Caprice and Rondo

  IT WAS GIVEN TO Robin to shepherd Nicholas home, once the field had been cleared and the fit of dizziness had sufficiently passed.

  Glancing at him from time to time as they rode, his former squire made no attempt at conversation. He had already said all that was necessary: a quick assurance that Master Julius still lived; and a word to explain that Nicholas himself was to stay at Adorne’s house, to leave space for the sick man at Herr Straube’s.

  ‘Adorne wouldn’t wish that,’ Nicholas had said.

  ‘He suggested it,’ Robin had answered. That was all that had been said.

  Robin was thankful for it, and guilty because he was thankful, with two-thirds of his mind singing with the news he had just heard. He thought of Kathi’s face, looking at his, and felt again a pang of mild anger at Anna’s thoughtlessness. It would mend itself, as soon as Kathi and he were alone. Meanwhile, it was easier to be here than in her company, and forced to be speechless. They were to have a child. He was to have the joy, all his life, of Kathi’s child.

  Remorsefully, he looked again at the closed face beside him, but was too wise, now, to blurt out encouragement. Now you have both of us, he had said, brashly, to this man by the river at Trèves, and had seen Kathi’s glance of warning too late. For what had happened today, he had no comfort to offer. He had never had such an experience, although he knew it could happen in battle: the spurting arrow, the gaudy sword-stroke that severed the life of a friend. It was probable that Julius would not survive. Of course, there would be no recriminations. Everyone had seen the horse stumble. Everyone knew how long the two men had been together, in Bruges and then with the Bank. Robin grieved for Nicholas, without knowing what to say that would help.

  It meant, of course, profound changes even if Julius survived. Julius could not now go to the Black Sea and Caffa. Nicholas might well stay in Thorn and work out his penance by presenting his talents to his company. And of course, there were other plans now overturned that he had scarcely as yet had time to think of. Kathi’s uncle was returning not just to Danzig, but to Flanders. And the offer so lightly made by his niece was no longer valid. Robin and Kathi would not now be calling at Caffa, or taking Lord Cortachy’s place at Tabriz. Kathi would return home with her uncle, and Robin with her, to await the …

  His horse jerked, and Robin hissed under his breath and then steadied it. Something had dawned on him. Kathi had known she was pregnant when she had made the offer to travel to Tabriz. She had wanted to go. And that was why she had not immediately told him.

  Nicholas said, ‘Are you all right? Is Kathi all right? I’m sorry, I should have made sure.’

  His face was still colourless, but not quite so closed. Robin took a quick decision and said, ‘She’s more than all right, sir. It has been a better day for us than for you. I have just heard the news: she’s with child.’

  ‘You’ve just heard?’ the other man said.

  Robin, puzzled, remembered again what had annoyed him. He said, ‘Anna blurted it out. She’d guessed, which was more than I did. But we are so pleased.’

  ‘And so am I,’ Nicholas said. ‘It is what I would hope for you both. It doesn’t know how lucky it is.’

  And Robin laughed, alight with joy. For he thought no one as lucky as he was, with the first child, hoped for by them both, on its way so painlessly and so soon. And he had been lucky to find in his wife a friend who had become increasingly his great and sole love, while keeping also, despite everything, his regard for this man who had shaped his young life.

  Robin rode beside him in silence to the square, where grooms took their horses, and where he showed Nicholas watchfully into the house by the Artushof, there to surrender him into the hands of the house steward, who had already, it seemed, received his orders. The lord was recommended to accompany him to his room, and to rest there.

  Obedient to the decree, Nicholas had paused to thank Robin, and to send a message to Kathi. He still looked and moved like a sleepwalker. Robin thought that Adorne had been kind in sparing him the need to face them all, for the moment, at any rate. Or perhaps Kathi had thought of it first.

  At his side, the steward said, ‘I was to tell you, Pan Robin. The lady of Berecrofts is waiting for you.’

  HOURS PASSED. Awakening in an unfamiliar, candlelit room, Nicholas searched his memory for the reason, and found it. He also retrieved a vague recollection of drinking something which felled him with sleep. It had a familiar after-taste. Subsequent to that, evidently, he had been undressed and left covered in bed. But this time, there had been no voluptuous dreams.

  The voice of Ludovico da Bologna broke upon his right eardrum. ‘Are you sick because you hit him, or because you missed him? Now you can come to Tabriz.’

  Nicholas forked himself into a sitting position.

  ‘Just a pleasantry,’ the Patriarch said. ‘Certainly you are not wearing a hair shirt, I observe.’ The bulky figure in the uncertain light was demoniac; the pectoral cross thick as horse-armour. He had asked Callimaco to find the Patriarch for him, and here he was; when now there was no conceivable purpose in meeting.

  Nicholas said, ‘It was an accident. How is Julius?’

  ‘Still alive,’ the Patriarch said. He lifted his cross on its chain and used it to rap Nicholas on the finger. ‘The little girl said you’d been divining, and she hadn’t even seen that. I hear you gave the Queen some excellent advice on how to rule Scotland. What a helpful person you are. And now you may multiply your good works and show penitence for your bad in one stroke. Come to Tabriz.’

  ‘I might have done,’ Nicholas said. ‘But surely not now. Not until Julius has recovered, if then.’

  ‘You would let his poor lady go to Caffa on her own?’ the Patriarch said.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘They were both to have travelled there with young Berecrofts. Now Julius cannot go; nor can the boy and his wife. I myself must leave at once. But whatever the fate of the unlucky Julius, his wife must travel to Caffa as soon as she may. And what better reparation could marksman make to his target,’ the Patriarch said, ‘than to assume the protection and care of his wife?’ He waited, staring from under his brows. ‘God forgive me, are you sick for some reason? Shall I send for your man?’ His eyes mocked.

  ‘Why must she go?’ Nicholas said. It was an effort.

  ‘Business. She will tell you herself, if you propose to give yourself the trouble of calling tomorrow. If he is dead, I shall stay for the Mass. He deserves that much, poor fellow.’

  He rose to go. Nicholas could think of nothing to say. The Patriarch said, ‘Make your mind up. It is overdue.’

  The door shut. On the bed, Nicholas doubled up over tight-folded arms, and started to shiver.

  JULIUS WAS STILL ALIVE the following morning. Nicholas crossed the square and was admitted by Straube’s servant, who took him up to the sickroom. A tapestry had been hung to keep out direct sunlight, and Anna’s face looked lily-white in the gloom. There was a physician by the bed, and a monk in an apron mixing something at a side table. The scene was an old one, threadbare in its familiarity: only the man in the bed —Godscalc, Zacco, Bessarion — seemed to change. Now the strong bare shoulders, the sunken face were those of Julius. His eyes were open. Anna rose and, taking Nicholas by the hand, brought him round to the bed. She said, ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I was too shocked to think.’ (What have you done?)

  ‘Well, you were right. I had shot him,’ Nicholas said. Below him, there took place, remarkably, a faint widening of the patient’s lips. ‘And not before time,’ Nicholas added, responding to it with a tentative smile of his own.

  ‘You were always a bloody bad shot,’ Julius said in a whisper. Then he shut his eyes, and the doctor signalled that he should go.

  Anna followed him out, and he did not know whether to touch her or not. He said, ‘I am so very sorry. What do they say?’

  Her eyes today were less violet than black, and stained underneath with her vigil. She said, ‘They are not sure
, but there is hope. They say it will be a week before they can be sure. Will you stay until we know?’

  ‘Of course,’ Nicholas said. ‘Did you think I would walk out?’

  ‘He jokes,’ she said, ‘but I know he would want it.’ She frowned. ‘We have taken your room.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. He had had an interview with Adorne, stiff and cold in the Artushof. The Burgundian party was leaving, and the Danzig merchants with it. If Pan Nikolás wished, he might take temporary occupation of one of their rooms, with a bed for his servant. Thorn wished him to stay; the Danzig merchants still had hopes of him. So had the King. Jelita had transferred his belongings already. Adorne, receiving his thanks, had made it clear that he proposed to maintain the distance between them. He had not seen either Kathi or Robin this morning, and the Patriarch had gone out.

  To Anna, Nicholas said, ‘Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?’

  She looked up at him. Then she said, ‘Later, perhaps. Nothing just now, Nicholas, except perhaps to pray. He must mean as much to you as he does to me — perhaps more. You have known each other for a long time.’

  He left quickly, but Cailimaco caught him as he ran down the steps. ‘How is he?’ He listened. He said, ‘It was my bow. I feel as if I had killed him myself. You were not accustomed to it.’

  ‘I was perfectly used to it,’ Nicholas said. ‘And I was and am grateful. Whatever happened was none of your doing. But now, if I stay, my duty must be to Julius. I shall have to make my apologies to you and to the King and, I suppose, to Signor Zeno.’

  ‘He has gone,’ Cailimaco said. ‘Come in. You look as if a glass of wine might not come amiss. He has gone to Hungary, where they will knight him and make him great promises, which they will not carry out. But I think he knew you would not go to Tabriz.’

  Nicholas followed the Italian into his house, and stood in the hall. He said, ‘Who fired the shot that brought down the pavilion, and why? Zeno killed him.’

  ‘No one knows,’ the other man said. He pointed to a chair, and clapped his hands for a servant. ‘It was a murder attempt. The supports of the awning had been tampered with. It only required one shot by that bolt to bring it down.’

  ‘But against whom?’ Nicholas said. Now he had the wine, he wasn’t sure that he wanted it. He sat nursing the cup.

  ‘Who knows? Someone with a grudge against the elders of the town? Against the Burgundian party? Against the rich foreign merchants of the Artushof? They will investigate,’ Callimaco said, ‘but I doubt if anything will be found.’ His robes, as he took his seat, fell in graceful folds to the floor, and his fingers holding the wine were long and supple. He said, ‘I am more concerned over you. Will you talk about it?’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Nicholas said. ‘I can, I think, draw the necessary conclusions without too much help. But I thank you.’

  ‘The sick man can recognise and heal his own ailment? It is possible. It is not what I meant. (You are not enjoying your wine?) We spoke of the fire-mountains of Iceland.’

  ‘You spoke of them,’ Nicholas said.

  He was ignored. ‘You are acquainted with the natural sciences, with the phenomena of the earth and the mathematics of the stars. You have experienced different customs, different climates. You have been exposed to prophecy: you have lent yourself, through the art of the pendulum, to forces you do not understand …’

  ‘I brought—’

  ‘You brought my cameo. In my turn, I thank you, but I do not want it. You have made it yours. It obeys you.’

  ‘It is the other way round,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I didn’t come —’

  ‘You didn’t come for such questions, or to assuage your guilt or your grief. You came, I think, for what I was about to offer you. To discuss what has happened, and to place it in relation to other events.’

  ‘What has happened? The fall of the awning?’ He was being stubborn.

  If he was being stubborn, the other man, this time, was being deliberately wilful. Callimaco said, ‘I dream of writing a book. I had hoped, if you had stayed, that you would discuss it with me. It would contain all the themes I have mentioned. It would provide a context for the event you have not described: the discovery that one has deprived a friend of his life.’

  The audible thud as the arrow entered the firm chest. The muddy, lustreless stain from which trembled and swelled a body of glistening scarlet. Once, they said, Callimaco had proposed to kill a man, in cold blood, for a principle. Nicholas said, ‘You will have to write your book without me.’

  He received a long scrutiny. At length: ‘You are under no obligation,’ said the other. ‘There may come a time when you think differently, and I shall still be here, I suspect, with the book as yet unwritten. You did however make me one promise. What did my cameo tell you?’

  Whoever is unsupported by the Mystery of Love shall not achieve the grace of salvation. Whoever shall cast love aside shall lose everything. ‘Something I already knew,’ Nicholas said, ‘but had tried to forget.’

  ‘Something painful. Shall I say I am sorry?’ Cailimaco said.

  ‘No,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Because you deserve pain? Or because it has restored to you something of worth?’

  Nicholas rose, and laid down his cup. Buonaccorsi, taking his time, did the same. Since Oliva, Nicholas was aware, the other man had changed in his perception. It was not enough, not nearly enough to urge him to confide. Nevertheless, he did consider the question, and answered it under his breath. ‘Both, I think,’ Nicholas said.

  Nothing more of significance was said: he had taken his stance, and Callimaco had accepted it meantime. They parted with the light embrace warranted by their strange paper friendship, which had been replaced by something hardly less fragile. Making his solitary return to the place where he now lodged on sufferance, Nicholas found it empty of all but house-servants. Adorne and his family were out taking their leave of their hosts, as were Sidinghusen and Bock. He did not want to see them. He particularly did not want to meet the Patriarch yet. But standing there at his window, looking across at the bustling market, beneath the booming tower of the squat Burgh Halls, he was conscious, as seldom before, of being entirely alone.

  Chapter 12

  WHATEVER ADORNE’S opinion of Julius, it was not in his nature to leave Thorn without calling on Anna, to discover what she might need, and how her husband was faring. Kathi went with him, and stayed longer so that, alone, Anna could talk to her freely. She considered her brave. Listening to Anna, she thought of the contrast of her own night in Robin’s arms, wrapped about by new joy, while Anna might never know that comfort again. Yet Julius’s wife bore no grudge against Nicholas. ‘They are like children, careless with drink, wild with excitement …’ And she had rubbed a hand over her face. ‘It is my only fear, that when Julius recovers — and he will recover — Nicholas will still be here, unregenerate, and the mischief will start all over again.’

  ‘He will want to help you,’ Kathi said. ‘He will do anything you wish, after this. He could be of great use in the business.’

  ‘I know,’ Anna said. ‘And Julius would like that, of course. If only Gelis were here!’

  Kathi gave a wry smile. ‘You think she could control either of them?’

  ‘The household could,’ Anna said. ‘Remember the poem? That was the smoke of self-sacrifice, not the indifference it might seem. Your conscienceless friend is passionate about at least one person, his son. With that small boy to rear, Nicholas would do nothing rash. From what I have seen of his nurse, Mistress Clémence is wise with adults as well as children. And perhaps even Dr Tobias would come. Robin says that he and Nicholas have fallen out and become reconciled in the past.’

  ‘Perhaps he would, but Gelis wouldn’t,’ Kathi said. ‘And without her consent, he could never see Jodi. In any case, he isn’t ready for Jodi, and Jodi shouldn’t have to act as his crutch. Nor should anyone else. Perhaps, if he hadn’t alienated them all, they would come and
restrain him for a while, but it never seems to last long: he breaks away and does something unforgivable yet again. He has to learn on his own.’ She broke off, hearing the bleakness in her own voice. ‘Which isn’t much help to you. I’m sorry, but I don’t think you are going to separate Julius and Nicholas that way.’ She wondered, as she spoke, why they were talking of a difficulty that might never materialise; and realised that this, of course, was why they were talking. It was unthinkable that Julius was going to die.

  Anna said, ‘If Nicholas were legitimate, would Gelis feel differently?’

  The hum of the market came through the closed windows. Women’s voices spoke outside the door, and a clatter of pewter as something was carried upstairs on a tray. Kathi said, ‘What do you mean? If there were a superior title for Jodi, would Gelis feel bound to repair the marriage? I don’t think so. I think that her personal association with Nicholas matters more than anything else ever could. But does the question even arise? I thought his bastardy was proved by default.’

  ‘But if someone were to show otherwise?’ Anna said. ‘You once mentioned a vicomte de Fleury. There was a man of that name in a monastery on the Montello, in the March of Treviso, north of Venice. Julius heard of him. He said your uncle had a brother buried there.’

  This was true. She looked at Anna in astonishment. Jacques Adorne had spent two years with the Carthusians, and died there, a monk. On his way home from Venice three years ago, her uncle Anselm had taken his eldest son Jan to the grave, leaving Kathi in the nearest town to await them. Neither had spoken of this. She took a moment to think. Then she said, ‘Was the vicomte a very old man?’

  ‘I don’t know. He may have been. He had no powers of speech and was quite helpless, Julius was told. He may even be dead. But Gelis could find out,’ Anna said. ‘As you go home, you could send and tell her.’ From sleeplessness, her eyes were large and strained: she talked as if she were discussing the most important thing in the world. And then Kathi remembered that, if Jodi and Bonne were to marry, it might well be just that, for Anna. Her lover and husband might never recover, but she would secure a future for the fatherless Bonne.