The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [132]
Into this space, admitted by the vaulted passage that led from the highway, a small cavalcade was at this moment reaching a halt. It consisted of four liveried servants and a spare, middle-aged man in a brimmed hat and thick velvet overgown, now nimbly dismounting. The badge was the chevron chequy of Semple, evidence of the family’s rise as seneschals and bailies to the High Stewards of Scotland. And this was Sir William Semple of Elliotstoun, acting for the ancient Sheriff, his father.
William Semple knew Nicholas. Of course he did. One of the minor injuries Nicholas had inflicted on Simon – apart from half roasting him and occasioning, one way or another, the death of his sister Lucia – had been to persuade the Sheriff to deprive Simon of his outlying leased land and to reallocate it to M. de Fleury.
Julius had described the achievement with glee. Gregorio could imagine how Simon felt. He wondered whether Simon de St Pol now regretted his willing part in the vicious scheme concocted by Gelis, however little he had understood it at the time. He thought probably not. Indeed, especially not if he guessed the resulting child to be his. His elation would counterbalance, very nearly, anything Nicholas could inflict. Which was why, perhaps, Nicholas was bent on further prosecuting his plans. Gregorio could not imagine what part the eminent Sir William Semple had been persuaded to play in them.
The answer at first seemed to be none. Sir William, seated in the chair of state with an excellent cup of wine in his hand, enquired first about the King’s wedding, and the magnificent celebrations he understood M. de Fleury was advising upon. From that he moved cordially to enquire when M. de Fleury planned to view his new estate, for he hoped that he and Marian would be permitted the honour of entertaining him. And finally, he made it known that her grace the lady Mary, Countess of Arran, was presently at home at Dean Castle, and would welcome news of Gelis van Borselen and her babe.
He was a thin man, with a lean ruddy face and sparse brown hair left to curl on his shoulders. His eyes were light and sharp. Nicholas said, ‘I have to see my new factor. You approve of him?’
‘I helped Master Bonkle choose him. An experienced man, Oliver Semple: a second cousin of mine. A good rent-collector, a man who will get you a fair price for your hides and your fells and your cheeses, and strike a bargain for a stretch of good fishing, besides knowing what’s what when you’re building. He and your builder – he and Cochrane get on. Well, then. You could ride to Beltrees from Kilmarnock. There is undeveloped land further south you might look at. I do not know, of course, how deep your interest lies. But you should not fail to call on the Countess at Dean. And, of course, you will find Mistress Bel at Kilmirren. Bel of Cuthilgurdy? She is attending to the affairs of the poor lady Lucia.’
‘I thought Mistress Bel was in France,’ Nicholas said. Gregorio looked at him.
‘She was, but she has returned. No doubt there is much to arrange. The late poor lady’s house now belongs, I suppose, to her son M. de Vasquez?’
Nicholas hesitated. For a moment, Gregorio thought he wasn’t going to admit it. Then he said, ‘No, to me. Now his mother has gone, M. Diniz has no interest in Scotland. And it adjoins the land I already have.’
‘So it does,’ said Sir William Semple. ‘How pleased my old friend Jordan will be.’
‘So they are not the closest of friends,’ Gregorio said, when their visitor had gone.
‘Who?’ Nicholas had rung for his page and was writing.
‘William Semple and Jordan de Ribérac.’
‘No. Jordan doesn’t develop his land, and invests all his money abroad. Simon can’t keep good managers. If I put off the Abbot, which I’m doing, we could set off for Dean Castle tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Why?… Where is it?’ said Gregorio, as an afterthought.
‘By Kilmarnock. Sixty miles to the south-west. We could stop with the Flemings of Biggar.’
‘Why?’ said Gregorio. ‘Or why tomorrow?’
‘Because that’s why Semple came here,’ said Nicholas. ‘I don’t