To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [347]
The boy’s face melted. ‘Now you have both of us,’ Robin said.
Smiling, Nicholas shook him and let his arm fall, moving on. The water lapped. A leaf of gold kid eddied drunkenly down to the grass; his eyes followed it. Sunk beside it was the satchel he had brought. Nicholas lifted it with meticulous care. He said to Kathi, ‘I have brought you a present.’
She recognised the pouch as soon as he placed it before her, and studied it as it lay on the table. Then she opened it slowly, and drew out Glímu-Sveinn’s chessmen.
She said, ‘No.’ Her eyes were wet. The boy looked from her face to that of Nicholas.
Nicholas said, ‘They were given to me in Iceland for a service in which we all shared. I should like her to remember.’
‘Take them, Kathi,’ Robin said. And she took them.
They called for wine then, and he made them talk and then laugh, while they drank it. They were to be married quite soon. The story of Paúel Benecke and Tommaso’s picture was the success of the afternoon. By the time they walked back, the sun was yellow and low, warm as amber; and a barge, overtaking them, flitted upstream like a dragonfly, with a light at its muzzle and two fine silver wings on each side.
They had talked of the white bear. They had said nothing of death, or divining, or music, or the greatest spectacle in the world, which was God’s own work, or the devil’s. They had said nothing of Zacco. He wondered if they knew of Uzum’s two great defeats. He wondered if they knew that Zacco’s son had been born, six weeks after his death. He hoped they did not know – but they probably did – that he and Gelis would come to the end of their particular road on the day that Duke Charles was crowned.
There was no reason for them to be concerned with any of these things, for they had each other. He wondered how Nostradamus had known.
*
At the gates of the Archbishop’s Palace he was met by the Chancellor’s secretary, saying, ‘Where have you been? You must come at once.’
He thought of arson, armed conflict, serious breaches of etiquette at the Duke of Burgundy’s conspicuous celebration. Even when he reached his own room and found Hugonet pacing his chamber, he felt only impatience. Then Hugonet said, ‘Are you not being paid well enough? I need your help. A matter is developing which must be dealt with, and before the Duke hears. I have to go to St Maximin. You must talk to the Emperor’s men. You must do what you can, and I shall come back and continue tomorrow.’
‘What is it?’ said Nicholas. He paused. ‘The Emperor wishes to change the date of the coronation?’ He had ordered his life, so he thought. He had ordered part of it, at least; and was about, given time, to marshal the other. He realised he was incapable of waiting very much longer.
Hugonet said, ‘He wishes to withdraw the crown. He wishes to countermand the coronation. He must not be allowed to.’
The dreadful campaign began. For two days, furious ministers met, and the secret of the potential disaster was confined to the reverberating walls of the Emperor’s chambers. Outside, the Duke’s gracious festival ended, and his guests thronged back, refreshed, to wrestle with the astonishing, the profligate, the ruinous preparations for his crowning. Astorre and John and Julius were among them. Nicholas, closeted with Hugonet’s officers, was sworn to secrecy, and the Duke’s state of divine exaltation was unimpaired.
It could not continue for long. On the third day, the Lord of the World summoned the Burgundian Chancellor and delivered his final decision. It was just before midnight. Afterwards, Hugonet called upon Nicholas. When he had gone, Nicholas sent for his partners.
They came, blinking, in bedgowns. Nicholas sat, fully dressed, drinking water. He said, ‘Sit down. Prepare for a shock. The coronation is cancelled.’
They looked at him. ‘Merde!’ said Astorre.
‘Why?’ said John.
‘Someone, no doubt with a French accent, has persuaded