The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [26]
Will Roger said, ‘Go on, Maarten,’ but didn’t listen. At the end, he applauded. He said, ‘Why don’t we try something more complex? Nicholas-with-the-keys, can you give the little lady her note? You can. Now let her sing her verse high, and make your own words below her as I did. Or sing the same tune if you like.’
Adorne said, ‘That’s asking rather a lot. But inventing verse at least will give our friend no pain.’ The girl was singing, her face full of mischief. Then vander Poele joined her, with unbroken good humour.
Sersanders had heard him roar out the pithy songs they all knew, and had known him improvise words. It was a skill that came to him easily. The words he invented now were pointed rather than coarse, but they rhymed and they scanned; and the notes were, to begin with, the precise harmonies that Will Roger had used. The girl, singing, faced him across the flickering fire. Then vander Poele, without warning, moved into her tune, so that for a moment they were singing in unison. Then the voices divided again. She had taken the harmony, and left him with the original notes.
A moment later, the sound changed again. The whistle had joined them. Will Roger, his fingers rippling, stood up. Katelijne, her face rapt, also sprang to her feet and vander Poele, singing on undisturbed, did the same. Roger dropped his hand away for a moment. He said, ‘Go on. Never mind the words. I’ll keep the tune.’
What followed lasted no longer than it took to empty a cup, and very few round the fire listened closely, or knew what they were hearing. The whistle held to its part and the girl to hers, leaving to the other singer the freedom to find a third tune to weave about them and, maliciously, some new lines of verse for the girl to reply to. She did, changing her descant and forcing him to change his. Then he altered his tempo as well and, while she kept the old pace, began to double both the words and the notes, weaving faster and faster about the core of the tune. She doubled too, but could not quite match him. Then the whistle changed also, and became a quotation.
The girl laughed from sheer excitement, and vander Poele screwed his lips. But when she began to sing, he sang with her, and went on singing when the whistle stopped altogether, and was replaced by Will Roger’s own rich voice, held well down. The piece, though intricate, was not long, and ended quietly, with the three voices blended in unison.
Then Roger drew breath and said, ‘My God, that’s enough. Are we to work for you all night? A dance! A dance, your honours!’ And, readily, the company scrambled to its feet while the trumpet lifted and flashed, and the drum began to thud out its measure.
Roger, whistle in hand, was not dancing, but had crossed to snare his two singers. The child Katelijne was there, but vander Poele had sprung off to join the light-hearted column, a comely noblewoman on either arm.
Julius, who had been late finding a partner, came and sat by Adorne and Sersanders and followed their gaze to the dancers. He said, ‘Bravo, my good knight de Fleury. What was the last song they made up?’
‘They weren’t making it up. It was from the Divine Office. Tenebrae, darkness. De Fleury, you said?’
‘His mother’s family name,’ Julius said. ‘I told you. He decided at Bruges to bury the family feud; to forget he wanted Simon and Jordan to recognise him as one of their blood. So if he isn’t St Pol, he isn’t vander Poele either. That’s how I understand it. The Duke’s started calling him Nicol. You know they’re going to roll barrels? Ten in a row, on the highway from Leith to Edinburgh? When the dancing finishes, we have to get torches.’
‘Aren’t you tired?’ Adorne said.
‘No. Well, a bit. But what a night! They’re an energetic crowd, the Scots,’ Julius said. ‘It should suit M. de Fleury.’
Soon after the rolling of barrels, Jamie Liddell led his lord the King’s brother to bed in the King’s Wark at Leith, and Master Lamb was able at last to retire,