The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [134]
The room was long and, supper being just over, the rush-strewn floor was free of trestles and empty. Against the light of the fire it could be seen that Anselm Sersanders had risen, but that the old man was still seated. The carved back of his chair, tall and black, hid all but the turban on his head. Malcolm Fleming walked forward.
‘Father. Here is Master Nicholas of the Banco di Niccolò. And Master Gregorio, both come to stay with us.’
The wind-dried face that peered round the chair was that of a mature courtier, not a man of affairs. Robert, Lord Fleming, was lavishly dressed, give or take a stain or two, and the spare bones of his face were still handsome, although his shallow-set eyes had in them a look of permanent shock, or even permanent grievance. Nevertheless, he got to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, welcome,’ he said.
‘My lord of Fleming.’ Nicholas, bowing, was always a picture. Taught by courtesans, Gregorio recalled. One need never doubt the social competence of Nicholas de Fleury. Even when, as now, Anselm Sersanders stepped sideways, not forward.
Sersanders said, ‘Forgive me, my lord. I do not care to meet the man who tried to murder my uncle.’
His light-skinned face looked rather pale. It was a situation, as Gregorio had already recognised, which could explode into high farce or tragedy. Short though he was, the nephew of Anselm Adorne had much of his uncle’s grace and a great deal of his athletic ability. And whatever business brought Nicholas here, it was not going to be helped by a quarrel involving skilled swordsmanship.
Gregorio opened his mouth. Nicholas laid a hand on his shoulder to silence him. Nicholas said, ‘We need no lawyer in this. My lord, I have to tell you that Master Anselm is right. His uncle intervened in a family quarrel and I struck and wounded him in the heat of the moment. Happily, Sir Anselm has since seen fit to forgive me, but I have not yet had a chance to explain to his nephew. I should gladly pay any compensation he asks.’
He let his hand drop and addressed Lord Fleming directly. ‘Perhaps, if Master Anselm will not speak, my lord would act as intermediary? I should be content to do as he says.’
Sersanders flushed. The veined eye of the elder Fleming rested on Nicholas. He said, ‘Ane hoor with a sword is mair grief than six honest chiels with their fists. Who in the name were ye fighting?’
‘Kilmirren, Faither,’ said Malcolm. Like his sire, he had dropped the language of diplomacy. ‘Am I not right, de Fleury? Kilmirren wasted his land, and fell into a fury when Semple let the Bank have it.’
Fleming’s lips arched and straightened. He said, ‘I mind. A richt crop o’ weeds, the bane of his neebors, and the craws still blithe as speugs in his woods at Beltane. And they took steel tae one another?’
‘He took my uncle’s own sword, and lamed him with it,’ Sersanders said. ‘My uncle might have died. He limps still.’
‘I don’t wear a sword,’ Nicholas said. ‘I have none with me now. We were wrestling. Kilmirren fled. Sir Anselm stopped me from following. I lost my head. I shall pay whatever forfeit you wish, short of life.’
‘Short of life!’ said Lord Fleming. ‘And that’s a fine exemption ye’ve made for yourself. If you near louse a man frae his life, what for should ye no’ tyne your own?’
‘But gin it wasna meant?’ Malcolm said. ‘Adorne tried tae play birleyman, and got hurt for it. Here’s a man admitting the wrong, and ready to pay for it. A man, forbye, of goodwill.’
Lord Fleming looked up. Across his face passed several unaccustomed expressions. Then he said, ‘Aye. Aye, there’s an argument. But what if the strife is renewed? What bystander’s life will be forfeit the next time? Or will ye tell me that a Decreet Arbitral will suffice?’
Nicholas said, ‘Will you explain it, my lord?’
The old man turned and sat with a thump. Sersanders remained to one side of the fire, his eyes fixed on Nicholas. Gregorio wondered if a Decreet Arbitral was what he thought it was, and wondered