The Unicorn Hunt (101 page)

‘Four?’

‘He got another one in Jerusalem, and one in Cyprus. The Sword. The same as you have.’

‘That
is
serious,’ said M. de Fleury. ‘No wonder Jan thinks it a crime to interfere with such eminence. All the same, I don’t think you should be involved. You’d be safer in Bruges.’

‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m fond of him, too.’

‘No one in the world could doubt that,’ said M. de Fleury.

He changed his tone. ‘It has hardly, all the same, constituted a health cure, this trip. Unless the Blessed Virgin St Catherine has managed to make up for the imbecilities of the rest of us? Have you brought something back from Alexandria? From Cyprus? From Sinai?’

She looked at him. ‘In health? They say I am better, but perhaps Dr Tobias could have cured me at home.’

He said, ‘Yes, in health. I am sorry. Spiritual wellbeing is not my affair.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘In any case, it’s all too recent to tell. I should put it aside. Put it green in the straw, and leave it to ripen. In six months we shall all know what we’ve brought back.’ She stood. ‘I must go. My uncle is presenting his letters to the Doge this morning.’

He rose as well. ‘We shall see one another in public, I am sure. We are not savages. And all your other friends here will want to meet you.’

At the door she said, ‘There is one other thing. Simon de St Pol is in Venice.’

For a moment he was absolutely still. Then he said, ‘You are sure?’

‘My uncle called at the Ca’ Frizier, the Scots lodging. He knows the family. He said M. de St Pol was there.’

M. de Fleury stirred and then smiled, opening the door and gazing peaceably beyond it. ‘Then let us hope he doesn’t meet Jan Adorne.’

She said nothing. He turned. Then the two dimples deepened and deepened. He said, ‘Col Dieu, he has.’

On Thursday the twenty-first of February, the squadron of galleys
of the Knights Hospitaller of St John of Jerusalem dropped anchor in the basin at Venice and the embassy of noble Knights stepped ashore, among whom were Tobias Lomellini of Genoa and the chaplain, Father John Gosyn of Kinloch. With them was a Persian delegation of over one hundred gentlemen, led by the lord Hadji Mehmet.

The Signoria, warned of their coming, sent a suitable party to welcome them and to conduct them to their lodging. From there they brought back, after due expressions of gratitude, the Persian ruler’s gifts to the Doge, which included ten barrels of caviare, five bundles of carpets and twelve parcels of silk. On Friday, once rested, the lords of Persia and their conductors were received in ceremonial audience by the Doge, and a number of less formal meetings were arranged, to culminate in a presentation before the full Council on Monday.

Returned to their lodging, the Knights and the delegation expressed their readiness to receive the Duke of Burgundy’s Envoy that afternoon and, when the Baron Cortachy arrived, engaged him for three hours in unheated discussion.

The Genoese Knights of Rhodes, not averse to Western food and good wine, accepted the Baron’s invitation to dine at his palazzo. The remaining Knights and their turbanned charges found it more convenient to remain where they were and entertain the merchant Nicholas de Fleury in the manner already arranged between them on Rhodes.

The meeting lasted into the night. It was understood in the course of it that the deployment of certain resources of gold was still under discussion within M. de Fleury’s company, who were prepared to open informal talks between then and Monday’s meeting with the Signoria. It was difficult at times to follow the argument, such was the racket of trumpets, singing and uninhibited shouting outside. It was explained that at present Venice was in Carnival.

Jan Adorne, excluded from the deliberations of his father, took the advice of his new and urbane friend, the chevalier Simon of Scotland, and had himself fitted with an exquisite costume ready for Martedi Grasso, the crescendo of unimaginable excitement which on Tuesday would finish the Carnival. The hose and shoes were of silk, and the hood and mask made entirely of cock’s feathers. Between now and then, he wore his best taffeta doublets with a black mask and cloak, as Simon recommended. Simon said he was going as Dionysus.

As the son of the Baron Cortachy, Jan Adorne was not of course
in want of a guide or companion, but he was impressed, despite himself, by St Pol’s familiarity with the city, and with certain houses in it.

Jan was an orthodox young man, and had behaved himself in Paris and Pavia as orthodox students did; but on this journey he had been forced to observe unnatural standards of conduct. The all-important post in his grasp, he had permitted himself at last to gaze at the wealth in the windows of Florentine goldsmiths; to smile at the pretty girls smiling at him from garlanded Ferrara balconies. And now here he was, masked, in a city tumbling into the unlicensed frenzy of Carnival, its roofs merry with flags, its exquisite buildings garlanded, its squares and lanes blowing with silken awnings and tassels, hung with cloth of gold, with damask, with carpets, and crowded with handsome people, and music, and laughter.

Whatever Simon did, Jan could do. He chose his own mistress, for example. That is, stumbling out of the heat and heavy scents of one of the houses Simon took him to, Jan became aware, as he swayed, of an exquisite masked girl on a bridge. The mist, rising like smoke, made it seem that she floated; a slender wreathed body suspended in air, one narrow, gloved hand holding back a fold of her cloak. Her face, cowled in black, was formed of white porcelain: a pure oval mask whose sleek, still eyes studied him above the rigid flare of the delicate nostrils, the parted, ceramic lips. Her headdress was a crown of silk roses.

He thought she was waiting for someone. But when she had his attention she moved, her white-gloved fingers pressed to her throat, her steps moving softly down the far side of the bridge and away. He heard a breath of laughter, and when he reached the crown of the bridge, found lingering there a scent he did not know. Far ahead, in the mist, a cloak floated. She had been waiting for him.

Behind, Simon called his name, and the girl with him giggled. She was a handsome whore, the best in the house, and Simon had not let him share her. That was his right: he was the teacher, and there were other things he and Jan were going to do together. But that night, Jan had something in prospect other than a harlot of the second rank, however exclusive the establishment. The cloak fluttered ahead, and he followed.

Julius said, ‘You know Jan Adorne? I thought I saw him last night coming out of the Coccina brothel. Masked, but the same bony shoulders. Wasn’t he supposed to be reserved for the Church?’

‘So were you,’ Nicholas said. ‘So what were you doing in the district?’

‘Attending the Martinengo banquet. Where you were supposed to be. Nicholas, it’s the Corner reception tonight for Hadji Mehmet and the Persians. Half the Great Council are going, and the wretched Corner girl will receive. I refer to Catherine, the nominal Queen of the très haut et très illustre grand roi de Jerusalem, de Chypre et d’Arménie, your particular friend Zacco. It’s ordinary dress, with a mask and a cloak. Or at least, the best dress you’ve got. We’re all going.’

‘You mean you don’t want to discuss any more numbers,’ said Nicholas.

‘No, I don’t,’ Julius said. ‘If we’re not ready for Monday, we never shall be. All we have to do is decide what we’re going to offer. One last meeting.’

‘All right,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ll come to the palazzo tonight if you’ll all present yourselves in my room tomorrow morning. One last meeting. And if you want to complain, complain to Tobie. I was going to do all this myself until he showed me how selfish that was.’

The reception given by Marco Corner and his wife Fiorenza, princess of Naxos, was – other than that of the Doge – the finest of all the entertainments offered in Venice during the span of the Carnival. The central figure was, of course, Catherine, Queen of Cyprus, their fourth child, released from her Paduan convent and done up in satin and pearls with a train. She was opulent, fair, and embossed under the paint with heavy spots. Their son George and the girl’s seven sisters attended her.

The food and wine were both lavish, and a stage had been erected in the courtyard upon which a play was performed, followed by music. The dancing continued for most of the night.

Nicholas went, and remained. Julius threw himself into every extravagance, while minding his manners. Tobie and John tended to sit side by side, displaying identical sinuous smiles above slackened shoulders. Gregorio, whom the days were making increasingly haggard, muttered something suddenly and went off during the mime. Anselm Adorne came and sat beside Nicholas. He slid the mask from his face. ‘Our Ambassadors appear to be enjoying themselves. You and I are not in accord, but there is no reason why we should ignore each another. I have to thank you for caring for Katelijne.’

‘The Clares did that,’ Nicholas said. His mask leered; his eyes remained cold.

Adorne spoke to the eyes. ‘I have no apology to make, I am
afraid, over your divining. It is condemned by God, and a blasphemy. I do find it difficult, however, to pursue you into the courts about the other matter. Partly because of Dr Tobias, and partly because, being opposed to you in business, I should appear to be belatedly vindictive. I refer to my injury, and also to the wretchedness and expense to which you exposed us in Alexandria.’

‘I see,’ said Nicholas.

‘That is all you have to say?’ said Anselm Adorne.

‘To you, yes. I might say a little more to David de Salmeton,’ Nicholas said. ‘At the moment, it is not particularly wise to say anything. As you say, we are on opposite sides, and the lord Hadji Mehmet has been watching us since you sat down.’

Adorne rose. He had flushed. He said, ‘Thank you for pointing it out. You will forgive Katelijne for not having thanked you herself. She is here, but I thought it best to keep her with me and with Jan.’

‘I am sure you are wise,’ Nicholas said. ‘Those who know only spiritual pleasures must make, in the end, the best guardians.’

Later, Fiorenza of Naxos danced with him. ‘You have been avoiding your hostess!’

The long file weaved round the salon. She held her gown with one hand and the fingertips of the other rested in his. She moved them into his palm. Her mask was made like a bird, with wings and feathers and jewels, and her sleeves were so thickly embroidered that they bruised his arm when they swung. At the moment, everything bruised him.

He said, ‘I thought you might not wish to speak to me, now that King James has become so undecided. The Despot’s daughter is charming, I hear, and quite slim, and Cardinal Bessarion is, of course, rearing her. But in the long run, the daughter of King Ferrante might be more useful.’

She dropped his hand, her face turning up. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she took it again and resumed her swaying progress, wheeling, curtseying. Coming back to him again she said, ‘Your sense of humour is unique. I hear King James offered you some of the best estates on the island. Marco was delighted. You will be our neighbour again.’

‘Here, perhaps. Not, I fear, in Cyprus. I refused them,’ he said. She had, of course, known.

‘Niccolino!’ She breathed it.

‘Well, Zacco
is
going to marry,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is, I suppose he is going to consummate something, some time. And
Marco doesn’t really want me making more money than he does. I think you should be quite pleased if I stay out of Cyprus and co-operate somewhere else for a change. I really do co-operate quite well, when I feel like it. Is that the end of the dance?’

She appeared to think it was. He decided he would give himself another hour, provided he could find Cavalli, or Cavalli could find him. Antonio Cavalli, most favoured envoy, servant and adviser of Duke Sigismond of the Tyrol, had become a frequent visitor at the Casa. The occasion was business, of course: part of it to do with the mining the Bank was financing, and part with Duke Sigismond’s most recent explosions of energy, none of them likely to gladden his neighbour of Burgundy.

‘What do you think will happen?’ Nicholas had said.

‘In Burgundy? Oh,’ had said Antonio Cavalli, ‘I believe the Duke will frighten off France and then set himself, God bless and preserve him, to work for his crown. He aims to end his life as a King or an Emperor, and he may well succeed. Nor do I see how my lord Sigismond could hold out against him. You may be able to mine your silver in peace, if you have patience.’

Such conversations were useful, and so were the other exchanges one might have on occasions otherwise useless, such as tonight. Nicholas saw Cavalli presently, and indeed they left together, since Julius had kindly left him the elaborate boat with curtains and tassels which the Bank used for its social occasions. Cavalli was glad to be offered a seat.

Now the mist was quite thick. Other boats slipped like shadows among the dim lights, and the sound of music and laughter was pierced by the cries of boatmen like distant birdcalls from every canal. The air was dank, even melancholy after the warmth of the salon, and when they slid between the poles outside the Palazzo Cavalli. Nicholas experienced some reluctance to see his passenger leave. He was not invited in. An elderly friend of the Duchess Eleanor resided with them and kept early hours, said Cavalli, excusing himself.

It was understandable. Company had only seemed inviting, for a moment, because now that the calculations were done, there were spaces left in his mind; mooring poles where anything could slip in and find itself lodged. Nicholas waved a smiling good night and had himself taken back to the Bank.

Tomorrow, the decision. The next day, the ducal Palace. The day after, the height of the Carnival, and the verdict, and the meeting with Gelis. If she kept her promise. If she feared God or Ludovico da Bologna, as she did not fear him.

If, after the discussion tomorrow, he could keep his part of the bargain.

Next morning, six men sat with Nicholas round the board in his chamber, and Father Moriz, who occasionally used his cloth to chasten a patron, opened the talk with a prayer. Under the bat-like eyebrows his eyes rested on Gregorio and transmitted calm. Gregorio felt a dim sense of gratitude. He didn’t, as yet, know much of Father Moriz: it was John and Nicholas with whom the metallurgical priest had spent the winter in the Tyrol, and Julius and Cefo with whom he had since worked in Venice. He was only now coming to receive Tobie’s confidence, and of course he had hardly met Margot before she went off. Father Moriz knew nothing of Margot, except that she and Gregorio had been together for a very long time. Until recently.