To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [293]
Tobie, accustomed to Nicholas’s industrious guile, had never seen anything to compare with the four months that followed. Ignorant of Scotland, he spent them at the other man’s side as Nicholas managed, extended, corrected all the projects originally launched with the aid of John and Moriz, Gregorio and Julius. Dr Tobias Beventini of Grado stared mesmerised at mining and draining experiments, trotted round boatbuilding yards, and met incoming ships bringing timber for the new wharves and wagons, and iron for the fine wheels and gears. He was dazzled by the splendour of the King’s building plans, which lay within the competence of one Thomas Cochrane, who also provided masons for smithies and stone balls for all the new cannon. He helped check the incoming herds of draught oxen, as well as the King’s special imports: the magnificent horses; the hunting dogs fine as those of King Louis, whose hounds had their feet bathed in red wine, and were set to sleep, robed in silk, in his chamber.
He helped supervise the outfitting of the King’s new-bought caravel The Lion, and the furnishing of James’s personal chambers and chapels. He rode round the acres of land where experimental crops were being planted. He saw vines. He saw hemp. Occasionally, when tired of Nicholas’s more cavalier answers, he took his amazement to Govaerts.
‘At least he isn’t doing another Nativity Play,’ Tobie said. ‘I heard about that.’ He saw, to his astonishment, a gleam enter the manager’s eye.
‘It’s what finally made all the difference,’ Govaerts said. ‘That, and what he did for them in Iceland. The Vatachino may do well enough, and so may Sersanders, through his uncle’s new post. But of the three foreign merchants in Scotland, the Banco di Niccolò is held in greatest esteem by the Court.’
Hence the dogs. Hence the furs. Hence the roaring silversmith’s booth in the basement. Hence, infuriatingly, the commercial reason for two of the very few ventures that seemed to Tobie to offer hope of some sort of redemption.
Katelijne had shared the same view, in the talk – by no means all about Nicholas – which they had had before he left Haddington. ‘There was a change, both times.’
‘But it didn’t last.’
‘Not on the surface. It is all there below.’
‘Like Africa?’
‘I think so. He’s afraid of it sometimes. That’s when he will only drink water.’
‘Perhaps he is right,’ Tobie said. ‘Violent extremes of emotion are dangerous. That kind of self-control is fairly rare.’
‘Dangerous? Glass-breaking murderous dangerous?’
‘Kathi,’ he had said. ‘I am a doctor. No. I know why that happened, and he will know it as well. I meant dangerous to the person he has made of himself.’
Just after that conversation he had gone to see the child Jordan, a visit previously discouraged. He was escorted by the two ladies Sinclair, and was able to make his bow on the way to the Countess of Arran, and ask how her children did. She remembered him also from Bruges. In the nursery, he was received by and passed into the domain of Mistress Clémence and an elderly nursemaid called Pasque, who curtseyed tittering. On the floor was a child with an apple. It looked up.
Tobie’s nose warmed and swelled, and he sneezed. The child blessed him in French, with two dimples. Prompted by Mistress Clémence, it scrambled to its feet, bearing the apple which dropped as it made to shake hands. Tobie caught the fruit and placed it on his bald head, crossing his eyes.
‘Papa did that,’ said the child. ‘Hear my poem.’
‘Your poem?’ said Mistress Clémence.
‘Papa’s poem,’ said the child.