The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [63]
But the children were all out there, jostling through the mud. The young people. Adorne stood by the open window and watched them. The King and Alexander of Albany and the young men of birth capering about them. The rotund Margaret, their juvenile sister. His own nephew and niece, walking quickly. And James of Auchterhouse and John, Earl of Atholl, not yet thirty, representing avuncular seniority and restraint. From above, their hats strutted like partridges.
And the sober black cap of Kilmirren, who had held back at first. Of course, thought Adorne, he had reason to hesitate. In sparing Henry, Nicholas de Fleury had for the first time achieved some ascendancy over Kilmirren. But it seemed the comradeship of the young King counted more. In any event, Simon had gone.
In the half-emptied hall, Will Roger said cryptically, ‘I doubt.’
‘I’m afraid, so do I,’ said Euphemia Dunbar. She smiled at Roger and turned the smile, deepening, towards Adorne beside him. The remorseless line of the wimple exposed the irregularity of her features in which her round eyes were set like bronze pennies.
Euphemia, the Earl of March’s unmarried daughter, might not look like the rhymster of Haddington but, in his regular calls on his niece, Adorne had identified the authoress of the verse that now embellished the unholy alliance of Katelijne’s invention and Will Roger’s music. At Haddington the three had become friends, and Adorne was very content to have it so.
Now he went forward and, easing a bench, made a space for her to sit beside Metteneye. Roger perched on the table by Maarten. Adorne said, ‘You think they will make too free with the wine.’ He returned to the window.
‘With more than the wine,’ said Will Roger. ‘There are fine things in that cargo, I hear.’
The Bishop, standing nearby, stopped gnawing his lips. ‘I shall be interested to see them. M. de Fleury knows how to barter paste beads with negroes, but the lords of this country live as other lords do. Our merchants frequent Bruges. My royal uncle himself imported nothing but goods of the finest of workmanship.’
He was thirty-three and hasty of tongue: an uncertain shadow of the late Bishop James Kennedy his uncle. Adorne, watching, saw Roger’s brows jump, and Maarten redden. He hesitated to intervene, for in some ways Patrick Graham was right to defend his family’s culture. However suspect his political acumen, James Kennedy had been a fearless and vigorous man, which was why the young Albany had loved him; why Anselm Adorne had placed Maarten in the care of his nephew. Some men grew into their office. Some offices transcended the man.
All the same, diplomacy should not be forgotten. Adorne said, ‘My lord, whatever his taste, the young man does not, I believe, mean to impute to this nation a dearth of civilised comforts, but seeks merely to keep them replenished. It is all we merchants offer to do.’
The Bishop grunted, shuffling. Adorne, his thoughts disturbed, averted his gaze to the distant descent to the cellars. As he did so, a row of barrels emerged, and began to traverse the yard in the direction of the kitchen, followed by a man rolling a vat, and others shouldering kegs. He said aloud, ‘The wine has been found.’
Metteneye got up and joined him, followed by Roger. Metteneye said with approval, ‘They mean to heat it.’
‘Well, some of it,’ said the musician. He leaned out, pulling his cloak tight about him. Outside, an odour of warm roasting beef had begun to temper the air to the north. Other smells stirred. The ovens, heated at last, had been loaded with food. From the direction of the cellars came an outburst of muffled laughter and some shouting, followed by the hollow blows of a mallet. It did not sound as if a locksmith had been found, or even sought for. Will Roger gave an exclamation,