Bel heaved herself upright. ‘I don’t want to believe it,’ she said. ‘You could say that, right enough. And I don’t trust that little popinjay, that’s another thing. But most of all, I must say, when Nicholas de Fleury manages to get himself killed, I think you’d ken by the bang, not the squeak.’
THE SAME RUMOUR reached Bruges, and was duly noted, if not necessarily believed, in the counting-houses, the mansions, the kitchens, the council-rooms and the cellars once haunted by Nicholas de Fleury. He had been gone for three years, and the commerce of Bruges was no longer affected by his absence, any more than the Banco di Niccolò, which had so successfully reconstituted itself.
In the Charetty-Niccolò bureau in Spangnaerts Street, Gelis van Borselen heard the rumours and, with Diniz’s permission, called a meeting of all his chief partners, as once she had done in Venice. When it was over, she went to see Kathi.
Robin was out, and the babies were absent. Kathi said, ‘If you’ve come to talk about Nicholas, I have to say I don’t believe what they’re saying.’ Since Rankin’s birth, she had become very slight.
Gelis said, ‘You don’t need to. He isn’t dead. But if David de Salmeton thinks he is, then he might abandon Scotland this winter, and come and amuse himself instead with the rest of us. There is a Scottish embassy coming soon. He could join it.’
‘The King is sending his uncle. I heard. I know Hearty James,’ Kathi said. ‘He quite likes Nicholas, too. In any case, we are safe. The Hôtel Jerusalem is a fortress. But what about you?’
Gelis said, ‘I’ve just talked it over with everyone. I’m taking Jodi and joining the Duchess’s tour. They don’t need me in Bruges: trade has gone to sleep, and so has the war, until both sides can drum up soldiers and money. The Duchess is raising funds in the coast towns and Holland, and that is van Borselen country. My own kinsmen will be manning the escort, and when we come back, it will be to the Gravenkasteel or the palace in Ghent. And these, you will agree, are secure.’
This was true. It was why the Duke’s wife and his one valuable daughter spent most of their lives there in the palace, or the castle so close to it. And Gelis would have her own noble relatives with her, as she said. Louis de Gruuthuse, of the council in Ghent, was married to one of her cousins. Another, Wolfaert van Borselen, seigneur of Veere, had been husband to Hearty James’s sister, a princess of Scotland. Wolfaert’s daughter, aged seven, was betrothed to the Duke of Burgundy’s nephew. Wolfaert’s bastard son was betrothed to Catherine de Charetty.
Kathi said, ‘A Scottish embassy will have access to the Duchess.’
‘Briefly, of course,’ Gelis said. ‘But they haven’t come yet, and even in Ghent, they won’t stay in the Hof Ten Walle or the castle. And by then, perhaps, it will be known that Nicholas isn’t dead, and de Salmeton may stay away till he comes. He does want an audience.’
‘You are sure,’ Kathi said. Her clear, hazel eyes were hard to avoid. ‘You always said you would know about Nicholas.’
‘I am sure,’ Gelis said. ‘It’s more than that. He wants me to know. He is divining, over and over.’
The forbidding gaze widened, then distanced itself. ‘Ah,’ said Kathi, and sank into thought.
Gelis sat silent. Once, she had never known when Nicholas set his pendulum swinging to find her. Then, the void between them had been empty. Time had filled it. Time had so inflamed, so compacted the spaces between them that each time he sought her, she knew it. And so he had stopped.
Until now. Until every hour, every day there came the minuscule jolt; the frisson that ran through her limbs, and buried itself in her body. I am here. I am here. I am here.
Kathi said. ‘He is outrunning the news of his death. He must be coming. He wants it known to everyone that he is coming.’
And, of course, she was right. So long as Nicholas was thought to be on his way, in a grotesque fashion, their danger was lessened. David de Salmeton hated them all, but he wished Nicholas to witness what he did to them. And yet —
Gelis said, ‘Unfortunately, not everyone shares our faith in the pendulum. Tobie, for one. He has gone to join Captain Astorre on campaign, convinced that Nicholas is dead.’ She stopped, her hand to her lips. Then she added, ‘Clémence let him go. She says he’s weary with not knowing what to hope for.’
‘I know,’ Kathi said, her eyes bright, her smile wry. And looking at her, Gelis felt pain, and disbelief, and fright and compassion all at once.
‘Not Robin? Not Robin?’ she said.
‘Who else?’ Kathi answered. ‘He’s a man. He has to prove it. Now he has heirs. And like Tobie, he doesn’t want any more hope.’
‘But he leaves you—’
‘Well protected. He didn’t know, when he left, about James’s embassy. It seemed too late in the season for David de Salmeton to trouble to come. He is better away,’ Kathi said. ‘He and Tobie will look after one another, and John. If there are no more troops to be got, the fighting will have to stop, anyway.’
‘I should stay,’ Gelis said.
‘No. Go to the Duchess. You have Manoli. Take Clémence: apart from Jodi, it would be good for you both. And if you do meet Hearty James, suggest just whom he might send to the Tyrol. I doubt,’ said Kathi, ‘if David would go, but it does me good just to think of our Eleanor and that little peacock expecting to charm her.’
They parted presently on the same bracing note, after Gelis had stolen into the children’s room to smile at Margaret and the baby. At least, Kathi had these. Meanwhile it was a fact, not referred to by either, that Kathi’s young lover had gone, while the father of Gelis’s son was alive and perhaps, at last, on his way home.
DISREGARDING THE UNTIMELY COLD of that autumn, the Duke of Burgundy’s English wife dragged her great entourage of ladies, noblemen, soldiers, officials and servants across the fast-congealing northern reaches of the Low Countries to raise an army for her husband’s conquest of Lorraine. As November descended, with its short days and long bitter nights, the Duchess traversed river ferries and sailed over gulfs, pausing to harangue the townspeople of Malines, Geertruidenberg, Dordrecht and Rotterdam, and passing magisterial nights in Leiden and Delft, Gouda and ’s-Gravenhage.
Throughout it all, Gelis felt exhausted, but safe. She was well accustomed by now to the Duchess, whose marriage, as long as her own, had proved fruitless and made no pretence of being close. It had been created for reasons of state, to link the English King’s sister to Burgundy; and Margaret of York, intelligent, well-read, energetic, had more than fulfilled her part of the bargain. The Duke’s daughter had been loved, these eight years, as her own.
As for her van Borselen relatives, Gelis gritted her teeth and was polite. At least she knew they would strain every nerve to protect her. A few years ago, Jodi had nearly died on a visit to Veere, and Robin had been slighted. On this journey, she and Jodi were in the care of Wolfaert himself and his household, always at hand, always grimly dutiful to excess. It was fortunate that Clémence was here, briskly prepared for the moments when Jodi grew tired of exhibiting his straight back and desirable horsemanship, and simply wanted to sleep, or complain, or play games. He was not quite a page, yet.
At night, they slept in one room, the three of them and their young serving staff, but no one ever stayed awake for long, except Gelis van Borselen, lying straight under her coverlet, her hair brushed to her waist, her eyes closed, her hands crossed on the shift at her thighs. So she awaited the moment when Nicholas, too, would find privacy and, pushing aside his dish and his cup, would reach into his purse, and take something out — what? A pebble? A ring? — and, allowing it to drop from its cord, would address his unspoken question. Where is she now? Here? Or there? Then would come the pang, and her heart would start to thud.
Once, she had strung a pebble herself and tried to use it, but nothing had happened. Pretending a casual interest, she had engaged Dr Andreas in conversation, but to no avail. Physicians who carelessly predict the demise of rulers form a dislike, thereafter, of ast
rological questions. So she could not tell where Nicholas was: if he were locked by the winter in Russia, or travelling home. She did not know if he was alone. It was her guess, because of the messages, that no one was with him: that he was racing towards her, perhaps on this very route. He knew about David de Salmeton, but had not been deterred by her letter — perhaps because he knew more of the danger than she did. She had been wise to bring Jodi here, into the paramount security surrounding the Duchess. And although she would not admit it, she had been driven to come for another reason, for Nicholas knew where she was, and she was travelling towards him.
Lying there, her heart hammering still, she allowed herself at last to wonder what he was like now, this calm, clever, far-travelled man, still young, who had fathered her son, but had not claimed his rights as a husband in all the eight years of their marriage. As for what had happened in Scotland, she had recently re-assessed that, in the light of all she now knew about him. She would not condemn him again, until she had spoken to him. If she were to be given that chance.
That night, they had been entertained at the castle at ’s-Gravenhage. Descending the steps in the candlelit morning, Gelis saw the white of frost through the door and heard the icy clarity of the sounds from the stables, as the wagons for the Duchess’s ladies were brought out and harnessed: it was becoming too cold to ride. Yesterday, the sea had crawled sluggish and grey to its shore. The weather was closing in, and soon, they must make back for Ghent. She and Nicholas were not going to meet on this journey.
Jodi came hopping towards her, along with Manoli in his dazzling cuirass and Clémence in the furred, hooded cloak which was just rich enough for a physician’s wife without appropriating the rank of a noblewoman. Clémence, the correct, the discreet; who knew all that Tobie knew, but did not speak unless asked.
But now, she had news. ‘Have you heard? A courier has come from the Duke. It is confirmed at last. His daughter Marie is to marry the son of the Emperor. Official rejoicing is ordered.’ Her dark eyes added what her voice did not say. Official rejoicing might well have to be ordered: not every town would produce it spontaneously. The marriage was to take place which had been on the table at Trèves, in return for the royal standing Charles craved. The Emperor, escaping from that, had simply waited for time. And now Frederick was to marry his son into Burgundy, and no sceptre or crown need change hands, for Burgundy needed the Emperor’s help.
Then she said, ‘Also, there are other arrivals, I am told; among them a man, travelling west, who heard of your presence and has asked to be permitted to see you.’
Gelis stood without speaking. She heard Clémence say, ‘It may not be whom you expect. Let me take Jodi away. He can come back when we leave.’
She let him go. It could be anyone. Since she became a banker, and wealthy, unknown relatives and forgotten acquaintances had become eager to meet her. Then she saw, making his way between the chattering groups, the piles of luggage, the hurrying servants, a man whose cloak was lined and turned back with ermine and whose face was shadowed by glorious sables. She caught the sober intensity of his gaze as he saw her; saw his fine-gloved hand lifted in tentative greeting; glimpsed, even, that someone followed behind him.
The man advanced. As he drew nearer, Gelis observed that he was less than tall, and that his eyes were not unusually open and grey, or his cheeks furrowed with dimples. Indeed, the face beneath the fur hat was classically handsome, its cheek-bones distinctively high, its nose Roman.
The man coming towards her was Julius. And the slender figure pressing towards her, and taking her tenderly in her arms — the girl with the pure face, the dark hair, the subtle, unmistakable scent was the Gräfin Anna von Hanseyck, his wife.
If there was anything Gelis had learned in the years of her torment with Nicholas, it was how to disguise her feelings. She returned Anna’s embrace cheek to cheek, and stretched to give her free hand to the lawyer. ‘Julius! We were so distressed. I am so thankful to see you.’ They had once thought him dead. Towards Julius, her relief and pleasure were genuine. She saw by the flush on his grave face that he recognised it.
He had enfolded her hand when Anna suddenly drew in her breath and pulled away from them both, her hand to her side.
Gelis said, ‘Anna? Is something wrong?’
Julius, his arm round his wife, his face dark, began to say something, but Anna herself interrupted. She straightened, shaking her head. She was white. ‘It is nothing. You will hear of it later. My dear, we have news to break to you first.’ She glanced up at Julius.
Gelis said, ‘Let me send for some wine. And don’t think you have to break news about Nicholas. We know they say he is dead, but he isn’t.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Anna. It sounded helpless. She looked again at her husband.
‘She will have to hear the truth,’ Julius said. The hall had emptied: the cavalcade outside was forming.
Manoli, his face stolid, appeared in front of her with one of the ducal grooms. ‘Demoiselle. The Duchess is preparing to leave.’
‘What truth?’ Gelis said.
Anna said, ‘You must go if the Duchess is waiting. Nicholas died in a fire, leaving Moscow. His body was found. We left before him, but have been travelling slowly, for my sake. The news reached us at Bremen.’
‘Then it is wrong,’ Gelis said. ‘I know, because he has been divining. He was alive at least up to last night.’
‘I wish that were so,’ Anna said. ‘But go. You are with the Duchess, and all the seats are required for her ladies.’
‘I am sure the Duchess would make an exception,’ Julius said. He spoke to the groom, who looked surprised, hesitated, and then bowed and went off.
Gelis said, ‘I shall try to help, but I must stay with the Duchess. I can see that Anna needs care. Let her rest, and once we are in Ghent, you can tell me everything.’
Anna said, ‘We must talk before then. If only, if only you had been with us … I can’t say more, not when you have just been bereaved. But the Duchess will free you. And did I see Mistress Clémence? Is Jodi here?’
There was something wrong, it was clear: her face was drawn, the blue eyes heavy and shadowed. Before Gelis could speak, the groom returned swiftly. There was a seat on the last wagon, if the Gräfin would allow him to take her there. They parted in haste. Only Julius called, ‘So we shall see you in Ghent?’
And Gelis waved, walking away.
There were advantages in being a van Borselen. Such was the disposition of the cortège that there was no question, that morning, of communication between the vehicles of the van and the tail. And at the very first stop, the power of the governors of Holland produced a speedy, small carriage which could convey the lovely invalid Gräfin direct to her destination, while her solicitous husband might ride at her side. He thanked the Duchess for her kindness, but there was no opportunity for Gelis to speak to him. It pained her to exclude him in such a way, and to deny herself all the questions she wanted to ask. But his loyalty had to be to Anna, and Gelis did not want to put it to the test.
That night, preparing for bed, Clémence slipped on her bedgown and, finding Gelis in a quiet part of the chamber, drew up a seat close beside her and set to combing her own soft, dark hair ready for plaiting. She spread a lock over her palm and gazed at it. ‘That is natural. What did you think of the Gräfin’s?’
‘That it was cleverly treated, considering the time she has been travelling. Or did I deceive myself? Did I think I saw dye because I was looking for it?’
‘No. You saw it,’ said Clémence. ‘I wonder if your husband saw it when they travelled together. She must have had to improvise dyes. And, of course, he is an expert in those.’
It had never struck her. He was, of course. In Egypt, he had dyed his own thick brown hair and bright beard. Gelis said, ‘They still insist that Nicholas is dead.’
‘They believe it,’ Tobie’s wife said. Her eyes followed her fingers, working down the long strands. ‘I sat beside the Gräfin on the jou
rney. She was reluctant to talk, but Master Julius insisted that she tell me how she came by her affliction. I was to convey it, if I thought fit, to you.’ She lifted her eyes.
‘She blamed Nicholas?’ Gelis said. She understood Clémence now.
‘It was a wound from a knife. The Gräfin presented it, to begin with, as an accident, but her husband, riding beside us, contradicted her in a childish way, exclaiming that your husband had tried to seduce her, and she had been injured when trying to defend herself.’
‘Really?’ said Gelis.
‘Indeed. In a public place, with strangers listening. The Gräfin tried to say it was nonsense, but some of those around her were deeply impressed. Others toyed with the theory that she had turned the knife on herself out of shame. Forgive me.’
‘Why? Do you believe it?’ said Gelis.
‘There are intemperate men,’ Clémence said. She completed a plait and pinned it up. ‘Your husband may be one. But his remorse over the wounding of Master Julius would more than deter him from seducing his wife. The story was an invention.’ She paused. ‘As you say, they are quite convinced that your husband is dead. They say that his cavalcade, leaving Moscow, was set upon by a party of brigands close to a hamlet. All were killed, and an accident set the timber houses on fire, so that the bodies were hardly identifiable. They knew him by his dress.’
Gelis said, ‘You are saying that, believing Nicholas dead, Anna will now turn her hand against me. And that my instinct that he is alive may be wrong?’
Clémence de Coulanges finished pinning the second plait and rose gently. She said, ‘Your husband is a man unlike others. Mine is less extraordinary, perhaps. But if I can tell you, as I can, that Tobias is at this moment alive, although not necessarily well, or comfortably quartered, or happy, then I am certain that you can do as much for your Nicholas. If you say so, then he lives.’
She was smiling. She held out her arm, as she had done so often to Jodi, and Gelis got up, and crossed it with her own, bringing her close, temple to temple, so that she rested, eyes closed, against the clean hair and the scrubbed, scentless skin.