To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [41]
Humbly and in good order, Nicholas presently left the Duke’s presence, and entered that of the Duke’s lawyers, where the necessary papers were drawn up and signed. Humbly and in good order still, he rode with his servants from Hesdin. Behind him was turmoil: the household was preparing to move; soon the palace would be empty of all but its controller, and the long lines of wagons would be taking themselves somewhere else.
They went without him. He was going to the Burgundian camp, the acres of ground upon which were marshalled the pavilions and worksheds and barracks of the Duke’s standing army, where the timber house stood that held his officers, and the other, set apart, built by Captain Astorre for himself and for any visiting official of the Bank. By now he would have got rid of the girls, and he and the rest would be waiting for him to tell them what had happened, and to give him their news.
Thinking of it, Nicholas rode with a high heart, and talked now and then with his escort, who answered him cautiously until he thought to buy them some wine. He felt as he had felt before, filled with a pleasant excitement. He had a month with Astorre, in the company of men whom he knew, with the couriers of his Bank bringing back to his touch the great golden web of his business. A month at the end of which – yes, there lay the prospect of much that was unpredictable, as well as events he could control. In a month, John and Father Moriz would arrive from the Tyrol, bringing their news. In two weeks, his summons would reach Mistress Clémence in Dijon and, safe in the custody of his men, she and the old woman and the child would set out to come north and join him. The child Jordan de Fleury.
And as the child came to Artois, so would Gelis his wife, hoping to see it; as once in despair he had called to see the baby he believed had been born, and had been denied. In July they would be here, all of them. All of those he had forced to come to him.
Thinking about it, he realised that he had fallen into silence again, disappointing his men. He roused. There was a month. There was a month still before the prologue gave way to the play. He thought of Angers. Cruciffiez! they had cried. And René’s grandson had died.
He rode, thinking that a month lasted for ever, and without calling to mind that one day he would wake to find the prologue was over, and the play had begun.
Chapter 5
SUMMER MADE A charming début in Artois that year. The hazy curtains of spring drew back to present greening fields where there had been trampled mud, and peaceful smoke rising from thatches where once stackyards had blazed. The palace of Hesdin lay empty but for its token caretakers. In Picardy, Ham kept its garrison but the French King had dashed back to the Loire, pulling on this rope and that; resetting his mines and his darts. Wisps of tinsel remained from the great victory over the Narrow Sea: a banquet here, an aubade there for some royal envoy; but the public stage remained empty, the actors in the wings awaiting the script still being written. The Burgundian army, its commanders gone, exercised and rehearsed under its captains, indulged in rough sport, drank and quarrelled, thieved and womanised, as men do awaiting a war.
Riding up, saddle-sore from their long journey from Innsbruck, the priest Moriz and the red-headed engineer John le Grant heard the wind-snatched roar from the exercise park an hour before they reached the stockade, and had to wait longer than they wanted before Thomas, Astorre’s deputy, shoved his way out to meet them and bring their short train inside. It took half an hour after that to fight their way to their lodging, and almost as long before Thomas tracked down Astorre, red-faced in the shouting throng of soldiers and civilians at the edge of the sports field. He hardly spared them a glance.