The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [155]
Now people expected much more. Now the Italian republics and princes, damn them, imported artistic masters to devise the themes for their Weddings and Entries, and to choose and supervise the artists, the designers, the performers. When therefore lords from these lands were your guests, you must, whatever your resources, stage as brave a show as you could.
All through the autumn and winter, Nicholas de Fleury had taken on himself much of the role of master designer. Returning last month, he had reviewed what had been done, and set it on course for completion. Scattered between burgh and port, the workshops he had created were active; the spectacular machinery built; the flags, the devices, the effigies painted. The storerooms were already filled with the extra linen and silver, and the teams of tailors were cutting and sewing the last of the silk, the satin, the velvet garments into which, twice daily, the royal household would change, their clothes identical in colour and fabric.
All was in order and others were now in charge. For although the work had been his, he was a stranger-merchant and a competitor, and the men who had laboured with him were Scottish and well born and should not be offended. Added to which he had lost the taste for clambering about with a paintbrush in his hand. He had let Crackbene do some of that. In fact, some of the machines whose refurbishment Crackbene was supervising at this moment had come from the Duke of Burgundy’s store, at a very sustainable price.
Nevertheless, today he had risen early and, taking a clerk, had walked uphill into the High Street, speaking to the workmen he knew, passing the time of day with the porters, stopping at a corner stage which, later, would support a doubtful fantasy to do with Scotland and Denmark. The highway was thronged with speeding servants, waterbearers, cooks. Already, before dawn, the household cows had been brought in from the Burgh Muir to be milked.
Now the rising sun shone red on shutters already open, or on windows of oiled linen and glass belonging to the homes of Thom Swift, and those of the other large merchant houses within which most of the Crown’s bidden guests would be lodged. For, of course, there was little space at the Castle, where the King’s rooms were already filled with his family; and the future Queen occupied the royal rooms at the Abbey.
All the lords were in town. The town houses of Fleming and Semple would be occupied, but not that of St Pol of Kilmirren, which was shuttered and closed. Nicholas glanced at it once, as he turned downhill towards the Horse Market and lists, joining with people he knew from the Castle. Simon, Henry, and Jordan were gone, and Bel had not ridden across to save anyone this time. This time, no one needed saving: far from it.
The freshness was turning to warmth. He stripped to white shirt and black pourpoint, his doublet slung on one shoulder, his cap in his hand. People called, crossing to join him. By the time he reached the massed flags of the lists he was part of a group. Entering the lists, the exchange of gossip gave place to technical problems and questions of protocol. He established discreetly that his own two courses, as he wanted, were separated: the tilting with Boyd near the start, and the sword-fight with Sersanders close to the end.
In between, Sersanders too was tilting, with a Danish nobleman. Nicholas wondered, outwardly grave, if Gregorio had contrived to match poor Anselm with a giant. He didn’t think, for Katelijne’s sake, that the ladies of Haddington would be helpful, even if bribed. He was reminded that Katelijne would be leading the horse of her brother, and that Betha Sinclair, when approached, had briskly offered him one of her daughters. ‘For the one specific purpose,’ she had added, ‘of leading your horse, Master Nicol; and handing your prize, gin ye win one.’
The girls were all very young: he doubted if any could keep a large courser steady. Perhaps Dame Betha would help her.
Later, he returned