Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
‘I ask for no money. The gift is your own, and I propose only to free it. I know what rumours have said of your son and your lady. I know that if you have left them, you must be very sure where they are. Is your pendulum with you?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
There was a silence which he made no effort to break. Then the other man said, ‘So be it. I could not harm him, you must know that. As his father, your power is unbreakable. If I had something of his, I could answer your question.’
Nicholas walked to the stool and subsided. ‘Which is?’
‘It need not be spoken,’ said M. Pierre. He sat opposite. His gaze remained level. ‘A pendulum is only a weight on a cord. You ask it questions and it replies yes, or no. This is a little different. Your answer is more complete. It is spelled.’
Nicholas sat, his unseeing eyes on the bowl. In his purse was a thread, and bound to one end was a carob seed: the pendulum whose presence he had denied. His son was in Dijon. The pendulum told him that every day, as any expert could guess: his finger was inflamed with the rub of the thread. The man said, ‘Please accept. I should balance one thing with another.’
Nicholas looked at him then. The eyes, darker grey than his own, remained level, and the lips within the brown beard, although authoritarian in set, were not without sensibility. Against his better judgement, Nicholas drew the fragile thing from his purse and handed it over.
It dangled over the bowl. The warmth of the sinking sun roused the oil in the fabric that covered the window, and hazed the copper with light. The little play-token hung, motionless, its cord in the Jew’s strong, clean hand. Then it stirred.
It was very quiet. If the revels continued in the next building, they didn’t penetrate here. The only sound was the chime of the seed as it shivered, and swung, and, spacing each swing and each movement, touched the rim of the vessel five times.
The doctor holding the cord had not been told what its owner was
asking. Nicholas, bedevilled by the mists of the future, hardly knew himself what most he needed to know, so ominous and diffuse he felt the shades around him to be. He simply opened the doors of his mind, so that there was nothing between him and the man who held his son’s treasure. And the carob set to its work, and spelled out a name.
The seed stilled. The Jew looked at him. He must have worn a puzzled expression because M. Pierre drew back and said, ‘You are disappointed. Would you like me to do it again?’ His gaze remained calm, although this time Nicholas was conscious of some sounds of activity distantly in the passage and the trampling of horses outside, enough to break the concentration. But when, as he nodded, the pendulum began its travail again, the result was the same.
A name. Not a place-name, the name of a person. The name
ROBIN
.
It was a relief. Nicholas stood. He collected the pendulum from the long palm of the other and, holding it for a moment, made it his own again before putting it away. Architects, glass-makers, doctors, the family Robin were known throughout Anjou and Provence. He thought of the lion Martin and smiled. It was a crooked smile, because the trampling was coming nearer. Not the feet of angels, but of six men at least, outside the window and door. He had been kept there very artfully. But then he had known what might happen.
We cannot even protect our friends
.
The door opened.
‘I am sorry,’ said the man opposite.
‘You had no choice, I am sure. It would have happened in any case,’ Nicholas said. The men who came in were armed. Their leader was a man he had seen before, at long intervals in strange places, in Bruges, in Louvain, in Scotland. He remembered his name, Andro Wodman. Until not so long ago, a member of the King of France’s Scottish Guard; now accompanied by soldiers, every one of whom wore the royal badge of France on his tunic.
Wodman walked in and glanced at the table. ‘We had finished,’ said the physician. ‘Do your duty. I shall tell the Duke of Anjou what has happened.’
Wodman turned. ‘M. de Fleury, my master begs you to forgive the hasty invitation, but I have to ask you to come with me at once.’
‘It is, indeed, remarkably short notice,’ Nicholas said. ‘My boxes, for example, are up at the castle.’
‘They are here,’ Wodman said. ‘My lord apologises, as I have said, for the inconvenience. There is, however, no possibility that he could be refused.’
‘Then I shall not try,’ Nicholas said. He turned. ‘So I must say goodbye, M. Pierre Robin.’ It amused him, a little, that the man had troubled to do no more to fill time than tap out his own name. And yet despite himself, watching the pendulum, Nicholas had been touched by a sadness he had not felt before.
His remark drew a sharp look, as he expected. Then the doctor gave a mild sigh. ‘Ah! My name is not Pierre Robin, M. de Fleury. You have confused me with King René’s physician.
‘We share the name Pierre, it is true; but I am not the Robin whose life, whose fate touched you today. My name is Pierre de Nostradamus.’
Chapter 3
T
HE RED AND
white chequered fortress of Ham, powerful as a walled city, had for two hundred years commanded the village, the church and the River Somme whose moat surrounded it. Because of its strategic importance it had changed hands many times. At the moment it was defended by the Constable of France, and occupied by Louis XI, King of France and nephew and overlord of René of Anjou, who had no army with which to protect either Anjou or his guests.
Nicholas de Fleury was not brought to Ham in bonds, nor deprived of his senses, but he was under guard, and had been for the week of the journey from Angers. On the way, they stayed only at the King’s lodges. The Burgundian was allowed his own horses and his own servants, who were considerably better acquainted with fighting than they looked. Of his escort, only Wodman stayed at his side from the first, but answered no questions.
Nicholas waited. On the first night, eating alone with him in the chamber they shared, Nicholas set down his cup and said, ‘And now.’
Under previous monarchs, the Archers of the Royal Guard of France were handpicked for their looks, as well as for their skill and their courage. In array on the field, they resembled an army of Attic comeliness, with their plumes of red, white and green and their sleeveless three-coloured jackets covered with golden embroidery. Andro Wodman by contrast was an ugly man; short-necked and short-legged and burly under the plated jack which he removed with his helmet and cap. His hair was dark and thick as a bear’s, and the stubble darkened his jowls below a nose squashed in some argument. He seemed to have no objection to scrutiny but spoke through his meat. ‘Ask away. You’ll get some answers. Not many.’
‘You were an Archer of the King’s Scottish Guard?’
‘That’s no secret. Eight years under Pat Flockhart. Jordan Semple had gone by that time – him that’s now Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de
Ribérac. We all thought we’d nothing to do but rise to be a commander like him, and suck up to the King and get land and titles and a post at the Court, but we didna have the genius the vicomte was born with, it would seem. I got out of it seven years ago, none the richer, although I do serve King Louis here and there, when he has need of me. And I give a hand to the good vicomte de Ribérac, whiles in France, whiles in Scotland. Your friend and mine. Him that gave you the scar on your face.’
It was interesting that he knew that. It was easy too to forget that Jordan de Ribérac had once been a soldier in France; a celebrated leader of armies; the confidant of kings. The fat, indolent man who had tried to buy his son Jodi from him.
‘And which of them has sent for me to Ham?’ Nicholas said. ‘The King, or M. de Ribérac?’
‘Oh, the King,’ said the Archer. ‘He seems to think you could be useful. And whether or not, he could always exchange you for your son.’ He grinned. ‘I ought to congratulate you. We thought we could lift him at Dijon, but I’ve never seen a lad better guarded.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. ‘And M. de Ribérac? Shall I see him as well?’
‘Ye could hardly overlook him,’ said the Archer. ‘Forbye, did ye kill his daughter in Scotland?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Nicholas said. ‘I thought you were there at the time.’
‘Master Simon certainly thought that you did. M. de Ribérac’s son. He’s been sent away with his boy Henry – packed off for safety to his places in Portugal. You’re not afraid?’ said Andro Wodman, wiping his platter. ‘The King is a hard man, and ye ken the vicomte. He kills what he catches.’
‘So do I,’ Nicholas said. He stretched back in the settle and studied the Archer. ‘You admire him.’
‘I admire a clever man,’ Wodman said. ‘And a cunning man. And a man who pays me what I’m worth. If you are not afraid of him, then you ought to be. Let me tell you: you’ll never leave Ham until Louis is sure of a hostage. They’ll make you send for the child.’
‘What makes you think that I won’t?’ Nicholas said. It amused him, the way it stopped Wodman talking.
Little more was said, either then or during the rest of the journey. This was a disciple of Jordan’s: Nicholas had no wish to court him. Only, occasionally, he caught the man’s face turned to his, full of puzzlement.
At Ham, he was handed over to the Constable’s men and taken at once to a chamber in one of the towers where he was locked in. His
servants were removed, despite his one, chilly protest. In fact he had been prepared for it. No one explained or apologised. Strangers brought him a meal. His window, too high to need locks, showed him a courtyard noisy with the aftermath of a hunting-expedition; it was known that even in war, Louis moved nowhere without his dogs, his huntsmen, his birds. And this was not war. It was a long, mutually agreed lull during which peace talks between the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy could continue for as long as both sides awaited the outcome of the struggle in England.
Across the Narrow Sea to the north, it might already be decided whether Lancaster was to keep the throne, or York was to recover it. Over there was Margaret of Anjou, daughter of René; first cousin of Louis; wife of the Lancastrian King Henry VI. The triumph of Lancaster would be the triumph also of Louis of France, and the end of Burgundy’s hopes of pushing over the Somme into France. The armies of Lancastrian England would soon prevent that.
If Lancaster won. If, having landed in England, Edward of York was unable to maintain his initial successes, and was imprisoned or killed. As René waited in Anjou, so Louis waited here, in his castle in Picardy. It was not surprising that, at a juncture so momentous, the King’s minor designs should have been set temporarily aside. Nicholas was resigned to a long wait for his audience. He knew, in any case, who would examine him first.
Jordan de Ribérac came to his door as evening fell. Nicholas heard the ponderous tread, accompanied by the footsteps and clank of armed soldiers. He rose as the key was put in the lock. For a moment, despite all his wealth in Venice, his power in Bruges, his growing influence in the Levant, Nicholas de Fleury faced again the fears of his boyhood: the emotions of more than ten years of confrontation and struggle against this gross man who had always despised him, had always proclaimed him to be none of his blood, but the bastard child of his son’s wife. For if he was not, Nicholas the Burgundian, the farouche apprentice of Bruges, would have to be known to the world as his grandson.
The vicomte never altered. His attire – the vast hat, the swathed scarf, the doublet and coat over the mighty shoulders – was of the same style as in the fifties. Whereas René of Anjou, slender, active, only two years the younger, led every fashion in dress and in art when not, as now, living in apprehension and mourning.
There was no trace of distress in the vicomte’s clean-shaven pink face with its ripple of chins. His brow was smooth except for the curling arch over each eyebrow; his brief mouth still owed its character to unbroken strong teeth. His eyes studied, dissected, recorded
from bantering purses. ‘You don’t object? His Sacred Majesty is uncommonly busy. You and I understand each other so well that one brief conversation may well save King Louis an hour of the sandglass.’
‘He could have saved even more by not bringing me,’ Nicholas remarked. He had chosen to remain where he was, perched on the ledge of the window embrasure. At a sign from the vicomte, the soldiers withdrew smartly outside the door, and the vicomte lowered himself into a seat and smoothed out his sleeves.
‘But, Nicholas, you wanted to come. And you had taken care that your little treasure, your boy was well guarded. In Dijon, they say. How sentimental. Did you visit the deserted estate that you managed to ruin? Did you take him to the tomb of your first wife? Did you reverently show him the coffin of your poor over-liberal mother? Does he now understand some simple expressions, such as chienne?’
‘His name is Jordan. I expect he does,’ Nicholas said.
The fat man leaned back. ‘I remember now. You have learned to talk. There is this small store of insults, painfully accumulated through long years of dumb cowering. Perhaps, however, we should try to pass straight to business. What have you to tell me about Duke René’s intentions?’
Nicholas thought. ‘That he has tried to cancel
The Creation
in favour of the
Mystery of St Vincent
,’ he said. ‘It has caused a great upset.’
The fat man sighed. ‘Nicholas. Your present purpose is to manipulate the courts of France and of Burgundy to what you think is your best advantage. Otherwise you would not have come. Anjou’s plans are your bargaining counter. So bargain.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Nicholas said.
‘His plans for his grandson in Lorraine. His plans if his daughter wins England. His plans if she doesn’t. And his plans for the throne of Aragon, now his son John is dead.’
‘And in return?’
‘What do you want?’ said the fat man. ‘Pick from the stall. Money? A little manor house somewhere? Or a contract for something more permanent? A pension, leading to a little title, a big title even? Louis rules France. The lands of the Duke of Burgundy are certainly rich, but they may not stay with him long if he insists on provoking his overlords. You know, and I know, that Duke Charles is a conceited, impetuous dullard whose ambitions will probably wreck him. He is not spending his favours on you, but on that noble pilgrim, that merchant aristocrat Anselm Adorne of Bruges, who is already our rival in business. You should be working for France against the Vatachino and Burgundy.’