The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [39]
‘I am glad,’ said Adorne. He felt profoundly uneasy. He rose. ‘I’ve been keeping you. I shall, of course, be meeting him myself in the field. What should I suggest? That you encourage him to eat and drink unwisely between now and tomorrow?’
De Fleury got up as well. He said, ‘I’m better than your Dr Andreas. I predict that you will win your course, and that the King and the prince will win theirs. You know I’ve put up the prize?’
‘Do I want it?’ said Adorne. He made his voice light. There was no point in pursuing what would not be caught.
‘I shouldn’t think so. A unicorn’s horn I brought back from Africa. Genuine,’ de Fleury said. ‘And a sure guard against poison. Or perhaps we should let Simon win it?’
‘Nicholas?’ Adorne said. His hand on the tent-flap, he turned.
De Fleury, already half changed, looked up.
Before that look, there was nothing to say. Adorne said, ‘The sausage was excellent.’
Kilmirren House was on Castle Hill, at the place where the upper end of the High Street began to climb the increasing slope to the Castle itself. The quickest way there from the tilting-ground was through the broad space of the Horse Market and up the steep dog-leg path to the High Street. And on the other side of that street was Simon’s house. Jordan’s house. The Edinburgh house of the St Pol of Kilmirren.
The Horse Market was, of course, always thronged. A wide, muddy space lined with houses, today it was full of heralds, competitors, workmen, horse-copers, drinkers and merchant friends and merchant competitors. To the left rose the black basalt rock of the Castle. On the right, among the private houses, the taverns, and the chapels was the house of St John and the opulent monastery of the Franciscans, whose buildings covered the rise which led towards the Port to the common. Tomorrow, after the joust, the Eve of St Nicholas Feast would be held in the monastery and he, Nicholas de Fleury, would be there. But there was a great deal to do before that.
He stopped and talked to perhaps twenty people on his way to the Bow. More, it might be. To Logan of Restalrig about his warehouse. To Gilbert of Edmonston about carts to meet the Ghost coming in. To a locksmith about keys; to a Broughton man about plants. To a courier.
To a fletcher about arrows, and a stone-mason about copings for chimneys. To a man from Blackness and another from Linlithgow. To a bailie, a tanner, a master gunner; to the unicorn-maker.
He was halfway there.
To a brewer, to a candle-maker, to the secretary of the Abbot of Holyrood. To a man from Tranent, and a fish-curer. To a man who sold parchment and a man from the King’s chamber with news of a dog.
He was at the top of the Bow.
To a notary; to a man who made mattocks; to the priest of St Giles whom he had to turn downhill to meet. Talking, taking his leave, Nicholas de Fleury was watching the street. Most of the houses were known to him now. There was a handsome one opposite, with a red roof and mottoes. He crossed the road to walk uphill again. It was no distance now to his destination, his destiny.
His safe, crowded mind became blank.
There was a Ewe had three lambs; and one of them was black. The one was hanged, the other drowned; the third was lost, and never found.
Space. Half-heard echoes. And only one thought remaining, as always.
February.
He continued to walk, although he did not remember talking to anyone. He knocked at the door of Simon’s house and was admitted, and the servant, smiling broadly, flung open a parlour door for him to walk through. He moved forward and stood in the doorway.
There was no one there but a woman who started up, her face full of pity and shock. She said, ‘Oh, my bairn. What have they done to you?’
Already, blurting the words, Bel of Cuthilgurdy recognised that it was a mistake beyond any redemption. She had looked to see, through whatever