Free The Unicorn Hunt by Dorothy Dunnett Page A

patrons, and Sersanders blamed his uncle for encouraging Katelijne’s prejudices. She fidgeted now, consumed with impatience as the flasks were passed round and the songs roared out, to whistle and trumpet and drum, and the bagpipe wheezed now and then, until someone got up and threw it into the sea. Then Will Roger started making up verses.
    His was one of the good voices; as it ought to be, since he’d come from England with the name of musician and stayed because, it seemed, he’d made himself popular with the Court. He was not one of nature’s beauties, having a coarse face rather than an ascetic one, and a barrel chest and fingers like bolsters. But they were agile enough on a whistle, and the words he improvised were as neat as the measure he sang them to. Then he threw both across to James Liddell, and sang a descant while Jamie, no newcomer to the game, hummed and thought, and produced his own verse, and repeated it twice, with some help. Then Alexander made up a verse, not quite rhyming and losing the tune, but everyone chanted it after him, and Will Roger gave it its due before he turned to the girl Katelijne. He said, ‘I think I have heard a sweet voice. Do you want to try it?’
    ‘I need it higher,’ she said, and drew breath, and began. The first line was a joke, developing an idea of Liddell’s. The second was a parody of Will Roger’s tentative start. The third and fourth were evolutions of both. The music was precisely Roger’s throughout, except that at the end she changed the key down to minor, to prepare for lowering the range.
    The applause and laughter had started by then, and almost drowned Roger’s voice as it addressed her. ‘Do it again. Keep it high. I’ll adapt.’ And when the shouting died, it revealed the two voices singing together, one high and one low, with the man improvising to the girl. They used the same words. At the end, they broke off, loudly acclaimed, and the versifying passed to other skittish, everyday voices.
    Anselm Adorne said, ‘She has a great gift. I think we have brought her to the right place.’ His nephew glanced at him, and away.
    Julius was singing. His voice was terrible and his verses didn’t scan, but were fertile with waggish allusions. He had wandered off tune. Following him, Maarten (who had a good voice) said, ‘I’ve lost the key. No, all right: I have it.’
    Someone had quoted him the opening phrase at its originalpitch. The whistle, which had begun to give out the notes, promptly stopped. The whistler looked round. ‘Nicholas,’ Julius replied to the unspoken question. ‘He carries keys in his head. Like a housewife.’ The fire shone on their red laughing faces.
    Will Roger said, ‘Go on, Maarten,’ but didn’t listen. At the end, he applauded. He said, ‘Why don’t we try something more complex? Nicholas-with-the-keys, can you give the little lady her note? You can. Now let her sing her verse high, and make your own words below her as I did. Or sing the same tune if you like.’
    Adorne said, ‘That’s asking rather a lot. But inventing verse at least will give our friend no pain.’ The girl was singing, her face full of mischief. Then vander Poele joined her, with unbroken good humour.
    Sersanders had heard him roar out the pithy songs they all knew, and had known him improvise words. It was a skill that came to him easily. The words he invented now were pointed rather than coarse, but they rhymed and they scanned; and the notes were, to begin with, the precise harmonies that Will Roger had used. The girl, singing, faced him across the flickering fire. Then vander Poele, without warning, moved into her tune, so that for a moment they were singing in unison. Then the voices divided again. She had taken the harmony, and left him with the original notes.
    A moment later, the sound changed again. The whistle had joined them. Will Roger, his fingers rippling, stood up. Katelijne, her face rapt, also sprang to her feet and vander