Half a day later Nicholas, who did have marsh-fever but did not have the flux, left in the same direction but by a different route, in a wagon drawn by two camels, with the four Russians riding grinning beside him. ‘Although why you cannot tell the poor man that you are being seduced by his wife, I do not know,’ Dymitr said. ‘If she offers herself to you, take her! If you want to marry her, tell your friend! Or are you a man with tastes you have not told us? Did you create these interesting drawings on the walls?’
But fortunately Nicholas, shaking and sweating, was excused from answering. Indeed, having forced himself to make the necessary arrangements, he saw very little of his departure from the Crimea, from the land of the Genoese and the Tartars, where three hundred and fifty years of Italian trading had ended, because of a mother’s blind championship of her son.
He saw something of the journey, for marsh-fever has its own clock, and between bouts he was sane for a while. He knew when Dymitr told him that Julius and his friends had been overtaken, although, asleep in some humble monastery, they did not know it. When the deep snow came, he survived in his wagon, wrapped in furs like the rest, and he was well enough to ride his own horse when the forests parted, and he saw for the first time the carpet of snow-capped wooden cabins, the glimpse of grey river-ice, the slivers of yellow-grey walls enclosing the modest mound of stouter buildings that represented the Kremlin, the princely domain of the ruler of Moscow.
He had known he would not find, here, the tall painted gables of Danzig, or the barbaric glitter of the Tartar and Turcoman tribes; the broken colonnades of Alexandria, or the secret gardens and bright domes of Cairo. The soaring churches and palaces of Rome, Venice, Florence seemed no more here than the dream-cities that swam in the air above the glaciers of Iceland.
For a moment, thinking of Iceland, he was brushed by a sensation he had also felt there, and was at a loss to account for it. There was nothing white and gold here: the snow was shadowed blue, and trampled into sepia. He had seen no eagles as yet. A vision of a woman entered his mind, but she was not Gelis, or Kathi, or Anna, although her hair was densely black. She was far more powerful than any of these. Like Violante, perhaps. Then the fevered shadows cleared from his mind, for they were entering the first of the portals, and Dymitr was receiving a welcome. A moment later, the whole train was passing through, and on to the greatest of the fortified monasteries where hospitality was dispensed.
They were in Muscovy. He had escaped from the Crimea with his life. He had won, at the very least, a breathing space in which to resolve what to do. From here, he could go anywhere.
He was weak, and apprehensive, and at the same time, mysteriously happy — even before he entered a room and the person within addressed him not in Russian or Italian or Latin, but in Bolognese French.
‘Well, to God’s praise and reverence, you are here! And what are we going to do with you now?’ said Ludovico da Bologna. ‘Warm of head, tender of heart and eager to commend yourself, I am sure, to the other foreigners in Moscow, such as the Grand Duchess Sophia herself, whom Rome knew as Zoe, ward of Cardinal Bessarion. I hear she was once mistaken for the Gräfin Anna in Rome. Did you ever meet her?’
‘I heard that story,’ Nicholas said. Julius had told him. It involved that young rascal Nerio.
‘Quite,’ the Patriarch said. ‘She has brought her friends. Moscow contains so many familiar faces that you will feel you are living in Florence, or Bologna, or among the lady’s Greek-Florentine kinsmen in the Morea. They tell me you have had the plague and are better again. How convenient.’
‘As you say. And this is your lodging?’ said Nicholas, looking about.
‘Not exactly. This is my prison,’ said the Patriarch affably. ‘And yours also, now.’
AS EVER, news from the four quarters of the world travelled at its own private pace, so that where it passed, like some ancient comet, men were left struggling to adjust to its retarded burden. Astrologers were brought in, not only to predict events that still lay in the future, but to surmise the effects of events which had already occurred. Fleets and envoys were diverted. Consignments of arms and placatory gifts were recycled.
After it was known that Caffa had fallen, the Curia waited a month to discover the fate of the Patriarch of Antioch, and learned it so soon only because the tidings came from Tabriz before Caffa was conquered. First to bring the news from Rome was the Bastard Anthony, the Duke of Burgundy’s famous half-brother, who carried it, with his new-gathered mercenary army, to Lorraine, where the Duke was currently fighting. It reached Bruges, brought by John le Grant, in September.
It was the month in which Clémence, de Coulanges and Tobias Beventini of Grado celebrated their marriage, at Anselm Adorne’s invitation, in the private Bruges church where, fifteen years previously, Nicholas the apprentice had married his employer.
Margriet, his dear wife, was no longer there to welcome his guests to the Hôtel Jerusalem, but the ensuing banquet was dextrously controlled by his chamberlain, and Adorne, calm and elegant, was supported by his well-mannered family. Some of his guests had come from Scotland, among them his nephew Sersanders, and a bright-eyed noblewoman from the Priory at Haddington who was referred to as Mistress Phemie. Dr Andreas was also present, with Robin’s father, Archie of Berecrofts.
Not all, of course, had come solely to see Tobie married. This was the season when Anselm Adorne took up his appointment as burgomaster of Bruges, an office he would hold for a year. Merchants from the foreign community — Tommaso Portinari, Stephen Angus, Jehan Metteneye — were here for his sake, as well as their connection with the Bank to which Tobie was physician. The Bank itself was here in its entirety: lacking only Captain Astorre, who was disbelievingly attacking Lorraine; John le Grant, who had not yet arrived; and Gregorio, who was in Venice. And, of course, Nicholas de Fleury and Julius, who were probably dead.
During the entertainment which followed the feasting, Katelijne (who liked weddings) said to Gelis (who did not), ‘Look at Tobie and Clémence. Not at all in awe of one another, but neither harms the other’s true dignity. I think it is a marriage made in heaven. Your doing.’
‘Jodi’s,’ Gelis said. ‘But I agree.’ She had been bleak, like this, for a long while.
Kathi, who had reached that comfortable post-nausea condition of pregnancy where all problems seemed small, said, ‘How would Nicholas feel about it, if he knew?’
Gelis said, ‘Thankful, I imagine, to lose two of his nurses at once. If he were alive, and had achieved an independent existence, that is.’
Kathi had taken a great deal of trouble, recently, to analyse Gelis. ‘More than that, surely,’ she said, giving it thought. ‘They may not fully understand him, but Nicholas understands them very well. I’m only afraid that they’ll breed. Clémence would give day to nothing but medical prodigies.’
She gazed down the table at the bride, making an effort, as had they all, to conceal her astonishment. Clémence, divested of her coif of professional linen, was revealed to be a straight-backed young woman, Gallic in feature, white of throat, whose black hair fell lustrous and low from a fine net of pearls, and whose silk gown, with its trailing sleeves and discreet neckline, revealed a trim, athletic body of excellent promise. War had prevented the family of de Montcourt of Chouzy from travelling to Bruges, but their eccentric kinswoman did not require their endorsement. Tobie had known what he was doing.
As had Robin of Berecrofts. With more than a little contentment, Kathi watched her husband and his father talking animatedly together, their fresh-skinned faces, so alike, mirroring their absorption. Although his soul might be elsewhere, Robin had turned himself into a useful manager of the Berecrofts business in Bruges, and was capable of making still greater improvements. But he was his father’s heir, and by next summer, they would have to return to Scotland, to the orbit of David de Salmeton — if only because David de Salmeton was emerging as a competitor.
Where Nicholas de Fleury, and the Vatachino, once the man’s
own employer, had withdrawn, there remained a niche in Scottish trade, and in the retiring rooms of the King, for an amiable and entertaining man of good looks, whose shrewd advice promised delightful returns. Naturally, de Salmeton’s increasing influence had caused some dissatisfaction among other merchants, but the man had papal connections, and had conducted himself with disarming modesty, even to attempting to mediate in the jealous scenes between the King and his brother. It was not true, of course that Albany, driven by rage, had actually attempted to poison King James: that was simply a Milanese rumour.
In many ways, Katelijne Sersanders wanted to go back to Scotland; the more so that her uncle had virtually abandoned both his visits there and his office: as burgomaster of Bruges he could scarcely attend as he should to the duties of the Conservator of Scots Privileges in Bruges. She wanted to go back for other reasons. She missed Willie Roger, and the group of mad musicians and artists who had helped Nicholas create his Play. She missed her friends at Haddington. She missed the princesses for whom once she cared: Margaret, too strong-willed for her own good and Mary, torn from her beloved first husband but reconciled, in her mild, shallow way, to producing heirs for her next. She missed the small foreign Queen, with half the sensuality of her husband’s two sisters and twice their intelligence, resentfully enduring her pregnancies, and obstinately closing her heart to her husband, because no one had taught her that, whether or not the marital bed suits your taste, it is best to be generous. And if you are fortunate, loving kindness will be your reward.
Kathi was still afraid of David de Salmeton, but he had been careful not to repeat his ill-conceived assault of the summer. Bel wrote regularly. And if Sersanders were to be believed, Andro Wodman continued to prove himself an assiduous watchdog, and a solid partner in business. Although, of course, it was hard for anyone to outbid David de Salmeton if he possessed — as he might possess — all the vanished store of African gold.
The evening ended. Clémence, having been married from Adorne’s house, remained there with her husband for the night, and Robin and his father took Kathi home to where Cristen, a nurse of Clémence’s training, looked after her sleeping daughter. It reminded Kathi yet again of the infinite care bestowed by Clémence on her charges, and how well she had managed the parting with Gelis’s son, even to reconciling him with his protector, Manoli. She hoped that, tonight, Clémence would be repaid with joy.
But it was Tobie’s ecstatic cries which caused Anselm Adorne to smile from the quiet of his chamber, although he ceased being aware of them presently, having other concerns of his own.
Chapter 33
THE BARON CORTACHY, owner of the Hôtel Jerusalem, was late in rising next morning, and hardly prepared when John le Grant came to the door, accompanied by the wife of Nicholas, Gelis. Receiving them, Anselm Adorne found that it was not an untimely descent to explain le Grant’s tardy arrival. They had news.
The young woman, Gelis van Borselen, was alight with it. ‘Nicholas was not in Caffa when it was taken. Nor was Julius. They were both with the Patriarch in Tabriz.’
‘He reached Tabriz,’ Adorne said. Then, realising that he had been ungracious: ‘But that is good news, of course. Tobie will be delighted. He and his wife are still sleeping.’ And, after further thought, ‘And the Gräfin? Was she safe in Tabriz as well?’
It appeared that she was not. It troubled Adorne to think of that lovely young woman in Turkish hands. His visitors agreed. Then they asked after Tobie, and he invited them to stay until the doctor appeared. It led, of course, to an excruciatingly noisy reunion, but very soon they had all left for Spangnaerts Street, where he himself was to join them, in turn. Adorne sat alone for the time being, thinking. If de Fleury was with Uzum Hasan, then presumably he would stay there. Adorne was sorry for his clever wife.
JOHN LE GRANT remained in Bruges, since it was necessary at the end of the season to review the army’s plans for the future. Or so he told himself. He was as thankful as anyone to know that Nicholas was safe. In his moral, Aberdonian way, he was more devastated even than Gelis when the next news arrived, in November.
It was old. It was based on a letter in Latin, written from a monastery to the south of the Black Sea, and sent off in August. It reported that ignorant of the disaster in the Crimea, the Patriarch of Antioch had arrived at a seaport called Fasso, intending to make his way home Finding his intended route blocked, Father Ludovico had left to return through the Duchy of Moscow. His two companions, by name Nicholas and Julius, had elected, against all advice, to re-enter Caffa in search of a Christian lady. It was an unreasonable hope, since the poor lady, if not sent to her account in the fighting, would have been exposed by this time to the lusts of unspeakable savages elsewhere. And the two nobly intentioned persons, if caught, would be allotted no mercy.
Had he not known Gelis better by now, John le Grant would have been surprised by her calm, or wondered if she doubted the news, which carried (if you knew Julius and Nicholas) the ring of absolute, crazed authenticity. Both Diniz and Moriz showed sharp distress, but nothing to compare with that of Tobie, who exploded, uttering impossible threats and proposing impossible expeditions, until Gelis herself brought him to order. ‘You sound like young Robin, forgetting he has a coming child to think of next year, just as you have a wife. There is nothing we can do. It is winter. This happened in August. It is over. Even if it is not over, it will be spring before we have any more news; summer or later before we see any survivors. What we need to do now is consider what can be done to help Julius’s business. There is Bonne.’
They talked. Watching Gelis, painfully white, sitting at the Bank’s table shuffling papers, le Grant knew she had simply expelled from her mind, for the moment, all the other implications of the news. Perhaps she was fortified still by the conviction that she would know if Nicholas died. Perhaps she was right. Or perhaps, with the passing of time, the link had weakened or vanished, if it ever existed. He had recognised some time ago that, although a difficult woman, she had what he considered an unfeminine brain, and a dry humour, without coquetry, which he liked. He liked a great deal about her.
Their strategy, which they would follow all winter, was easily settled. Father Moriz would visit Cologne, taking Govaerts, and offering temporary management of Julius’s business until he and his wife should return. Govaerts would remain until that time in Germany, with Moriz supervising from Bruges, and assuring himself of the wellbeing of Bonne.
On the future of the army, John had already brought back the recommendations of Astorre, modified by his own advice. Pestered by Swiss attacks on Savoy, and driven from pride and greed to try to conquer Lorraine, the Duke was mad enough to fight all through the winter.
The opposition was rough but unreliable. It included Sigismond of the Tyrol, who might be discounted. It also included the goodwill of France, who would undertake to support them but wouldn’t, any more than they had supported the Emperor. And the Duke had a big enough army, with English archers, and Campobasso and his band of trained mercenaries. They could do without Astorre.
But, unusually, they were well off for money — the Low Countries, prompted discreetly by Anselm Adorne, had voted the Duke a hundred thousand thalers a year for three years, in passionate gratitude for his decision not to invade France, or to continue to engage with the Emperor. John (and Astorre) thought that Duke Charles was probably crazy, but that, if there was money to be had through the winter, Astorre’s company might as well share in it.
‘You mean you would stay with Astorre?’ Father Moriz had said. ‘What about the central army? The Bastard Anthony? Aren’t you expected to serve with the main artillery alongside Lalaing and the rest?’
And John had said, ‘I would, if the Duke didn’t command it. Anything good they designed, he would wreck.’
‘Then,’ Gelis had said, ‘should you and Astorre trust your company to the Duke’s wars? Or should you not look about for a better commander?’
‘We could,’ John had said. ‘But Bu
rgundy is the patron of the Bank, and I thought that all branches of the Bank should contribute to its welfare. If that is still the Bank’s policy.’
And Diniz had exchanged looks with the others and had said, ‘It is. It is what Nicholas planned.’ And it was, of course, while the unimaginable wealth of the old Duke seemed inexhaustible, and the duchy was closer than ever before to becoming the Kingdom of Greater Burgundy: potentially as mighty as the Empire and France. Nicholas had formed his plans, at the time, for sound, commercial reasons; but anyone was free to alter them now. Except that it seemed that Diniz and Gelis would not; and neither, as it happened, would John. And the duchy of Burgundy encompassed both Fleury and Flanders.
John le Grant left before Christmas, because he was needed, and because his reluctance to abandon Bruges was tempered by the domesticated air of the city in winter, its trade in recession, its harbours empty save for fishing-vessels and great ships idling out the weeks until spring. Busy offices gave place to bovine homes. Tilde de Charetty was brought to bed of her second daughter, baptised Lucia. Catherine de Charetty, her face glossy with unexplained tears, agreed at last to arrange her marriage to Wolfaert van Borselen’s son. Kathi Sersanders grew round, and her husband became uncharacteristically short-tempered. Arnaud Adorne, second youngest son of Lord Cortachy, got with child the nice girl he was courting, and a hasty marriage was arranged for the first week in January. John decided to leave.
He spent the last evening with Gelis. Part of it had to do, as was usual, with figures and calculations, but eventually the papers were put away, and the wine brought, a fortified red one from Portugal which had reached her through the sinful Arnaud Adorne and a man called Thomas Perrot. Gelis and he sat together by lamplight in her parlour which was imbued with no memories, for Nicholas had never lived here with his wife and his once-loved son Jodi, now nearly seven.