Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘Come and see us,’ said Margriet, and held her cheek to be kissed.
He would, in time. He had married Marian in the Adornes’ church of Jerusalem. Here, in this room, Nicholas had stood beside Marian and listened to the voice of Simon de St Pol shouting at him in public. Here in this room he had learned for the first time that Katelina was pregnant, and that, rather than tell him, she had married Simon and passed the child off as his. Henry. Henry was not here, or Simon. Or Katelina.
A voice he knew said, ‘It has all been too much. The excitement. The unaccustomed weight of the jewels. What on earth, my dear sir, is the extraordinary chain you are wearing? Some man-eating order of chivalry?’
Nicholas emerged from his thoughts. Before him, last to present themselves, was the van Borselen family of Veere. The noble lord Henry, after whom his own son was named. Wolfaert, son of Henry and cousin of Gelis and Katelina. And Gelis herself.
He saw her; registered the elaborate veil, the jewelled collar, the pale, precisely drawn eyes before he dragged his own to the seated man who had spoken. Massive in magnificent velvet, it was Jordan, vicomte de Ribérac, Simon’s father.
How old would Jordan be now? Sixty, at least. The scar Nicholas himself bore on his cheek was thin and white now; it was more than eight years since Jordan’s ring had incised it. It was four years since, under the most terrible of pretexts, Jordan had abducted his young grandson Diniz, from Cyprus. Yet he was not greatly changed: the bulk as impressive; the jowls clean-shaven and heavy, the eyes bold.
Nicholas said, ‘My badge? It is the Knightly Order of Cyprus. They gave it me for not stealing anything. Have you decided to give up the
Ghost
? It would delight us.’
‘My dear, the natives have sharpened your wits. I am amused. But let me turn to something even more unexpected. This is the first view I have had of my grandson. Come here, Diniz.’
‘Of course, Grandfather,’ said Diniz. He stepped forward; moderate in height, deeply tanned, the well-made doublet displaying the slender waist and deep chest of a soldier. He said, ‘They may not have told you that I have been in Bruges for two years? I must express regret that we are to take you to law, but one must uphold justice.’
‘If one can recognise it, of course. And this
we
of yours, child? You have ascended the throne? You should have told me.’
‘Diniz and I are to be in association, monseigneur,’ Nicholas said. ‘Since he is to take to wife Tilde de Charetty, one of my stepdaughters. Here she is. You may wish to give them your blessing.’
That morning, Diniz had come to Nicholas and asked his permission to marry. It had not been a surprise, and he had given it. Lucia, absent in Scotland, had no power to prevent the betrothal. Jordan’s only power was the denial of money, and Diniz had plenty of that. There would be no public recriminations either; not here and now, in the palace of Louis de Gruuthuse, with the boy’s uncle, the Duchess’s secretary, present.
Senhor Joao, having overheard, was already hurrying over. Tilde grasped her gown, her eyes brilliant, and, running to Nicholas, kissed him. Guests began to gather around them. Nicholas said, ‘Diniz, I’m sorry. But it seemed an appropriate place.’ Diniz laughed at him, and took Tilde by the hand. They disappeared into the circle.
‘Charming,’ said Jordan de Ribérac. ‘Nicholas, I do congratulate you, provident child. I thought she had fixed on that tiresome fool Julius. That would never have done. And now, with the groom in your pocket, you acquire the Charetty business as simply as if your step-daughter had died. I am right? The girl has agreed to a merger?’
‘If my shareholders approve,’ Nicholas said. ‘I could offer you special family rates? And you could give them the
Ghost
as a wedding present.’
The sharp eyes, looking up, searched his face. The man’s complexion had hardly altered; the plump hands on the head of his cane were restfully folded. Jordan said, ‘You have been learning. How?’
‘By example,’ Nicholas said, and bowed, and turned his attention elsewhere. Gelis had joined the circle about Diniz and Tilde. She was smiling at them, which surprised him. Soon after, they were all called to table, and he saw that Jordan had gone.
He supposed afterwards that it was all by design: that Gelis had wished to watch from a distance, and had known her place would be far from his at the board, or perhaps even arranged for it to be so. The world knew that she, a lone woman, had stayed behind in Guinea when Diniz left, even if the priest had been left behind also. The world knew that Nicholas had returned, but not to Bruges. The present distance between them preserved the illusion, perhaps the reality, that there was nothing between them. She had been right to arrange their first encounter in public. Perhaps there would be no other.
On the other hand, the dreaded meeting with Jordan was over. Nothing had happened. He had been surveyed, and had been able to hit back, for once. And Jordan, he learned, was on his way out of the city. There were speeches at the meal, and a great deal of wine drunk, and healths of Diniz and Tilde much invoked. It pleased him to share the day with them. Someone ought to enjoy it.
It was usual, at the end, for the host and hostess to escort the principal guest to their doors, and for the company to disperse. The cavalcade assembled; the grooms held the flambeaux aloft; the fine blue flag with its cross-hilted sword flew above Nicholas as he mounted. The pristine veil at his stirrup belonged to his hostess.
Marguerite van Borselen said, ‘I hope you are not really tired. Monseigneur was attempting to attract your attention. When the others have gone, we should be charmed if you would remain and take wine with us. Gelis will show you where to come.’
He felt the blood leave his heart. ‘Of course,’ Nicholas said.
He might have expected that, steel-willed as she was, she would have obtained the complicity of her family for this first meeting. That she would be present, modestly reticent, at the drowsy gathering before the great fire, after which Nicholas rose to leave. That, offering to escort him below, she should suggest that they pause in the library.
Eight years ago, the mansion Gruuthuse had consisted of one single wing. Since then, it had grown and was growing still. Scaffolding rose against the night sky, stark as ape-watchers’ ladders, and from the windows could be seen puddled mud where the bricklayers had worked. Hods lay idle about it, but no sleeping lizards, their jaws ready to snap. And the ghosts in the glinting water were swans, and the water itself ran black and clear, with no forest of reeds through which a boat could pass, creaking and rustling, while the egrets stood like plumes in the water.
Gelis said, ‘This is the library. Come and see.’
He had glimpsed it once before. Into his mind came a narrow,
beautiful room with thirteen dormer windows, through which the indigo night sky looked down upon tiered ranks of shelves, twelve on each side. And at the end of the long, shining river of parquet, silver candelabra glowed on a table.
With extraordinary violence Nicholas said, ‘
No!
’
‘What?’ she said. ‘Nicholas, what?’ Then, in her usual voice, ‘It is not like the Qadi’s, or Katib Musa’s. Come in. It’s quite different.’
And then he saw that she was right, and it was not like any room he had been in before, and especially not one of the kind he had imagined, which he had never seen in his life. He walked in, therefore, saying, ‘The Qadi’s library is half gone. There was a fire.’
She stood still. ‘A fire? How?’
‘Begun by Akil’s men. It will be all right now. I showed them what to do. And Umar is there. He got home. You heard.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ she said. ‘I know he helped you over the desert. Three children now?’
‘The last a daughter.’ In the candlelight, he saw her face soften. She had changed, as he had. The wind had printed fine lines on her brow, and her skin would never again have the pure, fine grain of the child. Her eyes seemed bigger, as the flesh now clung close to the bone, and her lips had a tuck at each corner, as he had seen them when she first sat with the smallest black children, penning her lessons. Her hair, straight but not straight, like satin touched by the teazle, had returned from streaked silver to oat colour, and the fronds of her lashes were brown. She had pulled out a book and was gazing at it. Godscalc had done that.
Nicholas said abruptly, ‘Do you have peace?’ He said it in Arabic.
She looked up, her lashes aghast like a doll’s. When she answered, it was in harsh Arabic, and not with the called-for response. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who I am. Bel has gone. I can only find the person I was when speaking to Godscalc, or Diniz. Or you. I hoped, you. But you have put it behind you.’ Her knuckles were white on the book.
He drew the book from her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I carry it with me.’
‘How?’ she said. It was what Jordan had said.
‘I had teachers,’ he said. ‘And books, like these. And the desert. Mostly the desert.’
‘But you didn’t want to stay?’
‘Oh, I did,’ Nicholas said.
‘But the gold drew you back?’ She sounded fierce.
‘No. I was driven out,’ Nicholas said. ‘Paradise lost. Or not even that, really. I was doing them harm.’
‘How could you?’ she said.
‘I think we should look at books,’ he said. ‘If that is what I’m here for. You know I brought a lot back?’
‘How could you do them harm?’ she repeated. She sat on a stool, suddenly, like a child in her fine clothes. ‘You said yourself that you helped them.’
Nicholas looked down at her, and didn’t answer at once. Then he said, ‘I know what I’ve left. I am not going back. No one can help them yet, except themselves. Umar accepts it as well.’
‘So he took you there for nothing?’ Gelis said.
‘You may judge it so,’ Nicholas said. ‘We laid his country open to rape, and he allowed it to teach us some truths, and in the end, protected it from us. None of us can be the same. What clods would we be if we were? Your mould is broken: you are afraid, but you have a chance few people have, to make a new one. What you see of me is his handiwork. Diniz will make a good man. Bel brought her own goodness with her, and increased it.’
‘And Godscalc?’ Gelis said. She stopped. ‘No. That isn’t fair. Heaven knows, that isn’t your fault, or Umar’s.’
‘No,’ Nicholas said. ‘You have it wrong. It’s not the men of passionate faith for whom martyrdom is a glory. Godscalc has made good his vows, whereas all his life he feared to fall short of them. The hands are his sacrifice. And he and Colard Mansion are going to drive each other crazy. Gelis, I came back for you.’
He said it in Flemish. He said it deliberately, while he stood and she sat; while they were speaking, and he had not even touched her, so that she would know he had come intending to say it.
Everything in the house now was quiet. ‘Why?’ she said.
‘Because there has been time to reflect. Do you remember?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He looked at the book.
La Danse aux Aveugles
was the title. It was only a title. He said, ‘We made each other a gift. You said that you would take me, if you took any lover. You said – and I said – that there could be no prospect of marriage. I have a question to ask you. According to you, I asked it before.’
‘What?’ she said. There were shadows under her eyes.
He said, ‘The night we spent together. I know why you came to my room. Did you feel the same when you left it?’
Her gaze was so open, he could see the candle flame in it. When he moved, the light from his jewels travelled over her. She said, ‘I thought you could tell.’
He moved his lips, as if he were smiling. ‘You think I was conscious of anything that night but what was happening? But I thought about it while I was away. I didn’t believe we’d come
back. And when we did, and I woke, you had gone. I wondered why you had left.’
‘To make you follow me,’ Gelis said. ‘Umar wanted me to go, rather than hurt you. He thought then that you ought to stay; that coming home would only plunge you into perpetual misery. He wanted peace for you.’
‘I have peace. I have followed you,’ Nicholas said. ‘I am here, if you want me.’
She said, ‘Even though I haven’t answered your question?’
‘You have,’ he said. ‘What revenge would there be in having me follow you, unless it was to refuse me once I came? And you haven’t.’
‘Not yet,’ she said.
He said, ‘Listen.’
She had flushed. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Your breathing,’ said Nicholas. ‘And mine. Gelis, I want to touch you, and I don’t like this library. Must I go home?’
She sat without speaking. The jewels flared at her throat. He remembered the pool in the palace, and the tendril that was her young body, and the child-like buds of her breasts. He thought it would be hard to go home, but he didn’t move.
She said, ‘What would it be, but animal pleasure? You should want more than that. So, I suppose, some day shall I.’
‘If you know who you are,’ Nicholas said. ‘But with me, you will. You said it yourself. I am like Godscalc and Diniz, the other half of your life. The other half of your mould. I don’t even ask that you try to complete mine.’
She rose. It was late. There were lamps here and there on the staircase: the doorkeeper was awake, and no doubt there were servants and pages. But he was a guest of the house, and had only been holding converse in a library. It would be easy enough to make an exit.
Gelis said, ‘There is a way into the new wing they are building. My room is near there. I am afraid it has books in it.’ Now she stood, he could see her skirts trembling.
Nicholas said, ‘If someone sees?’
‘I am a van Borselen,’ Gelis said. ‘In the wrong bed, I am invisible.’ Her voice came from the door.
He opened his eyes, and walked after her, quickly and quietly, through many corridors. ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘that I had been born a van Borselen. Which door? Go in. I’ll wait to see if it’s all right, and follow.’
He did wait, but no one had seen them. He saw, while he waited, the moon hanging yellow as cheese over the roof-tops, and heard a
distant bell, and a dog bark, and a solitary horse ambling by somewhere. From the church of Our Lady came a rumour of plainsong. His body had begun to take charge. He felt sick.