Caprice and Rondo

  Nicholas turned his head slowly. He could see Suffering Christ from where he stood, as well as St Andrew embracing his own bit of carpentry. In a voice of freezing surprise he said, ‘I needed a spill.’ He and Julius stared at one another. Nicholas said, ‘Where’s all this rubbish from: Anna? You wouldn’t notice poor little Jodi if you were driving a wagontrain over him.’

  ‘Neither would you,’ Julius said. ‘That’s what women are for. What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Climbing over and marking the wall,’ Nicholas said. He had a piece of charcoal in his hand. ‘And then I’m going to break your leg and walk down to my dinner.’ There was a reasonable ledge within reach of the scaffolding and he was under the impression that he was sober.

  He arrived on the ledge. Julius scrambled up to the rail and said something. The noise from below increased quite a lot. Steadying himself with one hand, Nicholas viewed the wall, and leaning, scrawled two crosses, each in its appointed place, and sidled along to complete the third. Then he turned and began to come back and stopped.

  The sun had moved. The ray of pure light was now focused on the dove, which hung upside down from its temporary harness and, revolving, flashed its blinding light into his face. The Third Person of the Blessed Trinity Disapproves. His foot slipped. Nicholas saw, dimly, the handrail over which Julius was leaning. He saw the platform of planks it surrounded, and their supports. He saw the system of timber and ladders below. He launched himself outwards into space and caught the end of a beam and held on with both hands, his body swinging, his feet seeking a purchase as shouts rose from below and Julius yelled. He saw that Julius was yelling because the shock of his arrival had dislocated the posts holding the rail, throwing Julius downwards as planks began slipping around him. A stanchion, hurtling down, struck Nicholas on the shoulder and neck so that he swung, his arm numbed, and half fell. Below, the spectators had scattered, baring the small, distant tiles of the floor. He made a great effort and, lunging, found a tenuous toehold and a desperate grasp for one hand that brought another clatter of collapsing planks, and Julius’s blundering body down with them.

  Once, Nicholas had saved Robin, hanging one-handed like this. Now, Julius could do nothing for him. Julius, passing hand over hand, slipping, falling, clutching, was himself dashing down from the rock, down from the mountain, down from the stars as the dove would come, but not to rest in the dovecote of its master.

  Curiously, the dove still shone in Nicholas’s eyes, as if wherever he fled, the blaze of its anger would seek him. Yet despite the glare, there were some things he saw very clearly. He saw the vivid polyptych of the High Altar, the crucified Thieves wrapped, legs and arms, round their scaffolds. He saw a stately canopied chair and a chessboard. He felt, rather than saw, something he could not describe: something that filled him with anguish, and love, and unspeakable yearning. He was still clinging, forgetful, when the structure he was holding collapsed, his holds forsook him, and he fell.

  For those moments, at least, his mind cleared. He heard the screams. He saw that Julius was safe, caught and lodged just below him. He saw the tiles of the floor rushing towards him and thought of a chute, and a cry, and something he would never now say. But all that was already lost to him, in any case. Then he struck and found, swaying, swaying, lurching and swaying, that he was in a net.

  Chapter 9

  SHAKEN, SORE but alive, Nicholas de Fleury missed both the Pentecost Mass and the revels that followed on Monday, although Julius conveyed himself with caution to both, as a good merchant should. The dove, according to Anna, had turned in an impeccable performance.

  It was the first sensible conversation they had held since she had received him from the awed hands of the Polish Franciscans, who perceived the net as a donation by Bóg, rather than a consequence of the Patriarch’s distrust of poor timber. Of the night that followed, Nicholas remembered little but a sequence of extraordinarily sensual dreams, from which he woke in some discomfort to find the house empty but for his servant, and the square packed with jewelled mitres, cloth of gold and white satin, with golden crosses and high swaying canopies and the hats and silken shoulders of the nobility, all assembling for the procession to church. Behind them somewhere, he supposed, would be Julius and Anna, with Straube and his household. Somewhere else, not too far from the royal party, wherever it was, would be Anselm Adorne, his niece and his nephew. And the Patriarch, of course.

  The vestibule hall, two storeys high, did not appeal to him, so he installed himself instead at the window of one of the small hanging rooms at the front, where there was a seat and, he found, a recess offering a small keg of ale and some wine. He sent Jelita for a cup, then dismissed him. By then the chanting had begun, and the incense rolling inwards was making him queasy. He shut the window and, his gaze on the square, poured his wine and began to think through what had just happened. After a while, he made out the figure of Anna. Much later, he saw Kathi and Robin. They both looked happy, on their way to a Christian blessing. Some sects incinerated children as soon as they were born, and made Communion-bread from the ashes. And then, presumably, ate it.

  A long while after that, someone touched his shoulder and he found that it was Anna herself, smiling, still in her cloak. He saw it was raining again. He said, ‘I was asleep.’ The flask was empty.

  ‘So I saw,’ she said. ‘Come back to your room. The dove did very well, and so did Julius.’

  In his room, he pulled himself up on his bed while she sat on the edge of it, studying him. She said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to preach. I know this wasn’t a drunken Benecke prank, but men are going to wonder, in time, if that is all you can do. Maybe it is. But I don’t want Julius to take that path.’ She paused. ‘May I suggest something? I went to see Katelijne of Berecrofts, and I think that you should do the same. Julius also agrees, now he understands. Her uncle, of course, shouldn’t know, but I am sure that she would be willing to meet you, if you wanted. You do like her?’

  The damp had brought a single strand of black hair to her shoulders, and her eyes were the colour of hyacinths. He said, ‘Did you look after me last night?’

  Her smile deepened. ‘Jelita was there most of the time. Julius didn’t mind. You did nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘What a pity,’ he said.

  Her smile remained: amused, mild, understanding. And I think that you will dig your own grave if you are left alone very much longer. Anna, Anna, Anna: how did you know?

  He said, ‘I think a great deal of Kathi. I would see her, of course, if you suggest it. But isn’t she leaving almost at once, with Adorne?’

  ‘He hasn’t had his audience yet,’ Anna said. ‘The King didn’t come to the city. He was indisposed, and heard private Mass in the castle. His officers can’t properly arrange for Adorne to present his credentials until after the holiday. Then he will leave, and Kathi and the Patriarch with him. And Robin, of course. So there is time.’ She paused. She said, ‘I admit I am not being entirely altruistic. Julius thinks, and I agree, that you will not make up your mind until you know Adorne’s plans, as well as the Patriarch’s.’

  He noticed that, when she was serious, her upper lip curved like a child’s, and was naturally tinted, like her cheeks, with a child’s rosy colour. Her gown had been dyed, very expensively, in two shades, and its fine lapels met, as befitted a lady, without sinking into the hollow below. Despite that, and the discreetly lined bodice with its custodial seams, he did not need to be told that, unconfined, her breasts were full and tender and round, and that under the swell of her ribs was a small, silken waist. Like Gelis, Anna would always be womanly, whether a maid or a wife. Kathi, whatever her state, was only her own, sexless self. Nicholas said, ‘Then arrange what you like. I don’t mind.’ His eyes, drifting downwards, had closed, and he was aware of a hazy contentment. He said, ‘What did you give me? A schlaffdruncke? Something from an apothecary?’

  Her voice was like a nurse’s: amused. ‘Something from Kathi,’ she said
.

  There passed six curious days, during which nothing happened. The square emptied of clergy and filled again with officials taking over the leases of their houses as the hierarchy of Crown Poland made themselves available, for business and pleasure, to the magistrates and officeholders of Royal Prussia and the influential citizens of Thorn. The King and Queen made a ceremonial visit to the Burgh Halls, addressed the magistrates, were feasted and, instead of occupying their usual apartments, returned to the castle. Adorne, although he waited all day, was not summoned.

  In Thorn, Friczo Straube’s house, shaking off the post-festival languor of Tuesday, resumed its normal brisk pace of business. Julius, recovering quickly, returned to treating Nicholas with his usual mixture of irritation and camaraderie, after a moody few days in which he tended towards outright aggression. And Nicholas, excusing himself from country sports, had filled his days with sedate engagements in town, drinking ale in some cellar, or playing cards or dice in the Artushof where, as Julius had particularly mentioned, he found a friendly welcome from the Scottish merchants in town, some of whom—Simpson, Lauder, Halkerston, Stephen Lawson from Haddington — he had already spent time with in Danzig. At other times, if it wasn’t raining, he would sit with Straube and his household outside his front door on the terrace, drinking wine and chatting to friends who came to lean over the balustrade, or step down with a client to unlock the door of the stockroom. On occasion, Anna would sit with him.

  He knew that Adorne was still here, although he had taken care not to meet him. He also knew, as did all the town, that the promised summons to Court still delayed. On Tuesday, the King was still indisposed, and on Wednesday he was burdened with overdue business. On the day of the civic reception, through some oversight, foreign merchants were not invited to the banquet, and on the following three days the King felt constrained to remain in his castle. The only delegate who enjoyed unrestricted access was the Papal and Imperial Nuncio, Father Ludovico da Bologna, who trotted through the square on his small mule almost daily, on his way to the ferry with Brother Orazio. He did not stop at Herr Straube’s, and indeed had made no attempt to communicate since the accident of the dove, which suited Nicholas very well. Nicholas waited, and on Monday morning his messenger came: a black-clad, youngish man named Lipnicki, who wished to know whether Pan Nikolás was free to take refreshments with the lady who sent him.

  The sun was shining, for once, and although the wind was high and the clouds had an untrustworthy appearance, the merchants of the Artushof had set aside that afternoon for a contest of crossbow and sword of the kind at which Julius shone. He had already been threatening to go, whether Adorne was to be present or not. Now, at least, Kathi would know Adorne’s movements. He might be with the King at the castle. He might already be planning to leave.

  In any case, Nicholas was very conscious that this would be the last occasion on which he and Kathi would speak together in Poland: perhaps the last occasion in life. He had not been entirely sure, when Anna suggested it, that he wanted this meeting. There was too much about it that was difficult. It couldn’t repair what was irreparable, and might end by making it worse. But since Anna had asked it, he did not want to refuse. He would not admit to more than that: he could not afford to.

  He walked away with Lipnicki, having left a message for Julius. The man — a superior servant? A clerk from the Artushof? — led Nicholas over the square but, instead of turning towards Adorne’s house, walked between the booths and stalls of the market and directly through the main doors of the Burgh Halls. Nicholas had been there before often enough. The cellars, reached from the outside, were where men like himself gathered to drink. Here, the inner courtyard was an extension of the market, although more exclusive. On the right were the stalls of the bakers, and on the left, the cloth halls of the merchants. Ahead, long and low as were the other four sides of the square, was the building which housed the great hall, and the apartments used by the King when he came over the river.

  Since the Court was lodged in the castle, it was a surprise to see, ranged before the far portal, a guard of fully armed men wearing the livery badge of the Jagiellonian. It was more of a surprise, as his guide stepped across, to discern that the arms of the Habsburgs appeared also. Lastly, as he reached the royal portal in the wake of his leader, it was with quite a different sensation that he saw step from the doorway to greet him a man, an elegant, short-sighted man he had last seen in Oliva.

  ‘Welcome, Panie Bracie,’ said Filippo Buonaccorsi. ‘I hope you will forgive us. My serene lady could not flout protocol openly. I am sure you understand.’

  My serene lady.

  It was not Kathi he had been summoned to meet: it was the Queen.

  THE PAINTED CHAMBER INTO which he was shown held no surprises: the tapestry had been commissioned by King Casimir through the Banco di Niccolò in Bruges, and the carpet and one of the chests had been found and conveyed by Gregorio from his headquarters in Venice. Most of the silverware had originated in Germany, ruled by the Queen’s second cousin, the Emperor Frederick, and some had been bought through the Florentine company of the Medici, whose agent, Arnolfo Tedaldi, stood among the group of gentlemen at the Queen’s side. Many of these were Italian and one was Venetian: Caterino Zeno, the husband of Violante of Naxos. He was smiling.

  Nicholas bared his head and knelt, bending his neck. ‘Meine Königin.’ Latin was the language of diplomacy; Italian was the language he hoped for; German was the official language of Cracow. She answered in German. He rose and stood facing her, one hand at his breast, while she examined him.

  Elizabeth of Austria, Queen of Poland, was little older than he was himself, but the birth of thirteen children had lent a certain opulence to her frame, and the robe of linen interwoven with red and gold thread was splendid but bulky. Her face was Habsburg, with the heavy jaw and congested nose he had last seen in the younger face of the Emperor’s son Maximilian. But she also had the fine eyes, open and lustrous, of her family, and a roseleaf skin set off by the precious scarf which covered her hair and her throat. Below, she wore a necklace trembling with pearls, and pearls edged the tight cuffs under her oversleeves. All the men in her presence were handsomely dressed, and her own ladies were silk-gowned and comely. Not only a learned woman, then, but a secure one.

  He knew her to be adept in Italian because she had stayed at the court of the Emperor, in the days when his secretary was that golden poet and future Pope, the idol and model of Callimaco. You might almost say that the shadow of the late Pope Pius lay over this meeting. It was for his aborted Crusade that the San Matteo had been built, and it was by his decree (later regretted) that Fra Ludovico da Bologna had become Patriarch of Antioch, in which capacity he was now present in Thorn, representing both the current Pope and the Emperor. How loyally he was representing either master was as questionable as the degree of accord between the Queen and her second cousin. One day, their heirs would compete for the Empire.

  Nicholas stood, accepting her scrutiny, and betraying nothing but deference. Callimaco, delicate as a carving at the Queen’s side, watched him also. It had always been possible, from the moment Nicholas came back to Thorn, that he would receive a royal summons: it was one of the reasons why he had delayed making decisions. Now suddenly he was here, squarely placed on a board quite as complex as any of those from which he had been driven. He experienced, distantly, a flicker of interest: another game, another puzzle, another project. Nicholas, his voice gentle, said, ‘Madame, how may I serve you?’

  Someone knocked on the door. The Queen turned her head and Callimaco, without spoken orders, crossed the room and admitted a welldressed nobleman in his mid-thirties who doffed his hat, bowing, and ushered in his companions. There were four of these, all fair, all bright-eyed and handsome and ranging in age from, he guessed, sixteen or so down to seven. Nicholas did not need to be told who they were, although the Queen introduced them: ‘Kazimierz, Jan Olbracht, Aleksander and Zygmunt. Four of my sons.’

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nbsp; The eldest, of course, was not present. The eldest, Wladyslaw, was King of Bohemia. And the nobleman with them was the scholar Jan Ostrórog, who had graduated from Bologna five years after Julius did, and who had just been awarded a lucrative post by the King. The Queen said, ‘You were asking how you might serve me, and I shall tell you. My sons are here to learn. You will be seated, and then you will tell us your view of the Kingdom of Scotland, and how it is ruled, and what advances it has made towards prosperity. For, although we have persons of many nationalities in our kingdom, and quiz all that we may, we seldom have men who have touched, as you have, on the central trade and monetary affairs of a country. You do not object?’

  He did object. He could not say so. He said, ‘Illustrious lady, I am no longer a banker, or even a merchant.’

  Her voice was dry. ‘You would not be here if you were. You have been in this kingdom for six months. You may wish to stay longer. I desire you to look at the country you have left, and compare the two. Tell me about coinage. The King of Scotland saw fit to debase his silver? Why was this thought to be necessary? Does he not forbid the export of precious metals? And how does he mine those he has?’

  Poland, stretching from sea to sea, was the largest country in Europe; Scotland one of the smallest. He thought at first that he was betrayed: that someone — Adorne? — must have named him, and mustered a list of all the destructive policies which he had launched. Then, as the questions continued, he saw that this was not so; that he was the subject of a purely intellectual enquiry which ranged over all those subjects, economic, financial, industrial, which were of common interest, and which included matters of much wider import, from the relations of the King to his subjects to the relations of the King to the Church. Ostrórog in particular had been amused. ‘At least you forced through your Archbishop, bravo! We have had a Primate for nearly sixty years, and for more than ten, all abbots and bishops have been appointed by our prince without reference to Rome. Not that there is not more to be done. And tell us, the King has no standing army, and his only seamen are merchants? What does he do when he would go to war?’