To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [20]
Poet, painter, musician, maker of buildings and gardens, prince of learning and of pleasure, René King of Sicily had withdrawn in bereavement into a shadow seated in a great chair, his hand at his cheek. About him stood his courtiers, among whom were no pages whom Nicholas recognised. Beside René was Jeanne, the second of the two queens whom he had coaxed, like his peach trees, into long ripening at his side. Ysabelle, mother of all his legitimate children, had brought him Lorraine, the duchy his dead son had held, and thirty-three years of successful partnership. After Ysabelle had come Jeanne, twenty-one when he had married her seventeen years ago. For her, young and loving to him and to all his children, he had sought to lead a simpler life away from the grand palaces such as Saumur and Angers where now perforce he sat in splendour below the painted ceiling and the heavy tapestries, among the tables laden with treasures.
He was in Angers because his heir was dead, and all he had planned had to be replanned. He was in Angers because France and Burgundy were face to face to his north, and he did not wish to lose Anjou to either. He was in Angers because his daughter Margaret was the Queen of Henry of England, and striving, her son at her side, to maintain her husband’s throne claimed by another. He would not begin, however, by referring to any of that.
‘M. de Fleury,’ said the King. ‘You have come to condole with me on the loss of my son. You fought against him at Naples and Troia.’
‘Nine years ago. My company did. As monseigneur knows, there is no ill will in such cases. He was a gallant opponent. There are no words to salve such a loss.’
‘No.’ The King stirred. Below the black brim of his hat, something winked: his eyeglasses, left hung at one ear. He said, ‘You were travelling, I was told, with a child.’
‘With my son. I left him at Dijon. He is a little young, or he would have wished to thank you himself for the generosity of your captain at Tarascon. He produced all a child could wish save for the monster La Tarasque himself.’
‘I trust he fares well at Dijon,’ said the King dryly. He indicated a stool, and Nicholas sat. The wine had been strong. He supposed he knew why. ‘He is with his mother your wife?’ the King added.
‘Not at present. But his nurse is of frightening competence, although not a Tiphaine, a Caieta.’
‘You know my theories, I see. The master may make the warrior, but the nurse makes the man.’
He broke off abruptly. There was a little silence, during which the Queen his wife turned her head. Nicholas said, ‘I am sorry. You are waiting for news.’
‘From England, yes,’ said the King. ‘It would suit the Duke of Burgundy, of course, if Edward of York wins back the throne, and my grandson dies in the field, whatever the quality of his nursing. That is why you are here?’
His face was grim. This was not to be an exchange of formalities. The King, oppressed, was obeying his moods. Nicholas kept his voice calm. ‘The Duke of Burgundy is my master, as the King of France considers he is your overlord and the Duke’s. An observer would say that if Lancaster prevails, Burgundy will be at the mercy of France. If York wins, the King of France, fearful of Burgundy, may turn next to master your Anjou.’
‘And Burgundy would save me?’ said the King. ‘Your observer has a confidence that perhaps others lack.’
‘I think,’ said Nicholas de Fleury, ‘that the King of France would find it hard to fight against England and Burgundy both.’
He said no more, for he had been out of touch with his spies, and had no intention of guessing how far the secret talks between René and Burgundy might have gone. That they were taking place he had no doubts. He himself was concerned, here and now, merely with demonstrating which side he had chosen, and why.
René said, ‘You have land in Scotland, M. de Fleury.