Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
As Nicholas de Fleury remained so brilliantly visible that festive Yule and the weeks that immediately followed it, so by contrast the house of Anselm Adorne remained quiet, though not lacking in visitors. The Baron tried not to deviate from his plan, but continued painstakingly to interweave the complicated threads of his embassy and his personal business, always looking to the future, and taking account of the new land he possessed and his increased duties in Scotland and Bruges. He continued to confer in private with Martin. He perused, too, but did not discuss with his womenfolk, the letters which came to him from Genoa and Danzig, Rome and Cologne, and his own agents and partners in Bruges. And, of course, from his daughter in England.
He now knew, from Jan, that the plan had succeeded: that de Fleury’s new ship would not be here by the spring, whereas his own vessel was on its way with its cargo, in immaculate order, in exemplary time. He knew that Diniz, de Fleury’s Bruges manager, was
uneasy over the outlay in Scotland, and over the padrone’s winter isolation from Venice and Rome and the Low Countries, as the French-Burgundian truce showed signs of wearing thin. He also knew, but could not explain how he knew, that the effort to divert, to reshape, to tame Nicholas de Fleury had failed.
Adorne had never spoken of this to Kathi, and at present she was wholly devoted to the care of Margriet, like the other kind women and Andreas. The German priest had, he thought, recognised a little of what was being attempted, but had called to leave his condolences, not to chatter. The same applied to the three generations of the Berecrofts family. They said the young one, the boy Robin, was going to Nicholas to train as a squire. Kathi maintained it would do him no harm. Kathi was too young to remember Felix de Charetty, who had also had dreams.
There remained the musician, Will Roger, who had begun it all with his motet. Long ago, even without Phemie Dunbar to instruct him, the Baron Cortachy had recognised that the Englishman’s truculent moods, his battery of invective and blandishments were no more than weapons: the siege machinery of his ferocious commitment to his art.
Adorne had not attended the Play. He had not been there when de Fleury, fulfilling his promise, gave Roger the creation he had asked for; but he had spoken to those who were present, and had learned from their silence as much as from their speech. Will Roger, exchanging words after the funeral, had simply said, ‘God preserved you from watching it. It would have been wrong.’
‘Everyone tells of your music,’ Adorne had said.
‘Oh yes,’ Roger had said. ‘I made music. But this man who wastes time as a merchant – this man put together shape and texture and light and matched the music to movement. Or mismatched it, out of sheer screaming arrogance. He got van der Goes – he got the best artists in Europe to copy the paintings by Lippi and van Eyck and Petrus Christus. He did the Strozzi-Fabriano Magi in its gold frame, and replaced the painted figures with live ones – can you imagine that? The dove was
real –
it fluttered down the nine golden rays to Mary’s cloak and nestled there. You couldn’t see the mechanism or hear it: the angels floated, the demons from Hell swirled and flew. The shepherd’s bob of cherries was real, and so were Gabriel’s garlands and the stem of white lilies. And he prodded the spoken word into it all, never forgetting that the most fearsome sound a man hears –’ He stopped.
‘What?’ said Adorne.
‘– is no sound at all.’
Adorne did not speak. At length he said, ‘And it was done as he wanted?’
‘As in war,’ Roger said. ‘For the space of one day, they would have followed him into Gehenna. He could have razed Rome or retaken Jerusalem.’
‘Now he knows what he can do,’ Adorne said. He waited. ‘What is it? You cannot think you have lit the wrong fire?’
‘I think I have stamped it out,’ Roger said.
Adorne straightened. ‘Surely not. You wanted him, and so did I, to recognise what talents he has and put them to use. Now the world knows he can do it.’
‘They will forget,’ Roger said. ‘A play, a piece of music are soon wafted away. They will not hold him to it, and he will not listen to me again, or to you. I wanted him to do something well, but I forgot, idiot that I am, what theatre teaches. It teaches power.’
‘Is that bad?’ Adorne said.
Will Roger looked at him. He said, ‘When I train my musicians, my choir, I have absolute power for a short time. For me, that’s enough. In military life, a man learns as he rises, from humble lanceknight to captain, from captain to Constable. But in business? The patron of a company exerts power, but not over a clamouring crowd: his men are scattered, he reaches them scribe to scribe, person to person.’
‘You are saying that the experience of mass command was a shock? Was too much? Was something he would be afraid of applying to other parts of his life?’
‘I don’t know,’ the musician said. ‘If I were God, I’d kiss that man and offer him pardon, provided he produced plays such as that through eternity. As it is, he has gone back to his worm-cast. He has returned to his petty affairs as if it never happened.’
He spoke as if it were a matter of personal grievance, but there was another emotion beneath. Adorne said, ‘It is lonely, the life of a leader. The herd offers companionship.’
Will Roger looked up. ‘What herd will he fit into now? Whatever he does, he is isolated by his own gifts. If he doesn’t put them to use, he’s in limbo.’
There was a silence. Adorne wondered, in a detached way, if Roger thought he was drawing an analogy: if he conceived that Adorne’s own career – ducal adviser, burgomaster, royal envoy – in any way resembled that of a dyeyard apprentice. Then he realised he was being ridiculous, and smiled. He said, ‘You think he has failed to take the chance that you offered him – that we all offered him. But he can never be quite the same. And because of you, a great thing has been done.’
‘It has been done by a cripple,’ said Roger.
Last of all, just before Gelis left for the west, she learned from Archie of Berecrofts that Nicholas had come to visit him.
Since they possessed adjoining houses, this was not unusual. It seemed, however, that Nicholas had had no particular purpose, except that of commending young Robin, and of obtaining Archie’s consent to remove the boy for a little from Edinburgh. When asked where he was going, Nicholas had referred vaguely to Moriz, who had established some promising ventures on the Fife and Lothian coasts.
It had always been Gelis’s plan to survey her husband’s new castle of Beltrees; especially since Nicholas had so markedly omitted to take her there. She waited. Through her work on the Play, she had become well acquainted with their Renfrewshire factor. As soon as Nicholas proved indeed to have left for the east, Gelis arranged to ride in the opposite direction with Master Oliver Semple. Prudently, she took Jordan with her, and Mistress Clémence and Pasque to attend him. It was cold, but her thoughts and her plans were most cheering, and Jodi liked horses. In any case it would not be very long, she suspected, before his father rejoined them.
She forgot, because it seemed to have no present relevance, the conversation Nicholas had once begun about Jordan’s future. She enjoyed good health herself, and Nicholas displayed all his usual energy. His final visit to Jordan had been if anything over-exuberant, although against custom he had brought the child something to play with, and had extracted a promise to do with a lengthy poem he wished to hear on returning. The poem would take some weeks to memorise, which he might or might not have guessed. Mistress Clémence at least would take the hint; and the child seemed undisturbed by the imminent parting. His father had vanished on business before, and come back. Equally, since Nicholas had chosen to leave, Gelis saw no need to inform him that she and Jordan were not staying in Edinburgh. He would learn soon enough.
Just before Gelis left, she learned with pleasure that Crackbene had come ashore in a hurry. She wondered if Nicholas had noticed that Martin had vanished. She did not know, and no one told her, that John le Grant had gone from his lodgings as well. She saw no cause at that point to regret having told Nicholas the truth about Katelina.
Part III
Spring, 1472
THE CRAPAULT OF HELL
Chapter 20
T
O
MANY PEOPLE
in Edinburgh, it was perfectly obvious why the younger Burgundian had left town. The theories did not always coincide, except in so far as all agreed that a massive money-making adventure, of advantage to them all, was about to be advanced to a brilliant conclusion. After which, as was known, Nicol de Fleury would leave to join his army abroad until the summer campaigning was over.
The project was, of course, to do with the production of salt, for which de Fleury had the lease of the Hamilton rights on both sides of the Forth. Alternatively, it had to do with the mining of coal, extensively used in the pans, and also profiting by the Bank’s remarkable success in the field of sophisticated hydraulic engineering. Or if it were neither of these, then it was concerned with the casting of cannon, now brought to such an improved level that before you knew it (men said with a wink) Scotland would be exporting to Mons.
Money changed hands.
There was a rumour about precious metals, but the knowledgeable declared it ill-founded: the man had ridden eastwards, not west.
There was some talk about fishing.
Asked to opine on the subject, Archie of Berecrofts said less than most, although in fact he knew something. The world might think that Nicol de Fleury had dropped by to talk about Robin, but that was the tale they agreed on. What Nicol de Fleury had wanted was not a few weeks of Robin, but the company of Archie his father.
It had been hard to refuse. The old man had refused for him. ‘My Archie’s a merchant. He’s nae mair tae say tae a line o’ dried fish than a line o’ raisins wad flush up a fishmonger.’
‘You sell herring,’ said Nicholas.
‘Oh aye,’ said old William of Berecrofts. ‘And I’ll tak’ a share in your trade. But a piece of Archie you’ll not can get, my fine lad. Berecrofts needs him.’
‘I can go,’ Robin had said.
The eyes of William and Nicholas had met. Nicholas said, ‘I think Berecrofts needs you as well.’
‘Berecrofts will get me,’ Robin had said. ‘When I’m trained. You promised to train me.’ He added, ‘Or I’ll complain to the King.’
Nicholas winced. Old William said nothing. The father, biting his lip, looked at the boy. The grandfather, breaking his silence said, ‘Take the lad. ’Tis time for his blooding.’
Of the three men paid to spy upon the Burgundian, it was the bearded man who followed him when he left. De Fleury’s cavalcade was quite small, and not overburdened with luggage, so that its pace was quite brisk. Nevertheless it was easy to follow, depositing its belongings in Leith, and passing on to the outcrops and saltflats further east, where Moriz the German priest joined them. Then, just as they prepared to move on, a messenger came with some news and the whole party turned back to the house in North Leith in a temper. You could hear the shouting clean through their windows. Then a servant emerged, and spurred off back up the road to the Canongate.
The bearded man went to report. The man who had arrived in such haste was Michael Crackbene, the company shipmaster. And the news he had brought could be guessed at.
The second spy, discreetly placed in the warmth of the stables, was able to see the bustle of servants, and was quite ready to follow when de Fleury emerged from the house followed by Crackbene. They made for the strand where the doggers were building. Directing the work was the Bank’s red-headed gunner. There was an acrimonious passage between them, then de Fleury returned to the house.
The second spy sent a message to Edinburgh:
De Fleury’s new ship failed to come. They are taking one of the doggers, and ordering another to follow. The herring have nothing to fear; nor has his lordship
.
Robin said, ‘I think someone is watching us.’ Standing at the window of the Leith house, he peered through the horn and was careful to keep his voice firm. If the rest could hide their dismay, so could he.
‘He is welcome,’ said Father Moriz, the German. ‘We shall still sail tomorrow. Are you afraid of small boats?’
‘It is twenty tons, for God’s sake,’ said the engineer, John le Grant. ‘All you need to know is which side to be sick over.’
Robin kept quiet. He had been to Aalborg once with his father, and he hadn’t been sick. He was used to small boats. He had just looked
forward to something magnificent. And although no one had told him very much, he could make guesses.
Later, when supper was over and the fireside flask had gone round, he spoke his thought to M. de Fleury. ‘Now we shall have to fish.’
The dimple he hated appeared. ‘It is what one usually does, in a fishing-boat.’
He was obstinate. ‘In one as big as the ship that isn’t coming from Danzig?’
‘How much you know,’ said his master. ‘That is the ocean there outside the firth. What else would a ship do but fish?’
‘Rob other ships,’ the boy said. ‘Baltic ships trading in herring.’
The dimple deepened. ‘An interesting theory. Have you shared it with anyone else?’
He was honest. ‘My grandfather wondered. He says Master Crackbene is known.’
‘Mick?’ M. de Fleury addressed the broad-shouldered seamaster. ‘Are you known?’
‘I hope so,’ said Crackbene. ‘Or I have been wasting my time.’ And everyone laughed.
Then they were at sea.
At first, he believed they were going to fish, for they struck out as you would expect, into the ocean. He was accordingly mystified when they changed tack to bear persistently shore wards. Questioned, the crewmen ignored him. There were only eight, and none of them Leithers, although he thought he recognised one: a man who sometimes plied between Dysart and Eskmouth. Finally, he asked the German chaplain where they were going.