They talked then, as master gunner to agent, and reached certain conclusions; after which John le Grant went to bed, and rose next morning to escort Gelis van Borselen to Neuss, in what his friend Father Moriz would have referred to as a measuring frame of mind.
He did not know, because she had not told him, of the other measure Nicholas had taken, which she had just learned from Tobie. When giving up all his reserves, Nicholas had kept something back: the wages of two men to protect herself and Jodi.
She had spoken since to Manoli, the man in her employment. He knew no more than Tobie had told her, which Tobie had learned in turn from Clémence. Manoli was to guard her with his life, but against whom had not been explained. Gelis believed what Tobie had written. Nicholas was afraid of the corpulent vicomte de Ribérac, even when he was safely banished to a Portuguese island. And he was determined, too, to leave no loophole for David de Salmeton.
She had not spoken of it to John, for it made her seem less than self-sufficient. It also implied a relationship between Nicholas and herself which did not exist. He had always been over-anxious about Jodi.
AT NEUSS, Captain Astorre seemed more concerned, at first, to learn about the military training of Jodi than to decide where his next contract ought to be served. The house in which he received Gelis was one of several good timber erections not unlike those which Nicholas and Jodi had occupied, she had heard, in the Burgundian camp outside Hesdin. The muddy lands around the low hill of Neuss, however, were to contain the Duke’s person as well as his armies. The besiegers lived in a vast phantom city of hundreds of tents and fine houses, fortified by walls, ditches and drawbridge, and furnished with baths and drinkhouses, shops and forges and taverns, barbers and brewhouses and cart-makers, joiners, cutlers and drapers, priests and apothecaries. Musicians sang every morning outside the Duke’s prefabricated mansion of elegant carpentry-work, while the state visitors to the duchy were received in luxurious silken pavilions, stocked with magnificent chests and gold plate. The envoys of Naples, Hungary and the Palatinate had already undergone the experience, while the Venetian ambassador, dazzled, had asked leave to have a painting of it all done in oils.
‘Then we had King Christian of Denmark,’ said Astorre, who liked boasting about extravagant masters. ‘They got him on a barque on the Rhine, and the Duke received him in his good tunic. A hundred thousand florins’ worth of real pearls. Remember, he wore it at Trèves.’ Astorre never had qualms about mentioning Trèves, which Gelis found soothing.
She said, as she might not have said to anyone else, ‘Did he talk about Scotland?’ The Queen of Scotland was King Christian’s daughter.
‘There was some nonsense about Scotland and Russia. But mainly, it was all about the King’s visit to Rome. The Holy Father wants us to stop besieging Neuss and go to fight Ottoman Turkey instead. As if we could.’
Gelis decided not to pursue Scotland and Russia. She remarked, ‘It’s what Ludovico da Bologna was always demanding.’
‘Well, that’s his job. We did fight in Cyprus and Trebizond. But Charles’d be mad to send his army off now: the Emperor and the Swiss would step in and march all over his territory. Then, of course, the English army is coming.’ The sewn eye in the grizzled face confronted her as well as the open one. ‘If they’re still coming. They’re supposed to invade France with our help this summer.’
‘They’re still coming,’ said Gelis. ‘So you’re not tempted to take the company east?’
‘Why, does Nicholas want me to?’ said Astorre, astonished. ‘We’d earn more money here.’
‘I don’t know what Nicholas wants,’ Gelis said. ‘You and John must decide. And if you stay in the West, you ought to think where you most want to be. The Duke will be fighting on three fronts at least, by my reckoning.’
‘I fancy the French,’ Astorre said. ‘I’ve always fancied the French. And the Duke wouldn’t be breathing over my shoulder.’
‘He would, if your contract is with him,’ Gelis said. ‘Not if it’s with the Bank. You could choose. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about it.’
She spoke distinctly, because of the copious echoes, both within the wooden building and outside, where the alleys were belaboured by the cries of the fish- and vegetable-sellers, the rumbling of carts and the clang of the armourers over the groundswell of wrangling voices of soldiers and their women, and the squeals of their infants. Beyond that, distantly, was the roar of a crowd at a wrestling match, and the whoops from the jeu de paume court, backed by the ever-present thresh and grind of the wind- and watermills which ringed the whole camp. And behind those, if you listened, the skittish pops and occasional bangs which represented the war: a warning, a sally, a counter-attack. There was a burial ground here, but no sound came from that.
‘… twenty thousand marks,’ Astorre was saying.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Gelis.
‘The peace between England and Scotland. Didn’t you hear before you left Ghent? King James has undertaken to marry his son to King Edward’s young filly Cecilia. That’s the dowry. Scotland gets all that money, so that England can choose to invade France without Scotsmen attacking her borders. That Nicholas,’ Astorre said. ‘He was a fool, closing his business in Scotland. Look at them. Rich.’
She could not speak.
Later, alone with John le Grant, she found a way of asking his opinion on the matter. He gazed at her appraisingly. ‘Rich is hardly the word for it. The King’s a spendthrift, and the money is coming in stages. His son is just one year old, for God’s sake. The currency is still in a mess, and the merchants may like the peace but the Borderers don’t — they’d rather be raiding the English under young brother Albany. It’ll take more than one infant marriage to repair the damage Nicholas did.’
‘But it’s something,’ she said. And then, because it was in her mind, she added, ‘We have an infant marriage afoot. Concerning Jodi. Nicholas wants Jodi to marry Anna von Hanseyck’s young daughter.’
The white-fringed eyes opened wide. ‘The deil!’ said John le Grant. It sounded blank.
She said, ‘It makes sense for the future. Julius has asked Nicholas to join his part of the company.’
‘I dare say,’ John le Grant said. ‘Nicholas can’t afford, from what you say, to be choosy. But I wouldna throw your fortune into Julius’s lap until you’ve made a few enquiries. Ask Moriz.’
The German priest Moriz from Augsburg was also the Bank’s specialist in the mining and casting of metals. ‘I have,’ Gelis said. ‘I’ve also worked with Julius in Cologne. His credit is good. With the von Hanseyck connection, he could raise loans to start again anywhere.’
‘As you say,’ John agreed. ‘The Graf was well known and respected, although he didna leave as much, Moriz says, as you’d think. I believe Anna herself has no kin.’
Gelis was faintly amused. ‘She doesn’t need them. Doors open wherever she goes. The von Hanseycks are connected to everybody, whereas no one knows who Nicholas is. In terms of degree, it isn’t a bad marriage for Jodi. I was weighing it rather in terms of free choice. Childhood unions are common with princes, but merchants can usually wait.’
The engineer watched her in silence. Then he said, ‘Have you met the lassie? Bonne?’
She had, of course. She had lived in Cologne during the days of Julius’s earliest courtship, and the child had been eight. She said, ‘Recently, no. If you know where she is, Anna would be glad to hear she is well.’
‘I dare say,’ said John. ‘I’m a wee tate thrang just at present to call on her. Syne you should get back to the Duchess and Bruges. Tell Diniz you all guessed quite right, and the old man is keen to fight France, and not averse to signing up with the Bank, and that I’ll stay and load his balls till his old gun gives up and he drops.’ He sounded cross. He continued, ‘Tell me something. Why did ye put Nicholas through all that ye did?’
The old accusation. His eyes were a steady, raw blue; his lined skin, russet-brown, held the vague freckled marling of summer. H
is hair, dulled from its original red, was still at once belligerent and disarming. Even as she drew breath, she remembered how long Nicholas had known him, and how tired she was of avoiding that particular question. She looked him in the eyes and said, ‘I was afraid of him. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes. Did he know?’
She stared at him, conveying perhaps more than she meant, for he enlarged, uncharacteristically, on the question. ‘You learn about fear, in the army. You teach by challenging.’
She considered Nicholas, the eternal apprentice, thus elevated to the status of teacher. She shook her head. Untenable. No.
‘Have you never watched your son with his da?’ asked le Grant.
She had watched him. This is what a horse likes to eat. This is how a ship sails. Why don’t you sing this with me?
John le Grant was speaking again, irritability in his manner. ‘What right have I to talk? I’ve seen Nicholas de Fleury deaf and blind to the world for the sake of some toy he was making, and I was the fool who encouraged him. If you failed to notice your share in what became of him, I failed to see mine. But that doesna mean he should come back. Among us, we’ve made him a wrecker.’
She said, ‘Kathi thinks he must teach himself now. He has Anna.’
‘He has you and Kathi as well,’ John le Grant said. ‘Tell him the news. Answer his messages. A woman can do what a man can’t.’
‘Keep his place warm, until the rest of you make up your minds? No, thank you,’ said Gelis.
But, of course, it was what she was doing.
She stayed for three days, during which time she had an audience with the Duke, and Astorre took her round the battle positions. Afterwards, John remonstrated with his captain. ‘Yon was dangerous. She could have been killed.’
‘She wanted it. She’s a pretty woman. She’ll tell Nicholas, and he’ll maybe be tempted.’
‘She’ll tell the Duchess and Hugonet, more to the point, and maybe shame them into raising more money. You were talking to her about Cyprus.’
‘About Zacco’s son being dead,’ said Captain Astorre, his beard jutting. ‘I didn’t tell her about David de Salmeton. Mind you, I think Nicholas ought to know.’
‘Then tell him,’ John le Grant said. ‘If you know where he is.’ The old man and he scowled at each other and parted in perfect understanding. Riding back to his guns, John le Grant found himself thinking of Gelis in quite a different way from before. He wondered where she was now, stoically commuting, like the factor she had become; methodically tracing the routes between Neuss and Brussels and Bruges, Ghent and Antwerp.
In all the world, only her entourage could have revealed that her destination that day was quite different. Gelis van Borselen, semi-detached lady of Beltrees, was on her way to seek out her possible daughter-in-law, the young encloistered Fräulein called Bonne.
Only her entourage could have told, or a man far away in the East, sitting alone, and at last, hesitatingly, lifting a pendulum.
THE CONVENT, when she reached it, was not welcoming, but perseverance obtained her an interview with the Abbess. That firm-chinned lady, cantilevered in voile, refused to send for the Fräulein von Hanseyck until convinced, by the depth of her purse, that the eminent lady was as superior as she claimed to be. They were allowed fifteen minutes.
At the age of eight, Bonne had possessed handsome blue eyes and thick hair, but little else that was attractive. Time had improved her. Entering the room in her cap and plain gown, she made her greeting and sat with a mixture of demureness and grace at once reminiscent of Anna. There was a suggestion of feminine roundness that had not been there before, as well as a firmer mould to the face. Scanning the full lips, the large downcast eyes, the rippling dark hair with its stray glints of chestnut, Gelis was smitten with longing for a young person quite different: for the fresh-faced dimpled boy, not yet six, whom she had sent north to Scotland for safety. She said, smiling, ‘I had to come and see my son’s bride.’
The large eyes opened on hers, and turned to the Abbess. The Abbess said, ‘This, Bonne, is the lady of Beltrees from the Banco di Niccolò. I was not informed that you were to marry her son.’
‘It is too soon to be sure,’ said the girl. ‘Although, naturally, I should be pleased and honoured were it to be arranged. Is Jordan with you, my lady?’
Gelis gazed at her. ‘You knew of it? No. I sent him to Scotland, since I must travel so much for the Bank. He is not as old as you are, as perhaps you know.’
‘But he can ride a horse?’ the girl said. ‘Or if not, of course I could teach him.’
‘You like riding?’ Gelis said. ‘Where did you learn?’
‘The Graf my father had many hundreds of horses. Falcons also, and hounds. I can shoot with a crossbow. I have ridden since I was a baby.’
‘At your grandparents’, of course,’ Gelis said. ‘Where was that? Do you go there still, or are they both dead?’
The girl lowered her eyes, her brow clouded. The Abbess said, ‘They are in heaven. We pray for them, but the very house has gone now. Bonne has none but the Graf’s noble relatives left.’
‘And her mother in Caffa,’ Gelis said. ‘If I were the Gräfin, I don’t think I could have borne to leave such a dear maid behind me.’
‘But you sent your son to Scotland?’ said the girl. ‘I am sure that you love him as much — even more, if your marriage has ended. I am fortunate. I have stepfather Julius.’
‘We pray for him, too,’ said the Abbess. ‘He has suffered. The wound, we are assured, was an accident.’
Beneath two pairs of eyes, Gelis felt herself stiffening. She said, ‘I am quite sure that it was. And you like your stepfather, Bonne?’
The girl smiled. ‘My mother likes him. That is what matters, is it not?’
‘Bonne!’ exclaimed the Abbess quite sharply. She rose. ‘The girl has work to finish. You will excuse her, I’m sure. Her lady mother will be happy to hear that her daughter is in good health, as you see, and a credit to her professors. We look forward to the day when the Gräfin returns. Do we not?’
The daughter of Anna von Hanseyck performed a neat curtsey, briskly sweeping her toe. ‘The day my mother comes home will be the happiest, I think, of my life.’ She lifted her lashes to Gelis. ‘Except, of course, for the day when I wed my young husband. That will be happier still.’
‘How many good things,’ said Gelis, ‘there are to look forward to. And you have Jordan’s father to meet. That must be arranged. You will surprise one another.’
‘He surprised my stepfather Julius,’ said Bonne.
Shaken, Gelis departed. If you were to call the encounter a joust, the inmates of the convent had undoubtedly carried the day. It was only when reviewing it later that she began, with some admiration, to laugh. But by then she had written to Scotland: a cheerful message for Jodi; a direction for Clémence his nurse; and an urgent commission for Dr Tobias. And more important than any of these, a deceptive letter of friendly reassurance to Kathi, whose son, surely, was about to be born.
Chapter 23
IN DECEMBER THAT YEAR, the Emperor Frederick, outraged by Cologne and encouraged by Louis of France, declared war on Duke Charles, and prepared his armies to march. His intention, after safeguarding his frontiers, was to filch Luxembourg and the Low Countries from Burgundy; France was to have Picardy, Artois and Burgundy itself. He was quite optimistic.
Julius of Bologna, recuperating with resolution in Poland, read the signs and received with beating heart the tender letters that found their way, all through that winter, from his lovely, his remarkable wife. He did not necessarily broadcast her news. He did not mention anything whatsoever about gold. But as time went on, he cheerfully reaffirmed to all his clients, his colleagues (and his creditors) his decision to set out for Caffa by spring.
And as winter ended, Anna von Hanseyck in Caffa was found by her Mameluke steward to be weeping over a letter from Bonne.
It should have been a day of light-hearted reunion, for N
icholas had been absent from Caffa for some time, on an unplanned fishing expedition led by Dymitr Wiśniowiecki and his friends from the Russian community. Anna, the least possessive of women, had hastened him on his way. Temporary stewards were easily found. And she recognised, none better, the frustration Nicholas had begun to experience, with every business avenue long since explored, and his leisure occupations confined to those places where it was safe for a man in Mameluke guise to appear. Which meant, in practical terms, the Russian or Muslim quarters, the Franciscan monastery, or the house which she shared.
She had resolved, in her calm way, to provide a form of companionship with music, with poetry, with books, which he might find undemanding and familiar; and was pleased when she was able to tempt him to sing, or take the lute or the viol, or talk. In his turn, although she — so much in demand — could have filled her days with her own new-found friends, Nicholas set aside time to introduce her to a side of Caffa she might otherwise have missed: encounters with men and women and children who were not Genoese or Polish or German, and who held to different customs. She always tried to do as he wished, although sometimes, smiling, she had to confess that the Patriarch had already accompanied her to this salutary convocation or that. And Nicholas would then laugh unabashed, and remark that if she would only do as she was told they would make her, between them, the first lady Patriarch in Christendom.
She understood, she thought, what occasioned these explorations. She understood the insatiable curiosity which penetrated far beyond everyday life. She understood the hunger to share it. But after her first visit to the Caffa medrese when, crosslegged in muffling robes, she listened in silence to the teachings of a man she did not know, in a language in which she was not expert, she refused, gently, to accede to Nicholas’s infatuation with the imam they called Ibrahiim. But when he challenged her, next, to visit the Greeks in their enclave, she did so as willingly, if only once, because later, he would talk to her. She thought that he needed to talk.