He held her. She was not fully conscious. He held her, and followed a thread of song in his mind, as if he could induce her to hear it. Her hair was thick and grey under the gauze, and her face was round still, and still bonny. She had a daughter in France, and a grandchild. They were not going to lose her. Nor was he. He spoke to her, in a murmur. He spoke about Henry.
‘Come along, Bel. Come, Bel. It’s over. It was Simon he loved, and his grandfather, and now he’s at peace. We remember him, and so does his brother. They were halfway to becoming friends, Henry and Jordan. It wasn’t all loss.’
Her eyes were open on his. Presently she shook her head, and attempted to smile, and he drew her up into the chair. She was cold, so he laid his jacket around her, and turned to the bed-chest for a blanket.
The coverlet was upset. The fustian wool hangings were as neat as before, and the carpet laid on the steps, and the table set to one side with its tin flagon of physic and cups. But the coverlet was crumpled, and one of the pillows tumbled askew; and half sunk in its depths was the frozen face of Jordan St Pol, caught as it was when he dropped, wild with frustration, at the height of his effort to rise. His mouth was a little open and his eyes reflected the light as Henry’s had done; but no one had held him as he died.
SENT FOR, TOBIE brought Gelis with him. By then, the staff of the household had come and ordered the room, while Nicholas took Bel away. She wouldn’t go to her room, but sat with him in the parlour, where Nicholas had first met his son Henry, the golden child, and the golden man he thought was his father. Then Tobie came, and went to the bedchamber, while Gelis walked in and kissed Bel and sat beside her, her hand at her back. Bel was weeping, her face immobile; the tears running ceaselessly into her kerchief. Nicholas, without very much colour, moved quietly about, responding to questions, giving low orders to the same servants who, six months before, must have witnessed his struggle with Julius. Now they simply obeyed.
Presently, Tobie came to sit with Bel and Gelis, and Nicholas joined them, and answered his questions as well. He might have kept something back, but Bel had a mind of her own. Discovering that the others knew about Henry, she questioned them steadily. Then, against Nicholas’s silent resistance, she brought in the name of his living son, Jordan.
It was over, what had been said in that bedroom. No one had to know, least of all Gelis, that St Pol had wanted to make Jordan his heir. Nicholas sat, looking at no one, while Bel told all that had happened.
At the end, he glanced up, and found her watching him grimly. ‘I told him ye wouldna. I told him ye’d be too thrawn to take it, even if it was for the bairn.’
‘It was too late to make amends,’ Nicholas said. Gelis said nothing.
Tobie frowned. ‘But he saved Jordan. Didn’t that count? The gift was for Jordan.’
‘It was for the succession,’ Nicholas said. ‘It was why he saved Jordan. Without Jordan, Kilmirren was lost.’
Bel blew her nose. She said, ‘I think his reasons were more praiseworthy nor that. You know what I hope? I hope he heard the last words you said, Nicholas. About Henry’s love for his grandfather and Simon. About Jordan and Henry becoming friends. Ye thought that worth doing. Might he not have thought the same? And even if he didna, would your hopes for Henry not be carried out if Jordan went on in Henry’s place? I would want that. I would want that to remember my Jordan by. Otherwise my hale life has been wasted on someone worthless. And to me, he never was that.’
There was a silence. Then Gelis said, ‘So you wanted Jordan to have Kilmirren, Bel?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I got St Pol to write the gift out and sign it, just in case he lost the knack, or fell out of his senses. I have the paper there yet.’
Nicholas was looking at Gelis. She said, ‘It is your decision.’
He said, ‘No.’ His gaze had moved. When he spoke again, it was slowly. ‘Bel? What would Father Godscalc have said? He knew who Henry was. Tobie and Gelis and I have kept the secret all these years. When Godscalc was dying, he spoke of him, but he also spoke of us all, and how he wished us together. He asked us to make him our bridge. Is this what he meant?’
‘You would do it?’ she said.
‘Not for St Pol,’ he said. ‘But I would do it for you, and Gelis, and Jordan—our Jordan—and in memory of the friends we have lost, whom it might have made happy. What would Adorne have said?’
‘Property. Take it. And Tam Cochrane,’ said Gelis. ‘He would be there with his slate and his ruler before anyone said a word about garderobes.’
‘And Whistle Willie,’ said Tobie. ‘You’d have an organ in no time at all.’
They were talking heartily, out of shock, but they meant what they said.
Nicholas said, ‘Then, Bel, we will take your paper, and Jordan shall have his inheritance. And he will be Semple and we shall be de Fleury, which will keep him explaining until the end of his days.’
LATER, HE WENT upstairs alone, and stood by the bed, his gaze resting on the grey, silent bulk of his grandfather, whose beauty had altered his life. They had left the great ring, now immovably part of his finger. St Pol could not hurt him with it, or pass it on to him now.
Bel had hoped that his last words had been heard. Now, he thought that he could wish the same thing. Today, he had rejected a gift, and Fate, it seemed, had determined to thrust it upon him. As he had recently said, one could not depend upon plans.
He had never thought, long ago in his own flat country of Flanders, in his own well-loved burgh of Bruges, that one day he would abandon it all for a small, mountainous land, at the behest of a man whose ill-will had dogged him for most of his life.
But no. That was not accurate either. He had already decided to stay.
Bruges was part of his life. So was Marian. So was her family. That would remain. As for Bonne, he felt no obligation; no wish to know more about her, any more than she did about him. She would marry, and that would be the end.
For him, this choice seemed right. It simply meant that now there might be descendants of his who would choose to work in this country that had welcomed him, and perhaps gather about them a circle as various, as eccentric, as fond as the one of which he and Gelis were part.
He had found Gelis, and happiness. The other element in his life he had also, for it took nothing from others. He had a great deal of love to give, and was fortunate in attracting it, he had discovered.
He remembered the gold, and wondered, with slight irritation, how he was going to spend it. He had a feeling that someone would tell him.
He walked downstairs, not to begin a new life, but to continue the one that was already his, with his friends.
Epílogue
And I beseik him, lord of all, Iesu,
The ground of grace, the well of all werteu
To send ws grace, that sic werteu we haf
To serf him so that our saulis he saif,
And bring ws to his kinrik and his blys,
Quhar lyf but end and ioye eternall is.
Amen, amen.
THERE YOU HAVE a spiritual pronouncement. We astrologers are not necessarily attuned to the work of the Almighty and His servants, although I have time for Will Scheves. My concern is the Future, thus capitalised—not my own; not even that of the men and women in this tale; but the Future in which some of their children or grandchildren may take part. And, of course, my descendants. I have great hopes of my daughter, Camille.
My efforts have met with some success. I had a glimpse of something, just about the time of which you have been reading. I cannot remember what medium I used—the beryl, the tray of ink (ink is so expensive)?—but I can tell you the vision was short, and I could not say what year it represented, although I recognised where it took place: a pretty spot in France, which I happen to know very well. Nicholas de Fleury was there—indeed, he was my unwitting intermediary.
It is a sobering thing, to occupy the mind of another. The amour propre may find itself damaged. In this instance, Nicholas appeared to r
egard me with due respect, which is something. Some of the persons connected with him were visible, but there is no reason to suppose that harm had befallen those who were not. It was merely a glimpse. All I can say for certain is that I perceived the children more clearly than ever before, each with its thread to the future now firmly held in its hand.
Here is what I saw.
• • •
THE RIVER WAS broad, and full with the summer flood. It was not yet the season for vintage, but the scent of the fruit drifted in the soft air and filled the senses like music.
Nicholas stood, without seeing. Far off, he could hear voices. If he turned, he would discover them: Bel’s family, Kathi’s family, and his own, taking their ease in the woodland and orchards of Chouzy, in the vale of the Cisse and the Loire; renewing, as he did every year, their old acquaintance with France.
He would see Bel’s son-in-law, Bernard, seigneur de Chouzy, a little frail for his years, smiling at Isabella, his fair, his bewitching young daughter. And never far off, he would find his own tall son Jordan, brown-haired, loose-limbed and inventive, with a flute stuck at his waist, or plucked out to amuse Isabella. Apart, the younger children would be playing: Camille dominating young Hob, unless her father Dr Andreas intervened. And behind them somewhere in the grass, Gelis and Kathi were certainly talking: Gelis lying back, her eyes screwed against the sun; Kathi sitting up collecting something, or shelling something, or unpacking the baskets. And halfway up a very tall tree, with a flower stuck in his hair, Kathi’s other son, whose childish name had been Rankin.
Seeing the way things were going, Nicholas had asked Bernard de Moncourt recently about the future of Chouzy, and he had smiled. ‘You don’t fancy managing it? Then have no fear. It will last my time, although Isabella’s husband, when she has one, and her family may have other ideas. The King’s advisers have sent to ask if this is for sale.’
‘Chouzy?’
‘No. The vineyards. This land we call Sevigny, by the river. The Crown wishes to build. A château for the monarch, or his guests, or to lease to privileged commanders.’
‘Will you sell?’
‘I might. I am not poor, as you know, but it would bring considerable wealth to my family. We could remain here for my lifetime. But if the Crown eventually tired of the building and sold, my heirs need not stay, and suffer a string of new neighbours.’ Then de Moncourt had smiled. ‘If the château is built, you may wish to advise about architects.’
‘I used to know a good Italian,’ Nicholas had said.
The river ran, singing. Life was full of surprises. He had never truly wanted to shorten his own, even when things were at their worst. He had not needed Andreas to warn him: fill your life. There is a long time to wait. Don’t make it longer.
He wondered how long it would be, and where he would wait, and what it would feel like. He wondered if anyone else had this happiness, to know what death was going to mean. He understood and was reconciled to the fact that he must not shorten the interval; must not call home that other, unknown life before its due span. The world had a right to its servants; and echoes must remain only echoes; the shell remain shut, with its music, until the time came.
Until the time came.
Someone touched him. ‘Come and join us,’ said Kathi. She took his hand to lead him to Gelis. Now that he looked, it was all as he imagined, except that Isabella had snatched the flute and was running, laughing, from Jordan. A flower dropped on his hair. He looked up.
Blue eyes, golden hair, framed in the leaves of a tree. Kathi’s son, bright as a fawn, his face dirty. He sang out, and Kathi looked up with resignation and said, ‘We notice. You will, of course, fall. But wait until we have left.’
Walking with Nicholas again, she unexpectedly spoke. ‘You don’t mind?’ She glanced back at the tree. ‘You don’t mind what he is called?’
She had not asked him before. She was offering to speak of it now, as an expression of faith in his strength, his self-discipline, his ability to recover, even, from something she had seen in his face. Nicholas opened an arm and, walking still, Kathi took his hand over her shoulder. He said, ‘You disguised it well enough, didn’t you? No, I didn’t mind.’
‘It began as Franskin,’ Kathi said. ‘Just a pet name, but hard for a little person to say. When he was born, Margaret couldn’t pronounce it.’
He said, ‘There wasn’t much she couldn’t do.’
‘No,’ said Kathi in thoughtful agreement.
He had given Margaret a pearl. Kathi had asked him to keep it. Nicholas had no daughter, but might have a granddaughter one day, who might have a daughter in turn. Its story would live.
They walked. Then Kathi resumed in the same tone. ‘The name for our son? Robin wanted this one as much as I did, and asked Gelis. She said she gave it to us as a gift from you both. She had made a journey to Dijon. She had found it engraved in the crypt.’
‘I thought so,’ he said.
Gelis had never told him. His hand clung to Kathi’s, and hers to his. She spoke gently. ‘The child in the tomb. He was your twin, who died before you were born?’
Rankin; Franskin; Francis.
‘Yes,’ he said; and by his voice, closed the subject for ever.
Was; and is; and will be.
He looked back. The lad had swung himself from branch to branch to the ground, lissom as once his father had been. A handsome boy, with springing blond hair, and features fine as if fashioned in porcelain.
This was a soul that he knew, gifted and eager and generous; beloved of many; destined surely for fame; and determined, as Robin was, to follow a man he thought worthy. A noble child of his race, Francis Crawford of Berecrofts. Francis Crawford of Templehall, it would be, one day.
But this was not the piercing spirit, clear as a snowfield in sunlight, for whom Nicholas de Fleury was waiting. A being fiercer than this, he had been told: far more passionate, far more vulnerable, with far more to give to a world which would not know, at first, how to receive it. A spirit that would always lead; that could never be a disciple.
The other half of his being, come again.
KATHI’S SON LEFT the tree and came running, and Nicholas turned the flower into a dart and flung it, with comradely venom. The lad, laughing, ducked.
Ahead, the pretty, fair girl ran on, but Jordan had glanced round, and was looking. Nicholas waved to him, with his free hand.
HERE ENDED THE picture.
Heir endis the buke of the ches.
Reader’s Guide
1. For Discussion: Gemini
“They were more than halfway towards becoming friends,” says Nicholas of his two sons. What had made them enemies? As Jordan and Henry stepped tentatively and poignantly towards friendship, which do you think made the greater effort? Which made the greater achievement?
2. What are the links between the story of the Duke of Gloucester, soon to become the infamous English King Richard III, and that of Alexander, Scottish Duke of Albany? Are theirs at some level the same story? How do they diverge?
3. At the climax of this novel, and this series, Nicholas de Fleury finally kills a member of his family. What are the elements that make up what Kathi now calls his “obsession” against doing this? What do you think enables him to do it at last?
4. In its final quarter the novel devotes considerable attention to Jordan de Rebeirac. What enlightenments about him invite our understanding, and even our pity? What does Bel mean by insisting that he and Nicholas are alike? What is his final tragedy?
5. In their final scene together, Anselme Adorne says to Nicholas, “I wish—” and is cut off. How would you finish that sentence? How is Adorne’s role in the Scotland of this section of the novel similar to his role in the Bruges of the early chapters? And different from it? What are some of the reasons he is “at home” in Scotland?
Dorothy Dunnett was born in Dunfermline, Scotland. She is the author of the Francis Crawford of Lymond novels; the House of Niccolò novels; seven mysteri
es; King Hereafter, an epic novel about Macbeth; and the text of The Scottish Highlands, a book of photographs by David Paterson, on which she collaborated with her husband, Sir Alastair Dunnett. In 1992, Queen Elizabeth appointed her an Officer of the Order of the British Empire. Lady Dunnett died in 2001.
Books by Dorothy Dunnett
THE LYMOND CHRONICLES
The Game of Kings
Queens’ Play
The Disorderly Knights
Pawn in Frankincense
The Ringed Castle
Checkmate
King Hereafter
The Photogenic Soprano (Dolly and the Singing Bird)
Murder in the Round (Dolly and the Cookie Bird)
Match for a Murderer (Dolly and the Doctor Bird)
Murder in Focus (Dolly and the Starry Bird)
Dolly and the Nanny Bird
Dolly and the Bird of Paradise
Send a Fax to the Kasbah (Moroccan Traffic)
THE HOUSE OF NICCOLÒ
Niccolò Rising
The Spring of the Ram
Race of Scorpions
Scales of Gold
The Unicorn Hunt
To Lie with Lions
Caprice and Rondo
Gemini
The Scottish Highlands (with Alastair Dunnett)
The Dorothy Dunnett Companion Volume I (by Elspeth Morrison)
The Dorothy Dunnett Companion Volume II (by Elspeth Morrison)
THE HOUSE OF NICCOLÒ SERIES
BY DOROTHY DUNNETT
NICCOLÒ RISING
Bruges, 1460. Street smart, brilliant at figures, adept at the subtleties of diplomacy and the well-timed untruth, Dunnett’s hero Nicholas rises from wastrel to prodigy in a breathless adventure that wins him the hand of the most powerful woman in Bruges— and the hatred of two powerful enemies.