Free The Unicorn Hunt by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

Poele, singing on undisturbed, did the same. Roger dropped his hand away for a moment. He said, ‘Go on. Never mind the words. I’ll keep the tune.’
    What followed lasted no longer than it took to empty a cup, and very few round the fire listened closely, or knew what they were hearing. The whistle held to its part and the girl to hers, leaving to the other singer the freedom to find a third tune to weave about them and, maliciously, some new lines of verse for the girl to reply to. She did, changing her descant and forcing him to change his. Then he altered his tempo as well and, while she kept the old pace, began to double both the words and the notes, weaving faster and faster about the core of the tune. She doubled too, but could not quite match him. Then the whistle changed also, and became a quotation.
    The girl laughed from sheer excitement, and vander Poele screwed his lips. But when she began to sing, he sang with her, and went on singing when the whistle stopped altogether, and was replaced by Will Roger’s own rich voice, held well down. Thepiece, though intricate, was not long, and ended quietly, with the three voices blended in unison.
    Then Roger drew breath and said, ‘My God, that’s enough. Are we to work for you all night? A dance! A dance, your honours!’ And, readily, the company scrambled to its feet while the trumpet lifted and flashed, and the drum began to thud out its measure.
    Roger, whistle in hand, was not dancing, but had crossed to snare his two singers. The child Katelijne was there, but vander Poele had sprung off to join the light-hearted column, a comely noblewoman on either arm.
    Julius, who had been late finding a partner, came and sat by Adorne and Sersanders and followed their gaze to the dancers. He said, ‘Bravo, my good knight de Fleury. What was the last song they made up?’
    ‘They weren’t making it up. It was from the Divine Office. Tenebrae, darkness. De Fleury , you said?’
    ‘His mother’s family name,’ Julius said. ‘I told you. He decided at Bruges to bury the family feud; to forget he wanted Simon and Jordan to recognise him as one of their blood. So if he isn’t St Pol, he isn’t vander Poele either. That’s how I understand it. The Duke’s started calling him Nicol. You know they’re going to roll barrels? Ten in a row, on the highway from Leith to Edinburgh? When the dancing finishes, we have to get torches.’
    ‘Aren’t you tired?’ Adorne said.
    ‘No. Well, a bit. But what a night! They’re an energetic crowd, the Scots,’ Julius said. ‘It should suit M. de Fleury.’
    Soon after the rolling of barrels, Jamie Liddell led his lord the King’s brother to bed in the King’s Wark at Leith, and Master Lamb was able at last to retire, and his weary Flemish guests with him. Quiet at last was bestowed on the strand and the river of Leith. Quiet, and soulful oblivion.
    No one forded the river that night to Berecrofts’s house in North Leith. Julius found a corner pallet with Lamb. Nicholas de Fleury, three months wed, was elsewhere; having lately had at his disposal the bed and the person of Beth, a minor laird’s giggling daughter.

Chapter 4
    T HREE WEEKS AFTER that, Jordan de St Pol, vicomte de Ribérac, rode across Scotland to his house in the Cowgate of Edinburgh and from there made several calls. His last was to the Burgundian Envoy.
    Anselm Adorne received him calmly in the large chamber of the merchant’s house whose hospitality he now enjoyed in the High Street.
    Like all Burgundian Flemings, Adorne traded with France despite everything. His eldest son spoke not only Italian and Flemish but the French of the professors of Paris. He himself knew the names of all the Scots of noble blood who had fought in France against England, and who had remained to serve sly, brilliant King Louis in return for fortunes and titles and territory. The d’Aubigny. The Monypenny. And de Ribérac. He knew, too, the campaign this elderly, gross man had