To Lie with Lions (30 page)

Instead, Jan was travelling to Rome, with no more promising companion than the bankrupt and belligerent Bishop of St Andrews, and no sure prospect yet of a post. Instead, his dear Margriet, with her poor raddled face and swollen body, had been forced to come with him to Court, because the Princess Mary would not travel without her. And instead, the splendid gift of this book would be forgotten; cast aside by the other gift he had inescapably brought, to everyone’s misery.

He could not have left the King’s sister in Bruges. He could not leave in England a family so dangerous to the Scottish throne that his
own future in Scotland would have been forfeit. He had only cajoled the girl herself into coming by exaggerating the hope he knew did not exist – that she, favourite of James, would persuade him face to face to let her husband come back to Scotland.

The outcome had been as he feared. James, in the act of opening his arms to a penitent sister, had learned that Mary, shining and scented with milk, had no regrets; no wish to be released from her marriage vows. Her sole mission was on behalf of the traitor her husband, so that they might come back to Scotland in state, their lands returned, Lord Arran’s death sentence quashed. She not only wished it. She seemed to expect it.

The open arms had not remained open. Instead of her brother’s embrace, the walls of David’s Tower had closed around Mary Stewart and her household and children. And the door to the enclosure was locked.

Returned from his difficult audience, Adorne found Sersanders his nephew awaiting him in the big house he usually leased in the High Street. His niece Katelijne, it seemed, was in bed, having overtaxed herself the previous evening. Katelijne Sersanders was delicate. Her brother thought the family wrong to wish her to marry in Scotland, but Sersanders did not know, as his uncle did, what ageing princes could do to a country. Or young ones, for that matter.

Anselm Adorne listened therefore to his nephew, although he was tired, and asking him to sit down, had poured him some wine. The beaker was from home. So was all their linen and silver and glassware. Margriet had insisted. He had gone just now to her room to reassure her, but had found her asleep. He was thankful. She had been weeping all day for the Princess.

Now he said, ‘Why revile Nicholas? It was not his fault that the Pope died, or if it was, I have not yet heard the details. As for the rest, the King will recover his equanimity. In his heart, he knows that we have brought home his sister, whom he had lost, and that her children are better brought up under his eye. What we lose, we shall recover in other ways. And I have great hopes. You have spoken to Martin. You have not yet heard all I have to tell you.’

‘De Fleury has a Bank behind him.’ Sitting four-square, with his father’s energy and his mother’s muscular neatness, his nephew and godson looked very young.

Adorne said, ‘Nicholas
is
the Bank. That is its greatest strength and its greatest impediment. Nicholas bestowing his undivided attention upon any project is a sight worthy of awe: it leads naturally to success. It does not lead to stability; to consistent leadership; to the broadest vision which will carry a company or a family safely into the
future. Nicholas is not concerned with the future – for his country, his town or himself.’

‘But surely!’ Sersanders said. ‘He has plotted and planned all his life! What was he doing in the Tyrol, in Hesdin, in Ham? What has he been attempting to carve for himself here?’

‘You would think so,’ said Adorne. It had come to him recently, the truth about Nicholas, or what he thought was the truth. He said, ‘And you are right, when you speak of his mind. But what the core of Nicholas lives by is not the present, nor what is to come. It is the past.’

To the exasperation of all except, perhaps, the King, the sieur de Fleury continued to be absent all through the first days of the lady Mary’s arrival and imprisonment and, having by now virtually a doctorate in disappearance, remained lost.

John le Grant, at whose side he unexpectedly appeared, bruised and sneezing, did nothing to give away the whereabouts of his padrone; but was cheered by the concentrated violence of both his language and his labours – a phenomenon often associated with a man thankfully returned from his wedding bed, or from doting dutifully over a crib.

The business being gun-casting, there was plenty of hard work to do, and meticulous planning. When it shifted to the new boat-yard, it was scarcely less strenuous. By the time the sufferer was ready to go back, the cold had gone and the marks on his face were hardly noticeable. He had said nothing that was not to do with the work, but of that he had said a great deal to the point. John gathered that Crackbene had been left in attendance in Edinburgh, but would shortly set sail as was planned. It would be necessary soon to be seen to be divining, with which Father Moriz could concern himself or not, as he pleased.

Father Moriz was at present with the Cistercians in Culross, conducting an experiment with a pump. John thought that, with Nicholas in this mood, it would be as well if Moriz stayed there. He did not discuss either Nicholas’s son or his wife, whom he assumed to be at the bottom of this displacement. He did enquire about the future of the lady Mary, who was known to have come back to Scotland.

Nicholas, his face smeared, had sat back and picked up a beaker. He was drinking water again. ‘The King will keep her fast until he’s persuaded her that she’s Tom’s only chance, and that if she leaves, he’ll make sure that Tom dies. In any case, Edward will only wait so long to see if she’s coming, and then he’ll get rid of poor homeless Thomas.’

‘You helped her leave Scotland,’ John said. He was not in the business of protecting the sensibilities of Nicholas.

‘She would have left anyway. The King knows that. And I got her a nice home with Adorne.’

‘So now she stays indefinitely locked in the Castle?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Nicholas said. ‘In fact, she’s probably left there already. I’ve suggested she moves into the High Street with Gelis.’

‘What!’
said John.

Nicholas looked at him. ‘You remember. Gelis used to be one of her ladies. The nurses will help, and the nuns. Adorne will have no more to do, and the children will love it. Margaret, Jordan and James.’

‘Does she know?’ John le Grant asked.

‘Gelis? She will by now,’ Nicholas answered.

It had been left to Govaerts to carry the message to the dame de Fleury in her new house in the High Street, which she had occupied for less than a week.

The prospect didn’t entirely displease him. He felt some slight proprietorial interest in the King’s sister, whom he had helped originally to escape, and had never formed a close relationship with the wife and child with whom the padrone had saddled himself. Now, when he called with his message, it was as if the Lady had fathomed its contents. Or perhaps it was lack of sleep and not shock which gave her skin its extreme pallor. She was a very fair girl, with a tart way about her.

She said, ‘You have something to tell me.’

‘I have two messages, my lady,’ he said. ‘One from his grace the King, and one from your husband, to be passed to you at the same time.’

She said, ‘You have heard from M. de Fleury?’ And then: ‘No. He would arrange it beforehand. What is it?’

‘A great honour, madame,’ Govaerts said. ‘The King proposes that his sister the Countess of Arran should leave the Castle and come to lodge with you here. She will bring her household and children. The message from M. de Fleury endorses this. He relies on you. No expense is to be spared.’

‘You mean he suggested it,’ the Lady said. She was gazing past him. There was a commotion, he realised, in the doorway. The Lady added, ‘And when will the Princess arrive?’

Govaerts had no need to answer. ‘Tomorrow,’ said Katelijne Sersanders, whipping past him and planting herself on a seat, having snatched up the sewing which occupied it. ‘You didn’t know? He
didn’t tell you? And of course, he’s got himself safely out of the way. You’ll have to do it. I can help you.’

Of course,’ said the Lady. She was quick to recover, you could give her that. She said, ‘She stayed with your uncle and aunt. I’m surprised –’ She broke off.

‘It’s because of Aunt Margriet’s health,’ the girl said gently. ‘Or she and my uncle would have been happy to have her. And of course, M. de Fleury wishes to please the King. And if M. de Fleury does well, it will build a secure future for you, and for Jordan. I am sure M. de Fleury had all that in mind.’

By sheer chance, she was putting all the arguments most calculated to be helpful. Govaerts decided to keep quiet. The lady Gelis said, ‘I see. I am sorry about your aunt. But this is not a large house. They tell me your uncle crossed with a retinue of a hundred.’

‘Some of them stayed in England with the Earl and his father,’ said the girl. ‘Some were my uncle’s. The Countess will have no more than a dozen, and some of them can stay with us. We are only next door.’

‘We?’ said the lady Gelis.

‘The Edinburgh house of the Priory,’ said the girl. She had reddened a little, but her voice remained instructive and bright. ‘When the Prioress couldn’t find satisfactory premises, M. de Fleury bought the house next to this, and presented it to them. I think,’ said Katelijne Sersanders, ‘that you will find the nuns very helpful, and the King’s own household as well.’

‘I am sure,’ said the Lady slowly. She gazed at the girl. She said, ‘I am surprised by one thing. Does the King trust M. de Fleury not to enable the Princess to cross the Border and join her husband a second time?’

Govaerts moved, and saw the girl glance at him reassuringly. She said, ‘He wouldn’t dare: he has nothing to gain by it this time. And anyway, there will be a guard on the door, you can depend on it. Also, you might disguise her, but you couldn’t easily smuggle out a small boy and a baby. Should I speak to Mistress Clémence about them?’

‘Mistress Clémence may decide to leave,’ the lady Gelis said. ‘She and Pasque. And what then?’

‘Betha Sinclair,’ said the girl. ‘And they have a wet-nurse and a maid of some kind. But Mistress Clémence won’t leave. You know she won’t. Jordan is safe.’

Shortly after that, Govaerts left. He saw the two women watch him go, but didn’t hear what they said.

‘He disapproves of me,’ Gelis said.

‘He’ll come round. He’s a little jealous. He’s loyal to M. de Fleury, but doesn’t understand him a bit,’ Kathi said. ‘It’s Robin you’ll have all the trouble with. You know he’s going to be here as a page when he’s better?’

‘So I heard. Jordan will be delighted. Trouble?’

‘He thinks he’s M. de Fleury’s grandfather,’ Kathi said. ‘M. de Fleury gets irritated. Robin’s father is good with them both. And I thought the parrot might help. To relieve the emotion.’

‘Nicholas experiencing emotion?’ Gelis said.

There was a silence. Then the girl said, ‘No. It was Robin I meant.’

By the time Nicholas came back, the lady Mary was installed in the house with the orchard in Edinburgh; and nurses, children, cooks, stewards, chamber servants, maids, attendants and the changing ranks of the Countess’s bodyguard had all been variously established, dispersed, and given their orders by Gelis. The orchard had been partly dug up, and the household, to hear Will Roger, was being run on the lines of a military establishment. ‘If you ever lose Astorre, your lady wife could take his place.’

‘I really wanted to marry Astorre,’ Nicholas said automatically. ‘Gelis was just a substitute.’

He had come back to the house in the Canongate, and had already called to see Robin next door. The boy had been jumping about with a spear in the garden, his arm all strapped up, and had wanted to join him at once. Nicholas had told him he was going away, but would see him when he came back. He didn’t want Robin with him when he was divining, or not on this trip. Archie, at least, had been relieved.

Now he had to reassure Willie, who had come into the counting-house ostensibly to speak to one of his altos, but actually to quarrel with Nicholas over the Mystery Play.

Nicholas said, ‘Willie, you have every expert I possess, plus the entire resources of the Abbey of Holyroodhouse, plus all the stuff I brought over from France. You don’t need me.’ On his desk in the next room were five sacks of dispatches and Govaerts, glued to his seat.

Willie said, ‘Henry Arnot’s being sent off to Rome. Why don’t you do something properly, just for once?’

‘I do,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m trying to run a Bank properly.’

‘You’re back on water,’ said Willie Roger. ‘You always have a bloody short temper when you’re on water. Well, you’re wrong. I’ve spoken to your Julius. I’ve spoken to your Gregorio. I’ve spoken to your Govaerts. I don’t think you’ve ever done anything with
everything you’ve got, except perhaps music. And that’s just improvising. That’s not striving for perfection.’

The clerks, their necks red, were writing assiduously. Nicholas sighed. ‘You think I’ve forgotten about the Chapel Royal money.’

‘I know you have. Haven’t you?’ Roger said.

‘Drums, you promised me,’ Nicholas said.

‘If
you managed to extract the money for your Passion and my – You haven’t?’ said Roger.

‘Why do you think Henry Arnot is going to Rome?’ Nicholas said. Someone was hovering. Alonse.

‘Why?’ said Will Roger. His face, too, had turned pink.

‘The King,’ Nicholas said, ‘has reached the conclusion that the Priory of Coldingham ought to be suppressed, and its revenues directed instead to the Chapel Royal of St Mary the Virgin at St Andrews. I know Henry Arnot is going to Rome. Why the hell do you think he is going to Rome?’

Will Roger kissed him. It was highly unpleasant but not unexpected, and the clerks, turning round, had raggedly embarked on a round of applause. His grip must be slipping. Alonse, his face neutral said, ‘Messire?’

Nicholas pulled himself away and gave Roger a blow between the shoulderblades that was a quarter bonhomie and three-quarters meant to rattle his teeth. Then he turned to Alonse.

‘Messire,’ said Alonse. ‘The lady of Cortachy has called. She asks if she can speak to you privately. I have taken her to sit in your chamber.’