The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [27]
No one forded the river that night to Berecrofts’s house in North Leith. Julius found a corner pallet with Lamb. Nicholas de Fleury, three months wed, was elsewhere; having lately had at his disposal the bed and the person of Beth, a minor laird’s giggling daughter.
Chapter 4
THREE WEEKS AFTER that, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, rode across Scotland to his house in the Cowgate of Edinburgh and from there made several calls. His last was to the Burgundian Envoy.
Anselm Adorne received him calmly in the large chamber of the merchant’s house whose hospitality he now enjoyed in the High Street.
Like all Burgundian Flemings, Adorne traded with France despite everything. His eldest son spoke not only Italian and Flemish but the French of the professors of Paris. He himself knew the names of all the Scots of noble blood who had fought in France against England, and who had remained to serve sly, brilliant King Louis in return for fortunes and titles and territory. The d’Aubigny. The Monypenny. And de Ribérac. He knew, too, the campaign this elderly, gross man had conducted over the years to deflect the claims the apprentice Claes vander Poele might have tried to impose on his family. Nicholas, born of Simon’s first wife, whom Simon repudiated.
Now Adorne said, ‘I am glad to see you, my lord. Your fells and hides are among the best that we import. I hope we may count on you to help us settle this difference of opinion about the needs of Scots traders in Bruges. We are merchants, men of the world. Quarrels damage us all.’
‘Then I must warn you,’ said the fat man opposite, seated in the only large chair, a cup in his broad, beringed hand. ‘The damage will be greater than you can imagine if our mutual acquaintance vander Poele gets his way. He is no friend to Genoa. He could close his business in Flanders tomorrow and retire to Venice, leaving Scotland to trade with the Hanse, or with Florence and Venice through England.’
‘You think him so dangerous?’ Adorne said. He was pleased, on the whole, that Sersanders and Metteneye were out. Neither would ever be a match for this elderly man, whose intelligence lived, shrewd as a fox, behind the pursed eyes, the many-chinned face, the giant bulk swathed in velvet. Adorne added, ‘I heard that, in Bruges, he made an end to his dispute with your family. He has even changed his name from yours to his mother’s. And I have heard him utter no threats since he came here.’
‘You mistake me. Whatever his name, vander Poele could never be dangerous,’ de Ribérac said. ‘But disruptive, yes. Wilful, yes. Irresponsible, yes. If I were a lord of this country, I should encourage him to go back to Venice. I called at his house to tell him so, but he was not there.’
‘He has been north, as I have, with the Court. In any case, he seldom uses his Edinburgh house, I am told. It suits him better to live down the hill, in the Canongate, in the Abbot of Holyrood’s parish. He is building, and lavishly. Even if he were to leave, his agency would remain with a considerable presence.’
‘Including men like Mick Crackbene?’ said the fat man. ‘I, of course, have no objection if vander Poele’s clients have none. I should have thought he would have shrunk from employing him.’
‘Crackbene?’ said Adorne. The man was a seaman, a mercenary, equally serving a man and his enemies. Adorne said, ‘I am surprised.’
‘You didn’t know? The bastard Bonkle, the fool Julius, and Crackbene, the professional turncoat. That is vander Poele’s Scottish company. They will do what he wants. Suppose he turns the King’s mind against trading with Bruges? Offers to bring his army here? Persuades Scotland to increase her support to the Yorkist side in this evil English war between kings? Might vander Poele – I am only suggesting it – become a danger to you?’
Shrewd as a fox. But de Ribérac was not dealing with Sersanders, or Metteneye. Anselm Adorne smiled, and said, ‘How on earth should he, could