of course, was why they were talking. It was unthinkable that Julius was going to die.
Anna said, ‘If Nicholas were legitimate, would Gelis feel differently?’
The hum of the market came through the closed windows. Women’s voices spoke outside the door, and a clatter of pewter as something was carried upstairs on a tray. Kathi said, ‘What do you mean? If there were a superior title for Jodi, would Gelis feel bound to repair the marriage? I don’t think so. I think that her personal association with Nicholas matters more than anything else ever could. But does the question even arise? I thought his bastardy was proved by default.’
‘But if someone were to show otherwise?’ Anna said. ‘You once mentioned a vicomte de Fleury. There was a man of that name in a monastery on the Montello, in the March of Treviso, north of Venice. Julius heard of him. He said your uncle had a brother buried there.’
This was true. She looked at Anna in astonishment. Jacques Adorne had spent two years with the Carthusians, and died there, a monk. On his way home from Venice three years ago, her uncle Anselm had taken his eldest son Jan to the grave, leaving Kathi in the nearest town to await them. Neither had spoken of this. She took a moment to think. Then she said, ‘Was the vicomte a very old man?’
‘I don’t know. He may have been. He had no powers of speech and was quite helpless, Julius was told. He may even be dead. But Gelis could find out,’ Anna said. ‘As you go home, you could send and tell her.’ From sleeplessness, her eyes were large and strained: she talked as if she were discussing the most important thing in the world. And then Kathi remembered that, if Jodi and Bonne were to marry, it might well be just that, for Anna. Her lover and husband might never recover, but she would secure a future for the fatherless Bonne.
Kathi crossed the room and, sitting, put her arm round Anna’s shoulders. ‘He’ll get better,’ she said. ‘And we’ll keep these two villains apart, whether we have Gelis to help us or not. But don’t underrate what Nicholas offers. He can help you: he has a genius for business. And you might even come to help him. He needs a regulator. And Robin and I shan’t be here.’
‘You are fond of him,’ Anna said gently.
‘I used to be,’ Kathi said. ‘Half of me, I suppose, hasn’t stopped. The rest has suspended judgement: that’s Flemish caution for you. But he has taken this accident badly, and that’s a good sign, I suppose. Force him to stop and think, and not to escape sideways any more. I confide him to you.’ She halted and said, ‘Yes, I’m fond of him.’
‘I wish you were staying,’ Anna said.
• • •
T
HE
DAY
WENT
ON
, and Julius lived. In the house of the Burgundian envoy the horses and packmules were assembled, and bags and crates and baskets appeared in the hall. Adorne interviewed and rewarded his servants, aided by the two Danzigers and Robin. Kathi went and tapped on a shut door. Nicholas opened it.
‘You are leaving,’ he said, and jerked the door wider. She entered, with care.
This was not the histrionic Nicholas of Mewe, with his wounding tongue and his single problematic relapse into tenderness. It was not, either, the crass intruder of yesterday’s games, where he had saved her uncle from ignominy — but only because it suited him, or so he had said. This was not even the person who, encouraged by Anna, had earlier sent to ask Kathi to see him. This man, wearily inviting her into his room with something almost like hatred, was demonstrating that he did not want to encounter any soul from his past, and especially a friend. She sat, and he said, ‘I have some wine, unless it is drugged.’
And, having no wish, as it happened, to pursue that, she jettisoned her qualms, crossed her ankles, folded her hands and gazed at him critically. ‘Ludovico da Bologna?’ she said. ‘He always could produce this effect. Did he ask you if you meant to kill Julius?’
He opened his fingers and let drop the wine-cup he was filling. He did it quite deliberately, under her eyes, and she watched the cup roll and dent, and the spilled wine grow bald and begin to outline the tiles of the floor like a Teutonic town grid. ‘Which means that he did,’ she concluded equably. ‘And perhaps you actually did give way to a sudden urge to get rid of Julius who, I agree, can be quite atrociously insensitive. So you shot him, and are now seized with terror, wondering what next your devil is going to allow you to do. Or …’
She paused, and he took his hand away from the hour-glass he had just turned upside down, having refrained from dropping that, too, on the floor. ‘That is not very polite.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said, with no appearance of it. He remained standing. She resumed speaking, her voice as bland as before.
‘Or perhaps you were simply drunk, or exhausted from divining —why did you so foolishly agree to do that? — and it has left you feeling as frightened of yourself as we are of you? I should like a glass of wine,’ she added, ‘if Jelita could bring you some more. Do you know what his name means?’
He blinked. For a moment, what she was attempting hung in the balance. Then he cleared his throat. ‘He goes by the noble name of Bowel. Sally Jelita, I call him. Raging Bowel.’
He went to the doorway and called the man, allowing Kathi to blow her nose quickly. As he came back she said, ‘They like intestinal jokes. They call watermills farters.’
‘He is a spy,’ Nicholas said. ‘Jelita. A palace spy.’
She looked at him. ‘You didn’t warn us.’
‘He was and is spying on me, not on you. You had nothing to lose. Adorne never had a chance anyway.’
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘Because, obviously, I am in collusion against him. Hasn’t your uncle already told you?’
‘He said it was possible. He mentioned a few others with motives and influence, but I expect we could discount all those,’ Kathi said. She noticed that her fingers were white, and unclasped them.
‘Julius may die,’ he said suddenly. The tone of his voice was a rebuke.
‘But you didn’t mean to kill him,’ she said. She waited.
‘Of course I did,’ Nicholas said.
Her heart ached. He moved restlessly, once, and then stopped. His gaze turned to the door.
Kathi said slowly, ‘Is
that
why you do what you do?’
‘What do I do?’
He was still watching the door. Sally Bowel. His profile looked grey. Steadily, she gave him answer. ‘Commit perpetual follies, to deserve perpetual punishment?’
He turned. For a fraction of time he looked into her eyes. Then a dimple slowly appeared and, with a stifled sound of amusement, he set to his desultory pacing again. ‘No one has accused me of being crazy before. A life dedicated to misery? Really?’
‘People feel guilty,’ she said. ‘Sometimes with cause, sometimes not. Sometimes they don’t even know why, because they don’t want to remember. Anna would never believe you’d harm Julius.’
‘Will you tell her?’ He was looking at her.
She took her time. ‘No. You won’t do it again. But you weren’t really thinking of Anna, were you; only of Julius and yourself?’ She broke off. She said. ‘You should try to see behind all that self-possession. Anna is kind. She cares, like Bel. You do like her?’
‘I like Bel,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word about Anna. You are saying I ought to confide in her?’
He hadn’t said he didn’t like Anna. He must have noticed how lovely she was. He hadn’t had, as yet, much chance to discover anything else. Then she remembered something promising, in that respect anyway. ‘You must like her,’ Kathi said, ‘if you want Jodi to marry her daughter. Or perhaps you were just tormenting Julius and never meant it at all.’ She wished he would sit down.
Suddenly, he did. ‘She told you? And you disapprove because of Jodi’s youth? But it isn’t more than a suggestion. It would unite two parts of the Bank. Gelis would first have to agree.’
She was relieved. She said, ‘Anna would help. She would do anything to see you together with Gelis.’ She hesitated. ‘She told me about Montello.’
He stopped breathing. She saw it. Then he said, ‘What about Montello?’
‘Julius heard that the vicomte de Fleury — that your grandfather was being nursed in the Carthusian monastery there. One of my uncles died in the same place. It’s just outside Venice. Jan went there with his father three years ago. I didn’t know the connection. I don’t think Uncle Anselm did either. But you did?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Naturally, he had to be paid for.’
She wished she had never opened the subject. She said, ‘Anna thought Gelis ought to be told. She thought the old man might throw light on your … You might learn finally the truth of your birth. But you must know all he could tell you already.’
‘No. I have never spoken to him,’ Nicholas said. ‘No one has. He is paralysed. There is no point in Gelis or anyone else visiting him, even with the lure of becoming mother to the next landless and penniless vicomte de Fleury. I’m sorry. You and Anna have clearly discussed the matter in depth.’
‘I thought you would want it for Jodi,’ Kathi said sharply. ‘I heard about the poem you burned.’
The door opened. ‘You did?’ Nicholas said. Jelita came in and, receiving permission, crossed and prepared to pour out fresh wine.
Kathi hid her hands in her sleeves. She said, ‘Anna told me. It wasn’t hard to guess why you did it.’
A tray appeared, and she took a cup from it, as did Nicholas. Jelita bowed and departed. A few moments before, she had tried to joke about his name. Before the door had time to close, Nicholas had again disposed of his wine with a flourish, but this time down his throat. After that, he lifted the wine-flask, and refilled his own cup. Hers was untouched.
He said, ‘There is poetry and poetry. Posterity, I assure you, lost nothing in that piece. Indeed, this time’ — he emptied the goblet once again — ‘not even the ashes complained.’ The grey eyes, returning, contemplated her. ‘Will two cups be enough? What else did you want me to tell you?’