Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [425]
THERE YOU HAVE a spiritual pronouncement. We astrologers are not necessarily attuned to the work of the Almighty and His servants, although I have time for Will Scheves. My concern is the Future, thus capitalised—not my own; not even that of the men and women in this tale; but the Future in which some of their children or grandchildren may take part. And, of course, my descendants. I have great hopes of my daughter, Camille.
My efforts have met with some success. I had a glimpse of something, just about the time of which you have been reading. I cannot remember what medium I used—the beryl, the tray of ink (ink is so expensive)?—but I can tell you the vision was short, and I could not say what year it represented, although I recognised where it took place: a pretty spot in France, which I happen to know very well. Nicholas de Fleury was there—indeed, he was my unwitting intermediary.
It is a sobering thing, to occupy the mind of another. The amour propre may find itself damaged. In this instance, Nicholas appeared to regard me with due respect, which is something. Some of the persons connected with him were visible, but there is no reason to suppose that harm had befallen those who were not. It was merely a glimpse. All I can say for certain is that I perceived the children more clearly than ever before, each with its thread to the future now firmly held in its hand.
Here is what I saw.
• • •
THE RIVER WAS broad, and full with the summer flood. It was not yet the season for vintage, but the scent of the fruit drifted in the soft air and filled the senses like music.
Nicholas stood, without seeing. Far off, he could hear voices. If he turned, he would discover them: Bel’s family, Kathi’s family, and his own, taking their ease in the woodland and orchards of Chouzy, in the vale of the Cisse and the Loire; renewing, as he did every year, their old acquaintance with France.
He would see Bel’s son-in-law, Bernard, seigneur de Chouzy, a little frail for his years, smiling at Isabella, his fair, his bewitching young daughter. And never far off, he would find his own tall son Jordan, brown-haired, loose-limbed and inventive, with a flute stuck at his waist, or plucked out to amuse Isabella. Apart, the younger children would be playing: Camille dominating young Hob, unless her father Dr Andreas intervened. And behind them somewhere in the grass, Gelis and Kathi were certainly talking: Gelis lying back, her eyes screwed against the sun; Kathi sitting up collecting something, or shelling something, or unpacking the baskets. And halfway up a very tall tree, with a flower stuck in his hair, Kathi’s other son, whose childish name had been Rankin.
Seeing the way things were going, Nicholas had asked Bernard de Moncourt recently about the future of Chouzy, and he had smiled. ‘You don’t fancy managing it? Then have no fear. It will last my time, although Isabella’s husband, when she has one, and her family may have other ideas. The King’s advisers have sent to ask if this is for sale.’
‘Chouzy?’
‘No. The vineyards. This land we call Sevigny, by the river. The Crown wishes to build. A château for the monarch, or his guests, or to lease to privileged commanders.’
‘Will you sell?’
‘I might. I am not poor, as you know, but it would bring considerable wealth to my family. We could remain here for my lifetime. But if the Crown eventually tired of the building and sold, my heirs need not stay, and suffer a string of new neighbours.’ Then de Moncourt had smiled. ‘If the château is built, you may wish to advise about architects.’
‘I used to know a good Italian,’ Nicholas had said.
The river ran, singing. Life was full of surprises. He had never truly wanted to shorten his own, even when things were at their worst. He had not needed Andreas to warn him: fill your life. There is a long time to wait. Don’t make it longer.
He wondered how long it would be, and where he would wait, and what it would feel like. He wondered if anyone else had this happiness, to know what death was going to mean. He understood and was reconciled to the