Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
By the sixth hour all had dimmed, and their tents were put up by the seventh near a farm, at the onset of darkness. His pavilion, for himself and Benecke, had come from the ship and was ungainly and tall. The Icelanders made a home from three poles, two of them upright, with a cross-pole of eight feet between them. The cover was wadmol, its white folds pegged and weighted with baggage. For mattresses, they employed slabs of turf from under the hook-saddles, and the farmer gave them some dung for their fire, and a wooden pail of warm milk, and some curds. There were no girls in the house, it would seem.
Viewed from the blue dusk of their shelter, the distant tableland glared like their fire, and was quenched. They talked as they ate. After a while, when all the news had been exchanged, and the pointed – the surprisingly pointed – cross-questions had ceased, Nicholas contrived to lead Glímu-Sveinn to speak of his island as once it had been.
The first to come had been the Culdees: Irish monks, Robin had told him, who worshipped Christ on St Serf’s island in Fife as well as here, on the islets of Iceland, and who knew the pink-footed geese in both lands.
Then had come the Norwegian settlers, worshipping Odin and Thor, whose hammer-symbols and giants and trolls still haunted the fiery hills and the caves and the fissures, even though Christ had ousted Odin, and there were devils with new names in Hell. Glímu-Sveinn was familiar with all the stories because, since his ancestors came, they had been related over and over through the dark nights, and written down, and made into poetry, and sung. Everyone in Iceland knew who his ancestors were. Every farm, every hill, every rock had its name and its story. The plague had come twice this last century. The Black Death had killed half the populace. But still the vellum rolls were kept in their coffers, and for those who could not read, the farmer would tell over the tales in the evenings, or give room to the travelling bard, who paid his way with his stories. ‘Who were your ancestors,’ asked Glímu-Sveinn, ‘ten generations ago?’
And Nicholas laughed a little and said, ‘I do not even know who my father might be.’ It sounded friendly. It didn’t need to be true.
By then Benecke had fallen asleep on his bed, and soon Nicholas joined him. After that, he wakened and slept, and occasionally attended to the health of the fire. Once he saw Glímu-Svein silently rise and move out, a lighted spar in one hand and his knife in the other. The dog had been uneasy and jumped up and went out with his master. Then they both returned and the Icelander went back to his tent, saying nothing.
Nicholas lay and considered. He had put aside the matter of Kathi. She and her brother had passed; the farmer confirmed it. They would have reached Skálholt this morning, and might already be embarked on the last of their journey. He would catch up with them. He would reach Skálholt tomorrow. What happened then might be amusing.
Now he should sleep, but could not. He wondered if Glímu-Sveinn had daughters. He wondered how Sersanders had fared, and was faring, and if his sister had learned of the hospitable customs of the country. She would greet the discovery, he knew, with genuine laughter.
It was not how he felt. He didn’t know why, tonight of all nights, he should remember the scents of an African night, the pillowed dunes of a much smaller island; the arms in which he had lain – on which he had lain – over and over. The sense of loss, of foreboding stayed with him till dawn, and caused him to reply curtly when his prisoner rallied him. He regretted it, and shook off the mood. It was not Benecke who had turned out to be humourless. He busied himself, packing up, and noticed that nothing had changed about the two fitful emissions of smoke on the horizon. The demons which stoked them were absent. The demons, damn them, had been busy elsewhere.
Chapter 26
I
N EDINBURGH –
the ancient epicentrum towards which, in counter-flow, there had streamed for six months all the molten concerns of the Banco di Niccolò – in Edinburgh, no word came from the north. In the house in the Canongate, Govaerts prosecuted his business tight-lipped with his hard-working staff of the counting-house, and maintained and developed all that the padrone had instituted with the great officers of the Court, and the Court itself.
He did not find it especially easy, for although some – the Lords Sinclair and Hamilton – were prepared to be remarkably patient, his grace the King and his brother were not. And although his master’s lady herself did not trouble him, he had to suffer the daily importunities of Berecrofts the Younger. A father’s feeling: it was natural enough. There were times when Govaerts wished, none the less, that Nicholas had left the boy Robin behind. He was only thankful that news of the whole escapade had yet to strike Venice.
It had of course travelled to Bruges, and from there to the Burgundian camp. He could imagine Astorre’s spit of disgust. It meant little. Whatever his boy chose to play at, Astorre was confident that he would return to his real task unimpaired. Astorre was looking forward to fighting this year.
Sometimes, his thoughts straying, Govaerts allowed himself to wonder what Zacco of Cyprus would think of his Nikko de Fleury, if he thought of him at all, while he had David, the dark-eyed David of the Vatachino, at his side. In uncharitable mood, Govaerts occasionally hoped that somewhere in the far north, Nicholas was slicing up David’s friend Martin and feeding him to strange foreign ducks. He also wondered about the Gräfin von Hanseyck, who would have had a share in this venture, had the Danzig ship been finished in time.
Gelis did not keep to the house. The Play had made her more friends than she had possessed in her years with the Princess, and
other doors opened, of course, to the wife of her spouse. It was not her intention – not yet – to disillusion all these decent, tedious people: to say to them, Do you never ask yourself what kind of man performs best on a stage? What person is this with the calculating efficiency of a quartermaster; who can command and drive people as a general does, or seduce them with cunning? There are men of genius, and there are tyrants, and there are men who might be either or both.
She did not go back to Beltrees.
Mistress Clémence concerned herself, as was correct, with nothing at all but the child. When the fever first attacked, in the early days of their return to the High Street, she did not trouble the mother, but embarked, with Pasque’s help, on all the usual remedies, for children are sick for many reasons, not least because their playmates are absent. When, however, the pustules appeared, she sent at once for Conrad, the physician who served the royal children in Dr Andreas’s absence, and went to break the news to the lady of Fleury.
If there had been any doubt of her love for the child, her distress would have seemed to dismiss it. All her actions were bold and immediate. The sickroom was shut off. Commands were sent to William Scheves and the Prioress. Berecrofts the Younger, swiftly obeying her summons, arranged to vacate his family house by the Avon so that the child could be tended apart. Mistress Clémence remained in isolation by the bedside, aware that in particular a messenger had been sent to the King, and to his sister at the Castle of Dean. Several ailments struck thus. Some were innocent. One was the disease that men ranked with the plague.
Dr Conrad, of course, was aware of it. As the illness developed, he frequently came and sat with the child, speaking sensibly to his nurses and discussing methods of easement. He did not answer Pasque’s aggressive questions, and Clémence asked none. It was too soon. Time would tell. Then one day he had returned from his supper below to come to the bedside again, and had removed his hand from the whimpering child to exchange smiles with the nurse and with Pasque.
‘The sickness of the water-pox, not the other. It is plain. A bath in warm water in which starch has been dissolved. Prevent him from scratching. Keep him away from other children until the blisters have healed. In three weeks he will be well. I shall go and inform Mistress Gelis, and convey the news to the Castle.’
Jodi, who did not know he did not have smallpox, burst into tears, and was prodigally comforted. Later, alone with Clémence in their room, Pasque spoke her mind. ‘That lady,’ she said. ‘Does she care
for the garçonnet, do you think? Or was she afraid, if he died, to have to confess to the father?’
‘Surely she cared,’ said Clémence de Coulanges. ‘And it is as well, for Master Jordan is fond of her.’
‘Accustomed to her,’ said Pasque. ‘As he is accustomed to everyone. I expect that woman will come.’
‘Which woman?’ asked Mistress Clémence. It was surprising what Pasque understood.
‘That widow who lives in the west, Mistress Bel. The master took Jodi to see her in Edinburgh. You went.’
‘I remember,’ said Mistress Clémence. ‘Yes. I suppose she might come, when she hears. And, of course, the father is expected back soon, with young Robin.’
‘No!’ said Anselm Sersanders for the third time to his sister. They sat in her room in the guest-quarters of the Bishop’s Cathedral at Skálholt, which was a collection of snow-plastered buildings surrounding a handsome small church made of wood. The roofs were of much-nibbled grass covered with footmarks, and blackened and singed from the smoke from the kitchen. There was no fire in Kathi’s room, which contained a standing bed and a chest and a basin, and bore signs of an abrupt evacuation. Three women’s shoes of differing sizes lay under the bed, and the curtain over a corner proved to have a thick sheepskin garment hanging behind it. It was a man’s. It looked dirty, but comfortable.
Kathi herself was dressed like a very small man, in boots and leggings and a belted tunic down to her knees, peasant-fashion. She sat on her bed swinging her legs while Sersanders thumped himself down on the box in a pet. Old eider feathers swam from the cushion: he sneezed. He said, ‘I am not going back to the
Svipa.’
It was hard luck, Kathi knew. Sersanders never forgave Fate for its blunders. Victory over M. de Fleury had been so deliciously close. Here they were, the strenuous journey from the Markarfljót behind them, and a mere day’s ride between them and the
Unicorn
. First, they had been prevented from leaving because of a dearth, so it seemed, of fresh horses. And now here was the Bishop’s bailiff, just back from a visit to Hafnarfjördur, to tell them that there was no point in going at all. While they were stranded at Skálholt, the
Unicorn
had loaded and gone.
It was smart, even for Martin. But of course, he wanted to protect all that sulphur for their uncle. He wanted to get home really fast, avoiding anyone else, such as a vindictive Paúel Benecke and the
Svipa
. And of course (as she said to Sersanders) Martin could have had no idea they were hoping to join him. He appeared to believe her.
She had continued. ‘It’s good news really, when you think. The ship will get home. Uncle will recoup all he lost from the cargo, and it will pay nearly as well as the fish. And we can go back on the
Svipa.’
That was when he said, ‘No!’ for the first time. He did not mean to go back with the man who had exposed Uncle Adorne’s cog to the
Maiden
. He intended to wait for the Bishop, and then return south in his Buss.
‘The Bishop’s out of the country,’ said Kathi with involuntary fondness. Her eyes watered.
‘And very likely the
Svipa’s
out of the country,’ said her brother. ‘If the
Unicorn
thought it wise to get out, I don’t suppose the
Svipa
is going to linger. Nicholas will complete all his fishing and go. He’ll be gone before we could get back.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Kathi said. ‘M. de Fleury said that he’d come for us. What’s so shameful about letting him do it? He kept us safe, whatever he did to the
Unicorn
. It’s just normal good manners to him.’
‘Then he’ll land, find we’ve gone, and go away.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Kathi. ‘All right. Let’s go back to the delta with Tryggvi, and if the
Svipa
has gone, we’ll ask if the
Maiden
can take us.’
‘Kathi,’ said her brother with unnatural gentleness. ‘If Nicholas captured the
Maiden
, the
Maiden
will either be towed home by Nicholas, or he’ll steal her cargo and sink her on leaving. I rather hope that he does; the Hanse will hang him.’
‘Oh,’ said Kathi. She frowned. ‘Is that why you don’t want to join him? You’d rather like him to outrage the Lübeckers?’
‘No! Don’t be silly. Of course not. If he’s decided to do something mad, he won’t stop just because I arrive. I just don’t want you involved in the fighting.’
‘You don’t,’ Kathi said.
‘I don’t. So we’re going home by the Buss. Settle down. We’ll have horses, they say, by tomorrow. You,’ said Anselm, ‘can do what you like. But I thought that I’d get up early and try for some falcons.’
‘Oh,’ said Kathi. She had stopped swinging her legs. ‘I shouldn’t mind that. Where do you find them?’
He opened his mouth. ‘You’re not coming.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Kathi said.
‘No!’ said Anselm Sersanders for the third time.
Nicholas, considering later that magnificent morning scamper to Skálholt, also considered the pure impatience Glímu-Sveinn must
have felt, burdened with two irresponsible men, mad as berserkers, and one of them maimed in one arm. The exhilaration of the light and the snow was their only excuse, added perhaps to some childish denial of the awe that had smitten them. Also it had to be admitted that Glímu-Sveinn himself was preternaturally dour, so that the competitions between Nicholas and his fellow privateer became progressively wilder. It was as well, in fact, that they arrived at the smoking enclave of Skálholt when they did.
And even then their buoyancy was not impaired, for although the news at first appeared bad – the young man and the
junfrú
had arrived the previous day and had left early that morning – a further explanation by the steward who ran out to meet them had caused Nicholas to break into laughter, and Paúel Benecke to parade a picturesque glower. The
Unicorn
had arrived at her harbour, purchased her fill of Krísuvík sulphur and left.