The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [43]
After the black and the red came the riot of colour, of velvet and satin and fur, that represented the merchants. Old Berecrofts, but not Archie his son, who was to fight, as was young Napier. Stephen Angus, more often in Bruges than in Scotland. Haliburton and Gilbert of Edmonston, Lamb and Auchinleck.
Only the old faces were there. The rest were among the trampling horses at the edge of the field, a little apart from the gold-swagged tents of the King and the nobility, with their sons and brothers and nephews to act as esquires. John Brown was taking part, and Touris, and Lauder, and Bertram and Gordon, and Thom Swift, whose great house her uncle was occupying. And young Bonkle, and Crackbene, who had come to the convent, and the lawyer called Julius – they were all fighting, but not the head of the House of Niccolò who, her brother said, was not accustomed to jousting.
One wanted to think about that. She was interested. Herself, she was proud to see her uncle’s banner flying from one of the crowd of side-tents by the chapel of Our Lady, and to know that he and Jehan Metteneye and her brother would be breaking a lance for the town. Not for Burgundy, although it had to appear so. For the town.
She knew a lot about tournaments. Ghent, Lille, Brussels, Bruges-she had got herself taken to most of them, one way or another. Also, she had a good memory. It surprised the nuns that she knew so many people in Scotland. They forgot, perhaps, that all the merchants in Scotland visited Bruges at one time or another, and some of them settled there. Also, most people sooner or later had cause to come to the priory. Her uncle held his meetings with the town magistrates there. She had got him to tell her about them.
She wondered if it was true what they said about Crackbene and Ada. She thought it would be interesting to see, when the combatants took the field, what ladies’ favours they wore. It was a pity de Fleury the Bank wasn’t parading. Her brother had asked for a scarf of hers, on the advice of their uncle, no doubt. Perhaps Ada had offered Crackbene a napkin?
Will Roger said, ‘What are you sniggering about? Look at your music. We’re almost ready to start.’
In the Burgundian tent it was calm, but the turmoil outside – the uneven noise of the crowd, the squeal and clatter of arms, the stamping of horses – came through clearly enough, and in spite of the brazier Anselm Sersanders felt cold and a little sick, as he always did before fighting. Even when the weapons were bated, as now, a gentleman in the lists must still represent his people, must show all he has of skill and grace and courtesy and, if possible, must win.
Across the heads of the men who were attiring him, he caught his uncle’s swift smile and wished his armour were like that, well-fitting but not new, burnished but with the patina that came from many, many conflicts. They no longer used shields, but the Adorne chequer lay clearly embroidered across his uncle’s surcoat and on the strong, fringed furnishing of his horse. Within the visorless helm, the high cheekbones and long lines of the family face looked like a drawing on silver. And the scarf which fell to his shoulder was a royal one, given by the King’s younger sister, the lady Margaret.
Nicholas de Fleury’s voice said, ‘Yes, he looks very nice. So do you. Have you everything that you want?’
He leaned at the entrance to the tent, unarmed as the servants were, except for one exquisite dagger at the