The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [70]
So now the vicomte de Ribérac would have no son to taunt, and no one to blame but himself. Jordan had left him unprotected in Scotland, to be killed by the men Jordan had offended. For Simon saw it all now. These assassins were sent by Jordan’s enemies. They understood French. They had not been tempted by money – of course not. Jordan’s rivals were wealthy. Only the rich opposed Jordan. Their mistake was that they thought, killing Simon, to cause Simon’s father a moment of sorrow.
Simon watched the sword coming down.
For a long time now, the road had been uncertain. Until the last fall of snow, the track of horses and carts had shown dark in the torchlight but after Torphichen, their last brief halt, the way had been pristine, and the directions given Bel by the resident agitated Brother of the Knights of St John had not been of the clearest.
The Preceptor of the Order was at Linlithgow Palace, five miles off, with the King. But the Flemish gentleman, M. Nicholas de Fleury, was not of the party, so far as the Hospitaller knew. So far as he knew, M. de Fleury was at home in his lodging at Berecrofts. Berecrofts, to the west of the Avon, and no more than half of an hour-glass away.
At this point the Brother suggested, his manner full of concern, that if the matter could wait till the morning, he was sure that beds could be found in the Preceptory. She supposed she looked mortally tired. She had not time to be tired, or cold, or hungry. She thanked him and, with her small, silent entourage, set out again.
Such was the warmth of Kinneil and the quality of its wines that the King lingered and might well have slept there, but for the loud, rallying voice of the master, enquiring if his grace was ready, for the horses would be taking a chill, not to mention himself?
So they roused, the young men and women, and were handed once more into their mantles and wandered off in groups, chaffing, to relieve themselves, and take a last swallow of wine. Adorne said, ‘Where is de Fleury?’
His nephew did not know. It was Andreas the doctor who said, ‘Did he come to Kinneil at all? I assumed he had gone home to resume packing at Berecrofts.’
The eyes of Katelijne turned to her uncle. Adorne said, ‘I think it unlikely. What of our other friend? Who has seen Simon of Kilmirren?’
‘I have,’ said someone with a tinge of relish. Julius, once the volatile Charetty lawyer in Bruges, and still fond enough of his hunting to resent having to see to the Ghost. Julius said, ‘He went off with the girl. Hamilton’s by-blow. Joneta. Do you want me to look for them?’
‘No,’ said Adorne abruptly. He softened it. ‘You have to go to Blackness.’ Katelijne, he saw, had slipped off. Julius took his leave. Adorne began to prepare for the resumed hunt, conscious of a sense of foreboding. It was unnecessary, his intelligence told him. The boar, on investigation, did not exist: the hunt would rely as before on the hounds picking up scents. It could not last long. The King would tire, and they would ride back to Linlithgow. When Metteneye came for him, he was ready. He was here representing a Duchy. That came first.
All the same, setting off, the torches streaming behind, he was anxious. The cold now was extreme: his breath sparkled white in the air; the dogs, casting about, seemed to find nothing. Then, by a twisted juniper bush, dark in the snow, they stopped, and milled about snuffling, and then suddenly sprang forward strongly. The horn blew. The blood rose high in his veins and he spurred forward, eager once more.
Joneta, alone, watched them go. She was still there when some steward knocked at the door, enquiring the way to Berecrofts on behalf of his mistress. She did not see him herself, but her doorkeeper, reporting, said he seemed to serve a good family, but would not take the time to come in, or name or bring in his party.
She wondered, then, who was visiting Nicholas, but had long learned