‘Then I shall have to explain myself,’ he said. ‘And you mustn’t try to extract me. This doesn’t involve you or the Patriarch. I shall swear that I deceived you both, too.’ He paused. ‘Anna, I know you don’t want me to go. But you really can’t stop me.’
They looked at one another. Her eyes softened. She said, ‘Then I shan’t try. He is part of your past. You must love him.’
‘With that stupid, toothless face and those hats? I don’t care if he hangs from the ribbons,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I’d rather he didn’t buy a reprieve by telling them all about me and our gold.’
He smiled at her again. He felt sick.
On the way to Soldaia he hardly spoke, although Brother Orazio rode anxiously at his side, glancing at him now and then. When they arrived at the gates, it did not greatly astonish Nicholas to find that all the other travellers from Caffa were received through the portals before him, or that Brother Orazio was invited to pass through on his own. The monk, unexpectedly stubborn, stood objecting in the vernacular of Ferrara, until Nicholas, with a small, fierce signal, made him desist.
Once he was alone, there came a time when Nicholas objected as well, if in a somewhat token way, since he had no weapons, and was one man against a special detachment from the Genoese garrison. Presently the soldiers, becoming tired of the argument, simply wrestled him to the ground and kicked him until his voice stopped.
IN THE MONASTERY of Montello, a nobleman died. Because he had lived there for a long time, the funeral mass was carried out in every particular as he had wanted, even to the inclusion of that type of impassioned liturgy which the Abbot personally despised. No relatives were present, or indeed invited; but afterwards the vicomte’s possessions were gathered and laid in four chests by Brother Huon, whose silent grief, in defiance of the Divine Purpose, drew a rebuke from the Abbot. Brother Huon did penance, and in due course, the chests were sent off.
FURTHER WEST, Gelis van Borselen spent the early months of the year commuting between Ghent and the west bank of the Rhine, with frequent visits to Bruges. For a space, her private concerns became almost manageable, as most of her thoughts and all her skills were required by the Bank: to commend its resources and its fighting force to Duke Charles through the Duchess, while steering a far-sighted course over loans, as distinct from the flamboyantly short-sighted course that, sooner or later, was going to ruin Tommaso Portinari.
No one could deny that the money was needed. The town of Neuss was still holding out, while the evil combination of the Swiss Federation and its allies was continually engaging Burgundian forces elsewhere, to irritating cries of Berne and St Vincent! Worse than that, the largest German army for centuries was marching through rain, wind, snow and hail down the right bank of the Rhine towards Linz, after which it proposed to enforce an entry of the True Defender into the capital of the diocese, Cologne.
Also, the Duke of Burgundy had promised to supply six thousand men to help his brother-in-law the monarch of England reconquer France in the summer, his reward being the return of the Somme towns and a few other substantial concessions. Captain Astorre had looked forward to being reserved for this purpose, until it was brought home to him (and to England) that the invasion of France appeared temporarily to have slipped the Duke’s mind.
During that winter, Gelis grew accustomed to the tirades of Astorre and le Grant against the Duke and his shortcomings, and sometimes even joined the debate: the arguments, surprisingly enjoyable, relieved their feelings and added another dimension to her education. Since December, her letters to Mistress Clémence in Scotland had begun to include promptings about finding a proper governor for Jodi: one who, in the absence of his father, could also instruct him in arms. Gelis believed, but did not say, that military proficiency would be of advantage to any man working with Clémence. The exception being, of course, Dr Tobias.
Gelis had written to Tobie on certain other matters, and he had replied. She had also spoken, when in Bruges, to Father Moriz on those same other matters. She had even gone out of her way, sojourning in Neuss and in Ghent, to question merchant barons and wealthy mercenaries who, for one reason or another, had been employed in the past by German princes. At times, she felt that this was none of her business. At other times, she would have agreed that there are certain apprehensions no amount of distraction can shift, and that action, even deluded action, may ease them.
She received a letter from Nicholas.
It was the first direct communication between them for over a year, and it had been several months on its way. It reached her in Neuss, plainly sealed, but she knew the handwriting as well as her own. She laid it on her lap and sat for a long time, looking at it, before she pared it open slowly and carefully, as if it might bleed. Inside were two pages, covered on both sides with lines, widely spaced, in the same writing. From beginning to end, it was in code.
So, nothing personal. Not, in that case, a signal that he was pining for company, or about to break the unwritten covenant and return. Not a message to Jodi. A matter of business. A business communication so intriguing, it seemed, that he had not used the company code, but a variant personally known to them both. And he had presumably sent her the message for the simple reason that she could decipher it.
Or so she thought at first. After she had written it all out in clear, and paused in staggered deference to its contents, she understood that Nicholas had other understandable motives: that as before, he was passing information to her because she represented the Bank, and could act on it to the Bank’s benefit. In this instance, there was nothing at present to act on: the company was being informed of an enterprise, and warned to stand by for news, that was all. As she had anticipated, there were no greetings to her or to Jodi; no mention of Anna or Julius, nothing of Caffa or his new life. It might have been addressed to Diniz, Moriz or Govaerts, John or Gregorio, had they been able to decipher the code. Her instructions were to tell John and Moriz, but no one else until she heard further. He thought that might take until April.
April. April, and spring.
After a while, she did what he had once done and, taking a candle, touched the flame to the papers. Upholding the rectangle of light, she looked for the last time at the completed work: at her writing alternating with his: writer speaking to writer. It was not accidental. It was why, unusually, he had spaced out his lines. She imagined him preparing to write, head in hand, and pausing as the trivial idea occurred. She felt she recognised the ultimate obstinacy, the vulnerability even, which had led him to sink his quill in the ink, and proceed with it. And there was something else to be noticed. Belatedly, with an immense burst of surprise, she grasped that Nicholas had sent this letter to her direct: that he had returned to his hated medium at last, in order to trace her.
The burning pages blackened and dropped. Gelis crushed them with a sure hand, and put the ashes away, keeping nothing. Then she went to find John le Grant, walking scrupulously, like a prisoner taking the air.
IN CYPRUS, the treasurer of the monastery of St Catherine’s, Mount Sinai, newly returned from the Crimea, visited his fellow monks in the Karpass and then travelled south, in order to sail to the Syrian coast. On his way, he made certain calls, although with difficulty, since the Venetians, who now controlled Cyprus, preferred the Latin church to the Greek; and the Queen’s uncle Marco Corner owned the largest sugar concession outside that of the Knights of St John. They were, of course, a capable family. Another Marco Corner had once been in prison in Tabriz.
As a result of his travels, Brother Lorenzo sent two letters, one by fast boat to Alexandria and the other to the director of what was still called the Banco di Niccolò in Venice who would, he understood, pass on the unfortunate news in private to Bruges. He also compiled a report, which he hoped to deliver in person, advising the Sultan at Cairo of the condition of the Arab and Muslim population of the Crimea, with particular reference to the Mamelukes. Then he returned to his abbot.
IN SCOTLAND, the boy called Jordan de
Fleury attained his sixth birthday in the absence of his father, whom he had not seen for fourteen months, and his mother, whom he had not seen for three.
Although occasionally querulous, Jodi was not gravely disturbed by their defection, having at his side the formidable person of Mistress Clémence his nurse, who had been with him since birth, and the reassuringly irritable attentions of Dr Tobias his physician, who tended to be wherever Mistress Clémence was. It further added to his sense of security that he was living in exactly the same house in the Canongate, Edinburgh, once owned by his father, with the difference that it was now part of the Berecrofts assembly of lodgings and offices. Best of all, his friend Robin, who once used to live next door, now occupied the same building with Katelijne his wife, who had grown very fat and who, Jodi had repeatedly been told, was expecting a baby.
Jodi kept out of her way. In his view, when the baby saw how fat the lady was, it would leave. He had been afraid that Robin would leave. The biggest gift he was to have for his birthday, arranged by his mother and Robin, was a regular master-at-arms to give him lessons. Master Cuthbert would not, of course, be with him all the time, as he taught other people. The baby, however, was bound to be impressed.
THE CARE DEVOTED to the upbringing of the de Fleury child did not escape the notice of the merchants of Edinburgh, none of whom knew the reason for its father’s departure, despite intensive questioning of the Berecrofts family, including Kathi Sersanders and her brother. No one had been quite blate enough to quiz Anselm Adorne himself, the lass’s uncle, when he made a brief visit to Scotland, seeing to his lands and his duties as Conservator of the Scots Privileges in Bruges. And whether a body spoke out with his questions or not, he never got any answers, devil take it. Even Will Roger, the King’s own musician, got his neb near nip-pit off by the puggie-faced doctor with the bald heid. Nicholas de Fleury was establishing a new business with some papal nuncio east of the Baltic. No one could say when he’d be back.
Not even Will Roger, who loved Nicholas and did his best to spoil his son, knew that he was not coming back. And of those who did know, only perhaps Dr Tobias recognised that in the rearing of Jodi, they were collectively compensating for a ridiculous feeling of guilt, and for the vacuum left in their lives by his father.
The exception to all this remained Adorne. His sickening visit to Poland had, it seemed, given him no reason to like Nicholas any better, or to condone what he had done. He would not comment on what had happened to Julius. He was kind to Jodi, as he would be to any child, but no more. On his single Scottish foray, he had been absent much of the time at the Priory of Haddington, where he had business with the Prioress, a doughty exporter, and reacquainted himself with the noble inhabitants, nuns and lay persons. He had also spent some time travelling to Perth, where his nephew Sersanders had established a corner as merchant and agent. Then he returned to Bruges, a quieter, happier man, despite being wrenched away before his niece’s delivery. When December ended, and Kathi’s baby had still not been born, Anselm Adorne took the unwise if natural step of dispatching to Scotland his own distinguished physician, Dr Andreas.
Katelijne Sersanders, nine months pregnant, sat breathing heavily while being told of her uncle’s solicitous gesture, and then sent for Dr Tobias and Mistress Clémence to attend her at once. When they did so, she closed the door, resumed her lodgement on a greatly quelled cushion and said, ‘All right. Dr Andreas is coming. What are you going to tell him?’
‘That we don’t need another doctor,’ Tobie snapped. Mistress Clémence cast her eyes upwards.
‘He knows that,’ said Kathi patiently. ‘My uncle doesn’t, but Andreas does. I’ll tell you why he is coming. Because he’s an astrologer. Because he’s inquisitive. Because, even, he’s got wind of what you and I and Gelis are doing, and would like to know more. In which case, do you think we should tell him?’
‘No,’ said Tobie.
‘Um,’ said the nurse. Tobie looked at her, astonished.
‘I thought it might be Um,’ said Kathi, with a kind of fond irritation. ‘Suppose you both go off and discuss it? It’s time you reached some sort of decision. But don’t take too long, or you’ll have to explain to more than one of us.’ The door closed, and Kathi took up her sewing and dropped it, casting about for a while before she discovered it on her lap.
In Mistress Clémence’s parlour, Tobie took one or two turns while Clémence stood, in her composed way, and watched him. Tobie came to a halt. ‘Those letters from Gelis are private. You and I know what’s in them, and Kathi. But it isn’t Andreas’s affair. I don’t think we should tell him.’
‘Probably not,’ Mistress Clémence remarked. Within the closely pinned linen, her plain face was remarkably placid.
‘Then what else,’ Tobie said, ‘are we supposed to be talking about?’ He had reddened.
‘We don’t seem to be talking about anything,’ Clémence said, in the same friendly way. ‘Unless I give you a hint. Dr Andreas has a close friend in France. Her home is in Blois, near Coulanges, and he visits her regularly.’
Mistress Clémence came from Coulanges. ‘He knows your family? You never said.’ Tobie, frowning, dragged off his cap. The lateral puffs of faded hair stood in disarray. Mistress Clémence, looking at them, stirred as if moved to delve in her apron. She desisted.
Unexpectedly, Tobie laughed. He said, ‘Your comb has Jodi’s name on it. You mean that there is gossip, and Andreas will have heard it, or may spread it? Gossip about you and me?’
‘And Master Nicholas,’ Clémence said. ‘We are all bound together. Certainly, there are some things Dr Andreas had better not know, but there are others he must.’
‘But we are talking about you and me,’ Tobie said. When narrowly trained, his gaze, of a very pale blue, appeared shrewish in its intensity. Three feet separated them. Of the two, she was a little the taller and, surprisingly, very much younger.
She said, ‘I suppose so. The case history by now is quite extensive. It may be time for a diagnosis.’
Her self-command, added to a touch of amusement, steadied him. He took out his handkerchief, waited, and sneezed into it neatly. Then he put it away. ‘Very well. First, the facts of the case. The patient is forty-four years of age, of a choleric disposition, with a rude past and a record of transient commerce.’
‘None of it promising,’ Clémence said thoughtfully. She brightened a little. ‘He has shown himself, in recent times, capable of a certain constancy. But perhaps appearances are misleading?’
‘In this case, no,’ Tobie said. ‘But with age, there is observable a certain timidity, a fear of change, a fear of causing disappointment, and inviting it. Every man wishes to act the child for part of his life. But —’
‘Many of them do, for all of it,’ said Clémence de Coulanges. ‘For myself, I am fond of children, but prefer to spend my leisure with adults. No child has ever been as important to me as a grown man or woman could be.’
He scanned her face: the straight Gallic nose, the sallow skin, the black, shining studs of her eyes. The air of calm domination, which might equally stem from a fierce independence. ‘You do not give that impression,’ he said. ‘Of being interested in adults. In men.’
‘Then it is not surprising,’ she said, ‘if, without the facts, you have reached a wrong diagnosis. I have had lovers. But none since we met.’
She was smiling: a half-teasing, remembering smile he had caught on her face now and then, but had not understood. He felt a great, a staggering amazement. He felt an idiot. He said, ‘I wanted … I wondered … But there was Jodi, and Gelis. I didn’t know how to tell her.’
Clémence laughed aloud. ‘Gelis guessed long before you did. And what do you suppose Kathi has sent us to do?’
And then he, too, was catching his breath in something like laughter as, his robe and her apron confused, he set the tilt of her head with one hand, and used the other to trace, like a gratified father, the contours of brow, temple and cheek. ‘Why,’ he said, ??
?to find out, at last, what colour of hair my wife has.’
But he still had not found out when he kissed her; and after that, did not care.
LATER, WHEN THE HOUSEHOLD had been told and the celebrations were over, Katelijne set aside her weariness and asked Tobie to stay.
Opening the door of her room, he had no qualms about his reception, for she had already expressed her delight. As Clémence had hinted, the news of their betrothal had astonished nobody, any more than the fact that a reputable Italian physician was to marry a French-speaking Burgundian who worked for her living. Clémence might be without parents or dowry, but she was an educated member of a seigneurial family. And since her appointment by Gelis six years ago, she had kept her employer’s household in order as discreetly as she had seen to the rearing of Jodi.
Soon, of course, that would end, although Clémence did not wish to marry immediately. But in another year, Nicholas’s son would be seven, and ready to move into a masculine world. Already, embarrassed, Tobie realised that Gelis had planned for it. A maidservant, a tutor, a master-at-arms would replace the loving nursery of the past. Or would not replace it, for he and Clémence would be near at hand. While there was a Flemish company, he wanted to serve it. He had already told Kathi so.
They knew each other very well, the bald doctor and Adorne’s young Flemish niece who had shared a journey to Egypt five years ago. Watching him cross to her now, Kathi flung wide her arms in a renewed fit of delight. ‘Will you be annoyed if I say that this is right for you, as Robin is for me? I am so glad for you.’ Then she sat back, memory jarred.
He said, ‘What?’ He was her doctor.
‘Nicholas said that in Poland. Great minds.’
‘He was so glad? About Robin?’
‘About me. About nothing. It was only important because for six words at least, he stopped acting.’ She paused. ‘He sent me some balm. Balm from Sinai, to keep for the christening. One anonymous seal; one signature, Nicholas. I gave a little to Haddington.’ Her smile became pursed.