The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [125]
Margot had not come back to Bruges. Margot was not even with Gelis in her convent. Margot, they now knew, was with the infant, Gelis’s son whom (Gregorio had learned with reserve) Nicholas still intended to rear as his own.
It worked quite well. Gregorio said, ‘I am not your spy. Nor is Margot.’
Nicholas said, ‘Why snap at me? Do you think Margot cares for this arrangement? Do you think that I do? The legitimacy of the boy is the problem, and Margot is trying to protect him.’
‘It seems hard on Margot,’ Gregorio said. ‘And, unlike you, I find lying difficult.’
‘Then don’t lie,’ Nicholas said. ‘Tell everyone the child may be Simon’s.’
There was a silence. Then Gregorio said, ‘You know that I can’t.’ Then he said bitterly, ‘I’ll come to Scotland.’ Which was exceptionally convenient.
Nicholas threw away Tobie’s pills and filled his head full of numbers. He sailed as soon as he could, and left behind an echoing empire of men who had once been his friends.
He had seen her. He had laid down his terms: so had she. The second stage (thank God, thank God), was now over.
And now there was Scotland, and the third, ready waiting.
Chapter 18
BY MAY, THE Kinneil salt-pans were long free of snow, although further upriver the hills about Stirling were streaked, and the plain in which the castle rock stood was soggy and flooded in places.
Will Roger didn’t mind, except that it gave his choristers coughs. Jogging between Edinburgh, Haddington, Peebles (where his little sinecure eked out his salary) and the chapel royal of Stirling, he actually began to have hopes that he would have a musical programme worth the name for the King’s wedding. Standing on a box, nursing his altos, he was so intent he was unaware of his visitors until a familiar voice copied, with unfair accuracy, what he was trying to explain.
He turned. Nicholas de Fleury, of course, the dimples foully provocative. Beside him was a youngish man in a lawyer’s cap and black gown, with a comic nose and a startled expression. Will Roger roared, ‘The father! The father! The loins that have sired some croaking heir that doesn’t know its A from its elbow! Come and kiss me!’
It wasn’t entirely wise: he could feel the choir’s communal stare, fascinated, faintly disapproving, wholly jealous. Conducting choirs was a pastime with heavy sexual undertones, which one ignored at one’s peril. He disengaged and said, ‘And who is this?’
‘Your new fiddler,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve just come from Secretary Whitelaw. Your lodging, whenever it suits you?’
The startled expression was a fair reflection of Gregorio of Asti’s state of mind, now that he had emerged from the interminable voyage of the Bank’s caravel, the San Niccolò, which, far from sailing direct to Scotland, had delivered Nicholas de Fleury first to Southampton, then to London.
At Southampton, he had received news from Florence, Naples and Venice and interviewed merchants with business in Bristol.
In London, armed with a safe conduct from Governor William in Bruges, he had been received by the Duchess of Burgundy’s mother and saw her maid of honour, Anselm Adorne’s homesick daughter. The sieur de Fleury had letters for both, and in return was invited to spend an hour in their parlour. An hour that had stretched to three, there was so much news to exchange.
He also had some introductions to merchants. He talked with them all. After a while, Gregorio sent a mental apology to Julius. Whatever had brought Nicholas north, it was not a simple evasion of matrimony. Something very large indeed was afoot. Something to which, so far, he was not being admitted.
After that, the ship made two further calls, one to Newcastle and one to Berwick. So far as Gregorio could see, the Berwick call had no purpose except to let off Mick Crackbene, who disappeared