And then, the gambit that had worked so well round a hundred conference tables: How could the Prior be blamed, when his mind dwelled, as it should, on higher things? Perhaps a little help was what was required, rather than an adverse report to the Lords and Commissioners. What if a lumberman were employed, to patrol or even live in the forest? What if the alms were to be given outside, rather than inside the wood? What if …? The timber expert, consulted, produced a few sensible, inexpensive ideas which the Prior, now supported by his senior religious, believed he might well recommend to the commune.
Surprisingly, wine was brought. Unsurprisingly, when Gelis, gracefully expressing her gratification, turned the conversation harmlessly to the pious work of the monastery, the Prior was relieved and happy to answer her questions.
Almost, Tobie had forgotten why they had come. It was, therefore, with something approaching a shiver that he heard Gelis say, ‘And Lord Cortachy mentioned, I think, that an old friend of my husband’s was here. It was my other reason for calling. I believe we owe a great deal to your care of M. le vicomte de Fleury?’
She was clever. She sat, pure as an angel, with her throat and hair veiled, and the silken fall of her hood caught at her breast with a reliquary brooch worth more than a few Montello oak trees. The Prior said, ‘The name of my lord your husband is known to us, of course. We have often wondered whether there was some kinship.’
‘A distant one only,’ Gelis lied. ‘But Lord Beltrees has always interested himself, of course, in the old gentleman’s welfare. You may not even have been aware of the source of the payments. They continue satisfactorily?’
The Prior looked at his bursar, who coughed. The bursar said, ‘We would not wish to complain.’
Tobie let out his breath. Gelis said, ‘If it is inadequate, of course you must tell me. This is a personal matter, and has no bearing on our business arrangements.’ Her voice was almost normal. Until he heard it, Tobie hadn’t realised the strain that she, too, had borne until now. The old man was alive. He was here.
Then the Prior said, ‘I am sure there is nothing that cannot be simply adjusted. But day and night help is expensive. His own servant, however devoted, is no longer young, and deserves relief.’
‘Who could refuse that?’ Gelis said. ‘We shall talk of that soon, and in detail. But first, I should like to meet and thank the servant you speak of. And perhaps, on behalf of my husband, to look upon my lord the vicomte himself, however briefly?’
If they knew that her husband was no longer in Venice, no one mentioned it. The lumber expert, full of wine, was allowed to depart. Tobie followed Gelis and the Prior out of his quarters and across the immaculate domain to where, against the encircling walls, the cabins of the monastery’s own little infirmary clung to the slope of the hill with its well and its plot of tilled ground, in which flowers and vegetables seemed to be growing together. There were juniper bushes, and some lavender, and a sturdy vine arbour for shade, with a few stools and a small table within, and a litter, with someone sleeping on it. The cicadas shrilled, and you could hear a hum as of bees: the prayers drifting up from the church. There was no sound from the cloisters.
A man in the robes of a lay brother rose and came forward, bowing, and waited. The Prior said, ‘This is Brother Huon, to whose tender care M. le vicomte undoubtedly owes his life. Brother, the lady is Egidia, wife to my lord Niccolò de Fleury, a kinsman of the vicomte’s, and his protector. You have heard of the Banco di Niccolò. And this is Master Tobias Beventini da Grado, physician and nephew of your great hero of Pavia. I leave you together.’
He left. The monk looked from the lady to the doctor, his straw hat gripped in his hands in an attitude of uncertainty, even wariness. His tonsured scalp gleamed, smooth and rosy above a face browned by sun and withered by years, which yet had white lines of laughter radiating from the weak eyes, and a touch of stubbornness about the gentle mouth. Tobie said, ‘One doctor meets another. I am glad.’
‘Oh no!’ the man said. ‘I have no training. I have a small experience of remedies, that is all. The sick in the infirmary are cared for by a visiting physician.’ He smiled and added, ‘We have no one sick just now.’ He was watching Gelis, whose gaze was resting on the arbour.
She said, ‘Then that is the vicomte?’
‘He is sleeping,’ the monk answered quickly. He did not offer to take her across.
‘You have been with him a long time?’ said Tobie. ‘Perhaps the lady might sit, while you tell us a little about him?’
‘Her husband is a relative? Another relative?’ the monk said. He hesitated, and then led the way past the arbour to where a low house stood on its own, its door open, with a bench set in the shade under the thatch, and some stools. Gelis sat, and Tobie followed her slowly, using his eyes.
The motionless form on the litter had not stirred. The man was lying on his back, with a thin coverlet drawn up to his chest, and his loosely clad arms resting on top of it. The hand Tobie could see was heavily veined, but its long fingers, though thin, were not wasted. The sick man’s head, turned away, was concealed by a mane of combed, silvery hair, which merged into a full, curling beard. The hair, unusually for an ailing person, was glossy, and everything about him looked cared-for and clean.
Tobie sat down saying, smiling, ‘You are to be congratulated,’ and then realised what the monk had just said.
Brother Huon returned the smile. ‘He is an easy patient. He was clean-shaven, but shaving is tiring. We stopped at the time of the seizure and then did not restart.’ He turned to Gelis, who had suddenly spoken. ‘Madame?’
Gelis repeated her question. ‘He has had visits from other family members?’
‘Recently, no. Since the old lady died, he has had fewer regular visitors. But three years ago, the Burgundian gentleman visited him. M. Anselm Adorne. I believed him to be a kinsman. Was he not?’
‘Did he claim to be? I didn’t know,’ Gelis said. ‘Did he manage to speak, then, with M. le vicomte?’
‘He saw him, certainly,’ said the monk. ‘But it was not a good day, and M. Adorne had brought with him a young man, his son, who was impatient. In a sickroom, one must be considerate.’ He smiled again. ‘The old lady was helping me then. She soon turned them away.’
‘An old lady? Here?’ Gelis said. Even to Tobie, her voice sounded artificial.
‘We have servants to clean,’ said Brother Huon. ‘Although Mistress Tasse was not a servant: she had long retired from her work before she came to settle in the Trevisana. Then she —’ He broke off. ‘But perhaps you know her? She left to nurse the child of the director of the Banco di Niccolò, and she was dead within the month, drowned in Venice before her charge was even born?’
Gelis frowned. Tobie said aside, ‘You never knew her. She died when you and Nicholas were in Scotland. A good little soul, Tasse. I met her once in Geneva. She was still working for Jaak and Esota, just as she did when Nicholas was there as a boy. Jaak de Fleury, the vicomte’s younger brother.’
Her eyes were fastened on his. Neither heard the sound that prompted Brother Huon to jump to his feet and look across at the litter. The monk said, ‘He is awake. Let me go to him.’ He crossed the grass and, bending over the recumbent figure, appeared to be addressing it. He did not immediately return.
Gelis spoke in a low voice. ‘I didn’t know you had met Thibault’s brother. Why didn’t you tell me? What else do you know about Thibault de Fleury?’
It was her right to hear. It was his own fault that he had tried to avoid this. Tobie said, ‘Only what I’ve picked up from others. He must be eighty, or more. He married twice, once when he was young, and once thirty years later; so that he ended with a daughter, Adelina de Fleury, who was two years younger than Nicholas, his grandson and her nephew. The vicomte’s second wife died soon after the birth, and Nicholas’s mother cared for the two children until she died in turn, and they were both sent to the household of the vicomte’s brother Jaak, since the vicomte by then was incapable. Jaa
k …’ He paused. ‘He ran the family business in Geneva. Rich. Violent. No children, and a half-crazy wife called Esota. The little girl, Adelina, was only five and was lucky to be sent off soon to a convent: she’s been in and out of convents ever since, repudiating her family. Nicholas stayed until he was sent off to Bruges, to be apprenticed to Cornelis de Charetty, Marian’s first husband. The old vicomte stayed on, helpless, in Fleury and Jaak de Fleury flourished in Geneva until —’ He broke off.
‘Until?’
‘Until Nicholas grew old enough to take his revenge. He ruined Jaak’s business, which incidentally impoverished the vicomte as well. In the riots that followed, Jaak’s wife Esota was killed. And then Jaak himself died when he came to Bruges and tried to take over Marian’s business.’
‘Nicholas killed him?’ Gelis said.
‘He fought him. No, he didn’t kill him,’ Tobie said.
‘You mean, not directly,’ Gelis said. ‘Nicholas rarely destroys anything directly.’ She gazed at the arbour where the monk, silent now, was placing pillows behind the disabled man’s head, and pouring him water. Gelis said, ‘I suppose I know why you have suddenly decided to confess all this now. This is a man whom Nicholas ruined, and whose brother he virtually killed. If he has any recollection of that, he will not welcome us.’
Tobie said, ‘This is also the man who made no provision for Nicholas while he was well, so that his keepers could do what they liked. If he has enough wit, as you say, then he might regret it enough to explain. We’re here to discover who the father of Nicholas was. Nicholas was born in the vicomte’s house at Fleury and lived there with his mother until he was seven. His mother claimed that Nicholas was the legitimate son of her husband, Simon de St Pol. Simon maintains that the child wasn’t his, because he hadn’t lain with his wife since she miscarried of a first son. She said she was innocent, but the St Pols did not believe her. But would the vicomte have allowed her to stay if the birth had been shameful?’
‘He needed her,’ Gelis said. ‘To run the household, and rear his legitimate daughter. Or perhaps he was too ill to know.’
‘Perhaps,’ Tobie said. ‘Have you ever worked out what Simon’s age must have been at his marriage? He must have been fifteen or sixteen. Thirteen years younger than Sophie.’
‘I know,’ Gelis said, after a silence. ‘You would say she had trapped him into marriage, except that she was well born and her family possibly richer than his. My guess is that Simon did what he usually does: took what he wanted. And when it led to a child, he was compelled by both families to marry. He would resent that.’
‘So he might have lied to get out of the marriage?’
‘He might,’ Gelis said. ‘But I don’t think he did. Simon truly believes that his wife cheated. Just as Nicholas truly believes that he is Simon’s son.’
Tobie looked at her. She had spoken with her usual composure, but had broken off at the end, as if her throat had stopped. Nicholas had always believed he was Simon’s son: Tobie knew that. Gelis’s exploitation of that fact had been one of the cruellest features of the bitter contest between Nicholas and herself. If, in the outcome, Nicholas had outraged them all, he had some excuse. But not enough.
Then the monk called Brother Huon came towards them, his gown brushing the grass, and said, ‘He is ready to see you: please come. But perhaps you would have care not to tire him. His strength does not last long.’
‘We shall be careful. I shall call you at the first hint of difficulty,’ Tobie said.
The monk smiled. ‘Have no fear, I do not repeat private conversations. I have told him who you are. He wishes to see you. But communication would be difficult without me.’
Private conversations! Tobie said, ‘Forgive me. We have received reports of the vicomte’s health and understanding … that were perhaps erroneous?’
A sound came from the litter. Brother Huon looked across with an affectionate smile which he then bent on Tobie. ‘The reports were probably true at the time,’ the monk said. ‘He has had many episodes of paralysis, although not for some years. Before he came into our care, he was kept much under opiates, and because he was unable to speak, or to use his hands, it was thought that his intellect was also deficient. This was not so; and now that his limbs are free, we can converse.’ The smile widened. ‘You heard my lord laugh. Your remark amused him, although he will take you to task about your other assumptions.’
Gelis said, ‘He heard what we were saying?’
‘His hearing is excellent, my lady. When one power is lost, the others often become sharper. Pray come. He is waiting.’
Chapter 15
AT THE AGE OF eighty-one, towards the end of a life blighted by physical rigours and the misguided ministrations of others, Thibault, vicomte de Fleury, possessed the power still to surprise those who came, uninformed, to his bedside. Many things about him were remarkable, but the greatest of these, perhaps, was his beauty.
Lying propped on his pillows, the scent of flowers about him, he had closed his eyes against the chequered green light of his baldaquin, so that it was possible for a moment to study him. Gelis drew in her breath. But Tobie was looking at a likeness of the face of the dead Jaak de Fleury: the classical nose, the well-shaped lips, the sculptured cheek-bones and full-lidded eyes; the head and jaw mantled and softened, unlike Jaak’s, by the spread of curling grey hair. Then the deep eyes slowly opened, and the intelligence within might have recalled that of the shrewd younger brother, but the tolerant humour belonged somewhere else. The eyes were grey, and when the lips smiled, the clothed cheeks betrayed two fleeting dimples.
Tobie dragged off his cap and said, glaring, ‘He needed you.’
The monk moved. The man in the litter lifted his head, his eyes sharp, holding Tobie’s. Then he raised a finger, and looking at Huon, began to sign to him. Then he stopped, and turned his gaze back to Tobie. Tobie became very still.
The monk said, ‘He speaks to you in French.’
‘And?’ said Tobie.
‘My lord says, “My grandson needed the help of a cripple? The man who succeeded in ruining my brother?” ’ The monk translated. The man on the pillow was smiling, but with his lips only.
Tobie said, ‘You know what your brother was. Nicholas held nothing against you, because he was told you were ill. Perhaps you were. But why did you not tell him when you were better?’ He heard himself with despair. This was not why he was here. Gelis would think he was mad. He said, ‘Nicholas pays for you!’
The long fingers stirred and replied. He could not read the vicomte’s face. The monk said, ‘My lord says that his grandson merely continued what the demoiselle de Charetty began. He says that he was able, at least, to have the boy sent to Bruges when he discovered how he had been treated at Geneva.’
‘But not to Fleury?’ Tobie said.
‘His illness forbade it.’ The fingers had stilled, but the monk continued, his eyes on his master’s face. ‘He will allow me perhaps to say more. He was given to believe that his own end was near, or that, surviving, his powers of reasoning would fail. He would not have a boy saddled with that.’
‘I understand that,’ Tobie said. ‘But when it proved to be untrue … Can he not imagine what it would have meant to Nicholas, to know as much?’
The fingers moved. ‘But by then, Master Nicholas himself had performed those acts of destruction you mentioned. And the paralysis returned. What is the doctor’s interest in Nicholas?’ the fingers asked. But the eyes had moved to Gelis.
Gelis answered. ‘He loves him.’
Tobie said, ‘Once.’
‘And you?’ asked the fingers of the vicomte, his gaze steady on Gelis.
‘Once,’ she repeated as steadily. ‘I have given Nicholas a young son, your great-grandson. If Nicholas is legitimate, you would have a legitimate heir.’
The lips smiled. ‘I have no money.’
‘You have a name,’ Gelis said. ‘Nicholas has none.’
‘And you think I can help you?
I cannot.’
Tobie said, ‘My lord. Tell us what you know.’
The man on the pillows sighed a little and moved. Then he lifted his hands once again. The monk interpreted in the same even voice. ‘I can tell you two things of my daughter. She bore a dead child before Nicholas. Between one birth and the next, I know of no indiscretion. And between one birth and the next, her husband Simon did not come near her.’
‘Then how do you explain it?’ said Tobie.
‘I cannot,’ the fingers said. ‘And having no land and no name, the boy would always have had to make his own way. He seems to have done so.’
‘But even a bastard,’ said Tobie, ‘may be introduced, these days, into noble society, can be educated to take his place with his peers.’
‘Tell that to God,’ the vicomte said. ‘Or to the devil who sent me my illness; or the greater devil who —’
The monk’s voice stopped, his anxious gaze on his master. The signing hands had interleaved and lay, not in repose but as a barrier over the heart; a pulse throbbed at his temple. With bitter reluctance, Tobie spoke as a doctor. ‘I am sorry. We must stop. He should rest.’ And realised as the vicomte’s eyes turned impatiently on him that he had committed the witless sin: he had spoken as if the man were not there, listening and able.
Gelis, oddly, was wiser; or obeyed some sudden intuition denied to Tobie. As he watched with knitted brows, she moved close and sank by the litter, holding the sick man’s eyes with her own. ‘What disturbs you now, through the days, through the nights, will still disturb you after we have gone. If I were Nicholas, rich and charming and powerful, clever enough to win through to success despite every assault, every adversary, would you not allow me to deal with your devil? You might even find that your devil is dead.’