The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [185]
He looked at the wife of Nicholas with genuine pity. The man was an artisan. There was no substitute for a formal, proper betrothal between persons of like rank and resources, who knew what propriety was.
He said, ‘I am sorry. There has been a misunderstanding, I can see. But I am on my way back to Flanders and should be happy to escort you safely to Bruges. Then you can return in the spring for your rendezvous.’
She thanked him and accepted, rather flushed. It was a genuine offer. He had calls to make. Carrying and picking up news between the agents of France and England, Genoa and Milan, he found it convenient to seem just a Medici manager about his firm’s normal affairs. The company of a lady added to the illusion. A decorative lady with little interest in business.
He left soon, in excellent spirits.
He did not see her walk to a table, and pick up a drawing, and tear it across and across and across.
Chapter 26
NICHOLAS IS A wrecker.
So Tobias his physician had said, having seen it happen before: Nicholas de Fleury stopped in his tracks by some fatal collision of circumstances and responding, not as a normal man would, but with every unit of force he possessed, deployed without discrimination or scruple – unless he were halted. Tobie and Gregorio were not with him now to prevent it. Fortunately, perhaps, the world was full of others who might, although none of them – even Gelis – had guessed quite what was assembling there, in his mind.
To himself, it was perfectly clear. Since he couldn’t return yet to Scotland, his projects there had to idle without him. It meant a disarrangement in his private finances which lent Ochoa’s gold some slight importance. Associated with the lost gold were some minor scores which, filling time, he might clear off once he reached Alexandria. But, of course, he was not going to Alexandria at the moment. He was going to the court of Sigismond, Duke of the Tyrol.
It amused him, to keep that to himself the whole length of the journey to Ulm. There were four principal passes over the Alpine mountains to Italy. The one that proceeded past Ulm to the Brenner was not an unusual choice for August, and no one questioned his route. Of all the experienced band who accompanied him, only Father Moriz showed impatience as they rode south, clearing his throat as if he would ask a question, or desired to be given some answers. He did not, however, actually speak.
John le Grant, on the other hand, travelled with his mind fixed on his empire in Egypt, and was far from amenable when, in a private room in their warm German tavern at Ulm, Nicholas finally made his announcement.
John repeated it. ‘We’re going to the Tyrol, not Alexandria.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re expected to winter at Innsbruck.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not going to Alexandria at all.’
‘Yes, I am. Later. After the winter.’
‘Well, good luck to you,’ said John le Grant. ‘For I’m going there now. That was my intent.’ The chaplain shifted his feet. Le Grant glared at him.
‘If you like,’ Nicholas said. ‘Mind you, the ships for the Levant have all sailed, but you should get one in six months or so, if you’re keen.’
‘You’ve already got places booked. On the Santa Reparata.’
‘I cancelled them.’
‘You have ships of your own.’
‘They’re in service. I would have told you before,’ Nicholas said, ‘but I had to promise to keep it a secret. Burgundian politics. Even my wife doesn’t know. Poor Gelis, no meeting in the spring.’
‘You haven’t told her?’ said Father Moriz in his deep German-Flemish.
‘I couldn’t reach her,’ said Nicholas sadly. ‘It seems that she left Bruges and set out for Florence. She hoped to come with me to Egypt.’
‘Your wife is waiting for you in Florence?’ said John.
‘So I’m told. But Tommaso Portinari is due to arrive there very soon. I am sure,’ Nicholas