Because he was sick, they did not speak to him very much on the journey. Or it was truer to say that Tobie imposed the embargo which kept Julius, with his bursts of anger and misery, apart from where Nicholas rested or rode. The truth was that no one could bear, yet, to talk about what had happened, while there was nothing else worthy of speech.
From time to time, Nicholas thought about Gelis. But this, his return to her, which should have been swift and thankful and joyous, had only a personal significance, compared with the tragedy that was crushing them all. His soul was ripped raw, and the pain was continuous. His mind flinched, again and again, thinking of Kathi.
It had not occurred to him that Gelis might not have waited in Ghent, or that he himself, calling at the palace of Ten Walle, would be hurried into the Duchess’s presence, heart-sick and infirm as he was, to report on what he had seen. For, despite the tolling bells, the city enveloped in black, Charles of Burgundy’s widow had not yet accepted his death. He might be wounded; a prisoner; fled to some distant spot from which, one day, a courier would come flying. ‘Where is my wealth, my kingdom, my empire-to-be? Je l’ay emprins: I have dared. I mean to come back and dare once again.’
The Duchess — now the Duchesse Mère — had heard of the Commanderie of St John, and the stream. He spared her the details, telling only of the loss of helmet and horse, so that the Duke rode unrecognised save for his sash. He told of the sash he had seen in the pool.
‘But it may have been another man’s,’ said Margaret of York. ‘It may have been retrieved and worn by its owner.’
‘It is possible, my lady Duchess,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I believe there were other signs.’
He was dismissed, with a purse of gold. He did not see the new ruler of Burgundy: the Duke’s young, betrothed daughter, who would not believe, either, that her father was dead.
Louis of France believed it. The recapture of Nancy was known to him inside four days; the report of the Duke’s death in five. The King had tried, for form’s sake, to conceal his transports of joy. Then he had called in his captains from Toul, and ordered the armies of France to invade Artois, Picardy and the two Burgundies. For now, after all, there were only fifteen hundred battle-weary survivors to face.
Ghent shook with the impact of it all: the streets, the courts of the palace were screaming with new reports and fresh rumours. Nicholas forced his way, deaf, through it all. Such information didn’t matter to him. It was for the men who still owned a shaken Bank, and a broken army, and had to try to do something with both. He would lay his own plans. The childish outburst in Metz was behind him, and the illusion that had followed. A thinking man keeps his own counsel. Don’t try to piss your woes over me.
Nicholas left the palace, therefore, blank-minded; stumbling; and joined Julius and Tobie, his keepers. ‘And now, bed,’ Tobie said. They still possessed the use of Adorne’s house.
‘And now, Anna,’ Julius said.
Nicholas stared at him. Tobie, he was aware, was doing the same. Anna, the vengeful, the deceitful, the sensuous, insinuating Delilah, had gone from his mind. He said, ‘What are you going to do? Whatever it is, you don’t need us.’
‘I need you,’ Julius said. ‘The Duke has gone. The law courts may not even meet. You and Gelis were Anna’s chief victims. Unless you insist, no one may trouble to deal with her now.’
He was probably right. Nicholas said, ‘But I don’t want revenge. I told you so. You must reach some sort of decision yourself. I’d say, turn her off, and forget her.’
‘A would-be murderess?’ Julius said.
‘Well, what can she do, with no money or standing? Give her a pension and send her abroad. Madeira’s a good place,’ Nicholas said.
It should have been enough. It seemed incredible that Julius should persist, as he did, until Nicholas grew sick of arguing, and rounded on him. ‘Look. Go and see her alone. Tell her what you’ve decided. For all I know, she may think exile worse than waiting for months to be tried. Then go and tell the authorities.’ He paused. Then he said shortly, ‘And take a weapon. She’s dangerous.’
They looked at one another. Julius said, ‘At least, come to the house. At least, be there if I need you.’
Nicholas agreed. He felt mortally weary. He heard Tobie proposing to come and keep him company. Thank you, Tobie. Once it had all mattered so much, and now it didn’t. He said to Tobie, just before they left for the Hôtel Gruuthuse, ‘Gelis and Jodi are in Bruges. I have to see them. Even if the Bank won’t let me into the house.’
‘I know,’ Tobie said. ‘So does Julius. But you made Anna your business. You owe it to Julius to help him finish it. And nobody’s rushing to Bruges in one day. You want to be fresh when you get there. If things go well, I’ll set out with you tomorrow.’
THE CHAMBER WHERE Anna von Hanseyck was secured was pleasant and large, and not obviously a place of confinement, except for the locked door and the bars on the windows. Marguerite van Borselen, having taken Julius there, returned to talk softly to Nicholas and Tobie in her parlour. She commiserated with them both over their losses, and what they had been through at Nancy. Louis had been devastated. She did not know what they were going to do.
She was too kind to suggest that one of the things they might have to do was cease guarding this woman. But that would be settled today. Either Anna would accept Julius’s terms, or she would be taken to justice. Nicholas said to his wife’s cousin, ‘And have you heard something from Bruges?’
‘From Gelis? Of course! You know how silent she is, when her feelings are touched. But she waits for you, minute by minute. The child also.’
‘And Katelijne Sersanders?’ Nicholas said.
‘Ah, that is sad,’ his hostess said, with warm sympathy. ‘Of course, she is surrounded by family, friends; she is very much loved. She has the children. But it was a strange little marriage, in its way: people look forward to her next choice.’
Nicholas said, ‘That was her choice. She will not make another.’ He would not have said it, except that he was in no doubt, and others ought to recognise it as well. He was torn between thinking of Kathi, and wondering what was passing between Anna and Julius. He didn’t know enough about their feelings for each other. He had always suspected them to be tepid, since it had been, in a sense, an arranged marriage. Julius’s vanity had been engaged, and he was man enough to respond to her calculated, experienced lovemaking, although it would never play a large part in his life. Driven by wounded pride, nevertheless, he might go to the most unwise of extremes.
On the other hand, Anna was strong enough to check anything that would frustrate her intentions. With her emotions frozen since childhood, she prized, Nicholas thought, her indifference to men, and the ease with which she could rouse them. Then she had practised the same arts with himself and had failed; but not because he did not want her, or believed her craving assumed. He had felt, even earlier than she did, the signs of something deep-settled between them. He would not let it happen, that was all. And that, she could not endure.
It meant that she would not forgive; that she would make him pay so long as it lay in her power. It meant that she did not care for her own life or her own future. She had none, and she knew it. So he was not surprised when the manservant came to ask if M. de Fleury would object to joining the Gräfin and her husband in the locked room. He apologised for the precautions. Needless to say, Tobie came, too.
Adelina sat in the light by the window. She looked the way Tobie said his grandfather had looked at Montello: fresh and well groomed and aware. She was, after all, Thibault’s daughter. Her hair, brushed and loose, was the colour of a ducat seen through red glass. She was smiling. ‘I am being sent into exile on a pittance. Your idea?’
Nicholas seated himself on the bed-step. ‘I could have asked for your life, but I didn’t. This is between you and Julius.’
‘I don’t mind being hanged by my loving family,’ said Adelina. ‘I do object to being relegated to tedium because you are too t
errified of your own conscience to act. What else should I have done to strike a spark from you? Killed your disgusting friend Ludovico da Bologna as well as Ochoa? I did give away Karaï Mirza: I trust he is dead. And I am sure the Greek died a noble death in your place: that was a mistake I do regret.’ She was flushed. He had expected measured refutations, and possibly threats. He had underestimated her. She had never been interested in saving herself: only in punishing him.
Julius said, ‘I don’t want to hear any more. You said you had to tell Nicholas something.’ It sounded commanding, but in fact he looked devastated, standing with his injured arm by the fire. He had been informed about Anna. He had not, until now, heard it all from her lips.
‘I wanted to tell you both something,’ Adelina said. Lying back, smoothing the chain of her pendant, she was the opposite of disturbed. She was, Nicholas thought, deliberately reminding Julius and himself of her physical beauty. Tobie, leaning against the post of the bed, gave a snort.
Julius said, ‘What is there left that we don’t know? You deceived me, and you deceived Nicholas. I’m only surprised that you didn’t try to deceive me with him.’
Nicholas shut his eyes and opened them again. By now, he ought to know what Julius was like. He decided he had better say something. He said, ‘She made a brave try, but had to make do in the end with Squarciafico. Others, too. But Squarciafico spent half his time in the house.’
‘Did you know?’ Anna was amused. ‘A vigorous man, my dear Julius, but insanely jealous. His men gave Nicholas a hard time at Soldaia before I contrived to contain and then reverse the damage. Are you glad, Nicholas?’
‘Because you wanted to preserve me for the gold? Well, naturally, I was glad,’ Nicholas said. ‘The gold was my carefully planned life insurance. You believed in it. I was lucky I wasn’t dealing with Julius.’
The pendant dropped from her fingers. ‘Julius!’ Adelina said. ‘You think my poor cuckolded Julius is intelligent?’
Nicholas gazed at her. ‘He’s here and free, and you’re not.’
On the surface, she had calmed. ‘That is true. But then, what has he achieved, compared with me? His objective was to become wealthy, and he is poor. Mine was to remind you of the sins of your childhood, and to compel you to regret them.’
‘You did quite well,’ Nicholas acknowledged politely. He kept his voice steady.
‘I think so too. But the coup de grâce is still to come. You are very sad, I hear, that your captain and half the Charetty company are dead? This proud little army confided to you by your first wife? How extraordinary,’ said Adelina. ‘You wouldn’t have me, but you forced yourself to take an old woman, provided it brought you her business.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, and got up. She raised her voice, and went on. She was smiling.
‘And what was she like, when put to her business?’ said Adelina. ‘A little stiff, and prone to wheeze, but — I am sure — most eagerly grateful. And she knew that to keep such a splendid young stallion, she must spare him more ridicule, if she could. She had the sense, at least, not to complain when, using her in your virile way famed among kitchenmaids, you generously got her with child.’
‘She’s lying,’ said Tobie. ‘Come.’
‘Are you lying?’ Julius said. ‘How do you know?’
‘Anyone going to Dijon can find out,’ said Adelina. ‘If they know whom to ask, and are sufficiently convincing, and will swear themselves humbly to secrecy. You have a daughter, Nicholas. Are you not pleased? Her name is Bonne.’
The room had become very cold. Nicholas sat. Tobie put his hand on his shoulder. Julius said loudly, ‘Bonne is too young.’
Adelina’s voice said, ‘Bonne is two years older than I told you she was.’
‘But she is yours,’ Julius said. ‘Yours and the Graf’s.’
‘He adopted her,’ Adelina said. ‘He was extremely anxious to marry me. He did not care who I was, or what story was told. And he knew I couldn’t sully his line, because I was barren.’ Her gaze rested on Nicholas, although she spoke to her husband. ‘You don’t know what Jaak de Fleury did to me. Nicholas could tell you. What Jaak did to me was to ensure that I could never carry a child.’ She smiled, still looking at Nicholas. ‘Bonne is Marian de Charetty’s daughter, by you.’
He steadied then, finding his voice, and causing Tobie’s hand to move aside. Nicholas said, ‘Can you prove it?’
‘I don’t need to,’ Adelina said. ‘You have to prove it untrue.’
Her eyes were glowing, her shoulders straight under the fall of glorious hair. Nicholas stood, and met her gaze, and said, ‘I think that is enough. The rest is for Julius.’
‘You are running away?’ Adelina said. ‘She died in a foreign land, for your sake. An old woman, she set out on a journey knowing that she would give birth alone, and that you need never know what had happened — even if she died, as she did.’
Nicholas walked to the door and turned. Tobie had already opened it. Nicholas said, ‘If it is true, I ought to know, and I am glad you have told me. If it is false, I shall find out soon enough. I don’t think, in leaving you, I am running away. I see nothing in you that I can harm or help any more.’
She did not answer, but he could feel her gaze on the door as he closed it, while the voice of Julius battered at her attention. ‘You promised me children …!’ And then, darkening, ‘So you could sleep with anyone, couldn’t you? Anyone!’
Tobie said quietly, ‘You didn’t know about Marian?’
‘I don’t know even yet,’ Nicholas said. They had stopped outside the parlour.
‘But you guessed Anna would goad Julius as well.’ It wasn’t an accusation, or a piece of anxious self-questioning, or a dawning conviction. It sounded helpless.
‘I didn’t want to come,’ Nicholas said. He paused and said, ‘If you think it right, you can go back to their room.’
There was a long pause. Then Tobie said, ‘No.’
They took leave of their hostess and returned to the house of Adorne, where there was nothing to do. Tobie found a book and sat, seldom turning the pages. Nicholas went briefly to his room, but reappeared to sink into a chair before the handsome Sersanders fireplace. He did not speak. His sombre presence, indeed, seemed to have no purpose at all unless it was to wait out the night along with Tobie. It also demonstrated that, whatever happened, he was not taking it lightly. Whatever happened. Whatever he was allowing to happen.
The news came before dawn, with a hurried, ill-written note from Marguerite van Borselen at the Hôtel Gruuthuse. Mixed with the horror it conveyed was an apology: she and her husband had, after all, been warders of the young woman. Mixed with the apology was a grain of thankfulness: an awkward problem had been solved. Yet who would imagine that, after all these weeks, the Gräfin von Hanseyck would do such a thing?
Certainly, she had been distressed by the interview with her husband. Faced with his revulsion, reminded again of the public ignominy that lay ahead, she had been overcome, it was clear, with despair. Left alone for the merest moment, she had taken her tragic decision. By her own hand, Anna von Hanseyck was dead.
Tobie had leaped to his feet, but the messenger, a man of Marguerite’s own, had restrained him. ‘I was to tell you, Master Tobias, not to come. The lady is alas beyond help, and her husband has said he does not want company. My lord the Governor will see to all that has to be done, and Master Julius will continue to stay with him meanwhile. My lady’s advice is that M. de Fleury should go to Bruges, to her cousin his wife.’
By then, Nicholas was on his feet also, his face gaunt as it had been all night. In reply to Tobie’s glance, he made a voiceless sign of agreement and walked away, while Tobie sent off the man with a note and a coin. Then the doctor went and poured two cups of wine. ‘Justice,’ he said.
‘I don’t know if it was justice,’ Nicholas said. He had again dropped into a seat, his fist to his mouth. He removed his hand. ‘It curtailed the damage, I suppose.’
Tobie gave him
his wine. ‘Did she take her own life?’ he said plainly.
‘I don’t know. Probably. He probably gave her the dagger. Oh Christ, Julius,’ Nicholas said. It was a cry, in a whisper.
‘He’ll get over it.’
Nicholas thought. He gave a laugh which had exasperation in it, as well as pity and anger. ‘In fact, you’re right. More than anyone, he probably will.’
‘And you?’ Tobie asked.
Nicholas rocked his cup, watching it. ‘She was graceful, beautiful, clever. We spent a long time together, much of it happy. It was hard sometimes to remember that she couldn’t be trusted. She had a sense of fun; she could be understanding, when she wanted to be. She was deeply musical, I discovered. But of course, she used it all for her own purposes.’
‘To hurt,’ Tobie said.
‘She had been hurt,’ Nicholas said. Then he said, ‘Bonne.’
Tobie said, ‘She’s in a convent. Father Moriz keeps in touch with her, and will tell her the Gräfin is dead. But I suspect Julius will not want to be responsible for her now.’
‘No. I shall. I shall have to look into it all. Is it possible?’ Nicholas said. He had not yet tasted his wine.
‘It is possible that your wife had a child. It has still to be proved that Bonne is that child,’ Tobie said.
‘I have to tell Gelis,’ Nicholas said to the air.
Tobie hesitated. Then he said, ‘Gelis made a journey to Dijon, while you were away.’ He did not drop his pale gaze.
Nicholas said, ‘She didn’t tell me.’
‘Because, unlike Adelina, Gelis is someone who does not want to hurt you, these days,’ Tobie said. ‘But you must have found that out, by now. Will you stay at Spangnaerts Street?’
‘Not if it disturbs anyone,’ Nicholas said.
‘Oh, I think you should get a night out of them,’ Tobie said ironically. ‘You go to Adorne’s, and I’ll ask.’
AS HAD BEEN SAID, Katelijne Sersanders in her loss was surrounded by family and friends, and very much loved. The blow of her bereavement would also be softened, you would think, by the extent of a disaster which had made of her one of thousands of widows, and changed for ever the land she was reared in. She was even thought to be fortunate, being young, with no more than a short married life to grieve over. She was aware of all that. She could not say that, in those weeks of isolation and terror, her heart had been in Lorraine with two men, not one. Or her heart aching for one, and her spirit in bond to the other.