Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘Not for long: Bel of Cuthilgurdy took her off to see Beltrees. I hear it is a beautiful place. You would make a good lord of the manor.’
‘You have been reading my mind,’ Nicholas said. ‘A coat of arms, do you think, with a fish in it?’
‘And a tree, and a ring? It’s been done. I’m going to bait hooks. What about you?’ said Katelijne.
‘The very same thing,’ Nicholas said. She thought he meant it; until she saw him with John le Grant, supervising the emplacement of cannon. The
Unicorn
had no artillery. She would have to decide whether to say so.
She remembered le Grant in Egypt. She liked his unsentimentality, and his fervour for the things that he created, such as the machines for the Nativity Play. Since she came on board, she had encouraged him to talk about it and he had done so, in bursts of impassioned exposition, his fingers stabbing, his chalk slashing out diagrams. The sliding of the scenery thus. The smoke, the vapours, the lights orchestrated thus. The ghosts of the Prophets – how did she imagine that had been done? The unbearable light for the Deity? The paintings that moved?
She asked intelligent questions, and he went on to relate to her, chuckling, the fearsome tally of near-disasters that they had overcome, all of them, that terrible, that miraculous day. He spoke like a man starved, recalling a banquet. She realised that, since the immediate intoxicated aftermath of the Play, he had never been allowed to digest what had happened, or even refer to it. M. de Fleury had made it impossible.
It worried her. She learned quickly that Father Moriz was baffled as well. She had heard a good deal about the chaplain from Germany. It was he and Will Roger, they said, who had involved M. de Fleury in the Play: for the sake of his voice or his character, or perhaps both. It didn’t seem to have worked. The Play, in all its purgative glory, was past; and M. de Fleury had sailed off to Hell unredeemed, and was about to start a small war over fish.
Tackled in private, Father Moriz admitted that he shared her regrets. ‘But,’ he said, ‘I see we are two people who do not easily give up on the gentleman. You are here, then, hoping to turn him back from this unsavoury venture?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘But I had nothing better to do, and he does need a sharp word now and then. I couldn’t leave it to Robin.’
‘To Robin. Of course. Although I doubt if I have ever seen M. de Fleury receive a sharp word from Robin.’
‘I goad him. Robin looks after him. Until someone else comes who can do it.’
The priest studied her thoughtfully. He had a large, unkempt head and a short neck. He said, ‘You are risking a great deal to do so. So is Robin. I am not sure if his father appreciated as much.’
‘Robin would have come anyway,’ Kathi said.
‘Indeed? His father would be relieved, nevertheless, to know you are here,’ the priest suggested.
‘I suppose so,’ said Kathi. ‘He likes M. de Fleury as well.’
In Edinburgh, Archie escaped from his father and strode with his news to the house in the High Street. Gelis received him, but didn’t ask Mistress Clémence to leave. She had bound her hair up again. Archie smiled at the nurse and young Jordan, but spoke to Gelis at once.
‘I’ve just heard where they are. Has Govaerts told you?’
‘They?’ she said.
‘Robin and Nicholas.’ The child, who was playing with wool, looked up at his mother. So did the nurse.
Gelis said, ‘Govaerts told me this morning. They have gone to Ultima Thule, that desert that lies in the ocean.’
‘He told me he was fishing for herring.’
‘He told me the same. Place thy trust in cod,’ Gelis said, ‘rather than in
aleci rubei
, or red herrings. What else have you heard?’
‘That the Vatachino have a ship there as well,’ Archie said. ‘Sersanders, Adorne’s nephew is on it. And his sister Katelijne.’
‘What?’ said Gelis. Of course, she liked Kathi too.
‘She joined her brother at Ayr and sailed north.’
‘Why?’ She spoke as if he might know. He could only guess.
‘On an impulse, it seems. The ladies at Dean didn’t know until later.’
‘But why?’ said Gelis again.
‘I don’t know,’ Archie said at last. ‘Upset over her uncle and aunt. Worried about her brother and Nicholas. Maybe even she wanted to go. You know Kathi. A one-person tornado. Thank God Robin is there.’
The nurse was looking at him. He added, ‘He’s a helpful boy.’
Unexpectedly the nurse spoke. ‘It is spring. Young people embark on adventures. They are in capable hands.’
‘You are right,’ Archie said. He knelt and took some of the wool. ‘Your papa has gone to the top of the world. What will he bring you?’
A slow dismay spread across the boy’s face. The nurse picked him up and sat down. ‘He will bring his two ears,’ she said. ‘And some ice. He will bring some ice from Iceland to keep fresh that long, long difficult poem, so that when papa asks, there it will be, all the verses like new. And papa will be so proud.’
Soon after that, Archie left. He had come to soothe and be soothed, but remained troubled. Nicholas had deceived Gelis; he had deceived Archie himself, and taken Robin his son into danger. But you couldn’t hold a boy – or a girl – from adventuring. And the nurse had been right. It was spring. The boughs in his orchard were sturdy with thickening twigs, and the sun was warm through the glass in his windows. The sea was blue in the spring, and there was a harvest in it for everyone.
The sea was blue, the colour of cobalt. The sky and the sea were both blue, and both vacant. The sun illumined the sails, and the bright knitted hats on the heads of Katelijne and Robin in the mast-basket of the Banco di Niccolò’s
Svipa
. ‘The mainland of Iceland,’ Kathi said, ‘is a fifth bigger than Ireland, three-quarters empty, and you could put the entire populace twice into Venice.’
‘Including the trolls,’ Robin said.
‘Including the trolls. The Danish Governor lives in the south-west. The Danish Bishop lives a day’s ride from that to the east. The Burning Mountain is further east about the same distance.’
‘The Mouth of Hell,’ Robin said.
‘The Mouth of Hell. They call it Hekla. It opens once a year and swallows the damned. Henne is painting it. There are other hot mountains as well. You can tell them by the white clouds above them.’
‘Unless they’re exploding.’
‘Unless they’re exploding. Then you tell them by the black smoke and fire.’
‘And the boiling hot fountains,’ said Robin. ‘You can tell those by the steam. What do you think we’ll see first?’
‘I see it,’ said Kathi. Her voice faded, and then gained a resolute strength. ‘M. de Fleury,
black smoke!’
‘The children are frightening one another,’ said Father Moriz. He turned an inquisitive eye upon Nicholas.
‘You underestimate them,’ Nicholas said. The call from the masthead had reached him. He tilted his head and made a soothing remark. It was something about voting for Beelzebub. Then he turned back. His voice was still soothing. ‘The mountains smoke a great deal of the time, Lutkyn says; it doesn’t mean anything. Except that we are about halfway there, and the
Unicorn
hasn’t caught up.’
The priest said, ‘I hate to say it, but it looks as if you were right.’
Nicholas grinned. So far he had been gloriously, happily right in all his guesses. The
Unicorn’s
problem was the same as his own: how to obtain a full load of fish and get away before the Hanseatic ships came to blow them out of the water.
The
Svipa
had a head start. Instead of trying to race them, Martin would surely consider alternatives. Every inlet on the south coast of Iceland was known to have its store of dried cod: stockfish already in store and ready to sell to incomers. By visiting the best of these now, the
Unicorn
could expect to arrive in the Westmanns with its holds already well filled, and would require no more than a little brisk fishing to leave well ahead of the opposition, including the
Svipa
.
Moriz said, ‘He’s running into a noose of your making.’
‘What noose?’ Nicholas said. ‘Poetic ropes, like poetic justice, are invisible, especially on mythical animals. The beards of women, the roots of stones, the sinews of bears, the breath of fish, the spittle of birds and the noise of the footfall of a cat made the cords that they used to bind Fenrir. Absolutely no residual evidence: they threw the poor brute’s case out of court and he didn’t even get compensation, although he did make a strong point with Odin. Never mind. Come and dice with Old Nick. First prize, Valhalla; second prize, you get cuckolding Vulcan. Moriz, you
are
Vulcan, I never noticed till now. John? Mick? A wager?’
His delight, his childish delight, the delight of childish anticipation ran through the ship like phosphorescence and carried them across the cobalt-blue sea until, between the sea and the sky, a white surf line appeared. A surf line that thickened and shone and took to itself glinting small shapes in a landscape of long gleaming whalebacks. On the sea just in front was a handful of rocks set in dust.
The dazzle of white came from the glaciers of Iceland. The rocks were the Westmann archipelago. The dust was the fishing flotilla of Iceland, busy there. It was spring in the orchards of Edinburgh, but Iceland in March floated pure as the hot-mountain clouds, white as mist, white as steam, white as snow, save for the fingers of smoke from the pyres of the damned.
Under the hand of Mick Crackbene, the
Svipa
sailed innocuously
towards the storm of shrieking gulls and plummeting gannets and dropped anchor well short of the fishing. Then Crackbene went and stood in the prow while the sails were stowed softly as eggs, the awnings rigged, and the ship set to rights after her voyage.
The
Svipa
swung. Forward, the cook had set up his fire and his oven: smoke rose and was snatched by the wind, and a tapping told of a keg being broached. The gulls at their masthead had left to join those over the Icelanders, for the fishing there had continued, even if every man turned now and then to glance over his shoulder and stare. The faces, hatted and hooded, were generally bearded and seemed curiously pale. It could be seen, between waves, that most of the boats had only two oars or four, and some of them were made of pieces of driftwood.
The moments went by. Oddly, the flotilla had thickened. A swirl was created within it, caused, it was apparent, by incomers from beyond; in particular a much larger boat approaching the bank from the shore, having set off, it was clear, as soon as the masts of the
Svipa
were seen. The flotilla embraced it and then, moving apart, allowed the new boat to row through and pass it. Now it could be seen that this was many times the size of the others: a dogger, recently built of good wood, and obeying a firm sweep of multiple oars. A man stood in the prow, and the men behind him were chanting. They were coming straight for the ship.
Then Michael Crackbene leaped up to the peak of the prow and cupped his hands round his mouth.
‘He’s going to say “Ey”,’ said Katelijne.
‘Ey!’
said Crackbene. And in the boat now surging up to their flank the blue eyes, the myriad blue, icy eyes opened and shone.
‘Svipa, ey!’
bawled the man from the boat. And the cry was taken up, from boat to boat under the gulls until all the faces were turned to Mick Crackbene, and smiling.
Peace, not war. They were in Thule and, thank God, they were welcome.
Only Katelijne, watching the dogger arrive, was disturbed. She said, ‘The fishermen know Master Crackbene. They’re coming aboard. Where would they get a new boat of that size?’
Robin wouldn’t have told her just yet. It was John le Grant, on his way to the steps, who seized the chance to explain. ‘Could you not guess? We built the doggers in Leith, exchanged them in Orkney for yoles, and presented the yoles to the Icelanders, together with one twenty-ton dogger that can fish as far out to sea as the Hanse ships.’
‘In return for what?’ Katelijne said. But she knew almost before
she was told. In return for all the existing stores of dried cod, and the fill of M. de Fleury’s holds, if he liked, in fresh landings. She should have guessed. She should have managed to forewarn her brother. Betha Sinclair, so anxious to keep her at Dean, had known of her father’s Orkney involvement. Only Kathi had been blind.
The dogger, arriving, made fast to
Svipa’s
side and the oarsmen slowly clambered aboard, heavily creaking.
‘Don’t laugh,’ Robin said. ‘They’re wearing sheepskin made supple with fish-oil. It’s waterproof.’
‘I’m not laughing,’ Kathi said, and departed. Robin looked after her.
‘She’ll be all right,’ said the chaplain. ‘Divided loyalty is an upsetting thing, with or without halibut-oil. Give her time.’
Robin said nothing.
Father Moriz surveyed him. ‘Some of that was new to you also? I share your doubts, but lives may be saved. The
Svipa
can be freighted and leave in two weeks, before anyone sees or can stop her.’
‘Except the
Unicorn,’
Robin said. He wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t want to be soothed. He was anxious about Kathi’s brother.
The priest removed his handkerchief from his nose, and replaced it quickly. ‘The Vatachino have no more right to be here than we have. With no stockfish to buy, they’re going to be far too busy catching wet fish to complain. And even then, they’ll have to leave if the Hanse come.’
Robin said, ‘Won’t the Icelanders be punished for selling to us?’ Below, the dogger’s master was calling to M. de Fleury.
The German smiled. His eyebrows, fluttering, made him wink. He said, ‘I doubt it. They are tough. Royal officials have been killed in the past. We are more in danger than they are.’
‘If a Hanse ship were to catch us,’ Robin said. M. de Fleury had made a remark, and the dogger man was waving his arms.
‘We must hope that it doesn’t,’ said the priest.
‘It has,’ Robin said. ‘Father, you’ve got your hat too far over your ears. That’s what the man from the dogger is saying.’