Gemini (10 page)

Nicholas said, ‘Mourning may take many forms, my lord King. The interment is over. All the world knows the grief you carry in your heart. A Mass in the spring would surely suffice, at the time of the usual change in the wardrobe. Your grace’s own merchants know what serves best.’

The King looked surprised. On earlier trips, Nicholas de Fleury would have jumped at the chance to press costly goods on them all. Forgetting his stance on economy, the King said, ‘Now here is a surprise!
The good sire de Fleury cannot aspire these days to a nobleman’s cargo, but has fallen on hard times, perhaps? Of what sort is this cargo—some salt and a few sacks of alum, or a few barrels of the cheaper sorts of wine? If that is all, he cannot expect to trade here.’

A man was shouting outside the door, and there came the sound of faint scuffling. The King started, and then said something petulant to his door-keepers, who retreated to the posts they had started to leave. Albany swore. Continuing his undisturbed solo: ‘Your grace, I have no expectations,’ said Nicholas musically. ‘I came to fulfil some orders and, since you were pleased to send for me, to tell you my news. The lady my wife is the trader.’

The door burst open, revealing two men-at-arms and an usher attempting to restrain John of Mar. John of Mar shook them off and, marching forward, slapped Nicholas viciously across the side of his face. Nicholas jerked and recovered, breathing deeply, standing repressively where he had been. His gaze locked with Mar’s.

‘They could afford pepper,’ snapped the King’s brother over his shoulder. His entire face was as red as his rash. Where James’s hair hung in loose waves, John’s was crimped like a thunderstruck wedder. He spat at Nicholas. ‘You could afford pepper, couldn’t you, you obsequious brute? You weren’t smirking and making reverences this morning when you thought you had me alone with your bullies about you. I could have died.’ He turned to the chair of state, his voice rising. ‘I could have died!’

Someone—Whitelaw—spoke in an undertone, quickly. ‘My lord! We can discuss this elsewhere.’

‘I am discussing it now,’ said the Prince. ‘Now the man is here, and can answer for what he has done. Hang him. Hang him, James.’

Albany said, ‘Don’t be a fool. He’s done nothing. James—’

‘Wait,’ said the King. ‘What has de Fleury done? An attack on a prince of the realm constitutes treason.’

The large, grey eyes of the Burgundian glanced at Albany, and then returned to the King. The Burgundian said, ‘In the presence of the King and his nobles, my lord, may I confess that what you say is true as the Lord’s Prayer? An attack on a prince is a hanging matter. A prince who drives his sword into another man’s merchandise and then suffers the consequences must, however, blame only himself. Indeed, he should in law recompense my lord of Albany, whose pepper it was.’

‘I told you,’ said Albany. John of Mar, with deliberation, set his hands to the thick table below him and heaved, so that it crashed to the ground, sending a candlestick rolling and ringing. Then he turned and raised his arm, fast, once again; this time towards his brother Albany. The Master of the Household, the Highland Earl of Argyll, seized and held it with ease.

The youth struggled. He yelled, ‘All right, lick his arse, Sandy. You’ll
still not get to marry the Duchess. Christ, would you put a brute like de Fleury in front of your own flesh and blood?’

‘The law herself so puts him,’ said Colin Campbell. ‘If you disagree, there is a place to complain, my lord of Mar. But surely it is not here and now, when you are unwell. Let me help you out.’

Others came. Presently the door shut on them all, and the sound of Mar’s bawling receded. Nicholas de Fleury rubbed his cheek, which was numb, and collected the silent support of the Council. The King, talking fiercely to Albany, had avoided his eye. The table was righted and Argyll returned, adjusting his robe. He said, ‘I am sorry, your grace. Were there other matters your grace wished to open with M. de Fleury?’

It seemed there was nothing, which suited M. de Fleury very well. He had conveyed all he wished to convey. A cynical ear might have noted that there were some details that he did not pass on, such as the precise plans of the leaders of Bruges. He had however reminded the King of their names, causing him to exclaim when he mentioned Adorne. ‘My good baron of Cortachy! If they change his office in Bruges, then perhaps he can resume as our Conservator for Scotland? We miss his visits. That is, his nephew and Wodman do well enough, but Adorne was an ornament to our Order.’

It sounded heartfelt. It gave Nicholas reason to remember Mar’s antipathy to foreign advisers, who might arrange foreign marriages. The Duke of Albany had aspired to the little Burgundian heiress. No doubt the King had encouraged him, even though he might suspect it was a lost cause. It would suit James to be free of brother Sandy. He probably wished to God he could be free of his second brother as well. A confused King and two rudderless Princes, adrift in a world which they hardly seemed to realise was splitting apart.

He didn’t know why he felt quite so dismayed. If everything was all right, he wouldn’t be here. He knew why he felt dismayed. It had nothing to do with the Princes.

The interview ended. Nicholas withdrew, after establishing that he hoped to stay for some weeks, and could be reached through the Abbot of Holyrood. He tried to sound grateful for the Abbot’s insistent hospitality. Albany left the room with him, which he hadn’t expected, but which made the next step easier. Before, he had meant to set out at once on the journey Yare had mentioned in Berwick. It was only an hour after noon. There was time to go and return, and make his call on Adorne’s nephew, Kathi’s brother Sersanders. Their house was in the burgh of the Canongate, the lower part of the single thronged street that plunged down from the castle to Holyrood. He had passed it, coming from Leith. Dawn and Leith seemed a long time ago.

That had been the plan. Now he had to make one small alteration. Leaving the King’s apartments with Albany, Nicholas spoke as they
walked. ‘Thank you for your support. I found it difficult to know what to do. Does the King fear for his life, that he has a guard now?’ They had begun to walk between the armed men, whose captain lifted his sword in salute. His face was unfamiliar. All the faces were unfamiliar. The Guard had changed since he had arrived.

Albany said, ‘Against you, or John? Hardly. No. It’s only for show during audiences. The men will stand down and eat very soon: they have a place by the wall. Then they’ll gamble and drink till the next call.’ He smiled at the captain, who returned a grin: they were comfortable with Albany.

Nicholas said, ‘It sounds quite enticing.’

The King’s brother looked at him. ‘Where were you going to eat? We could join them. I don’t stand on ceremony.’ He paused and said, ‘You deserve some ale after that buffet. I’m sorry.’

Nicholas supposed the bruise must be obvious, even among the rest of his contusions. It felt swollen: the face of a thug above the splendour of the unicorn collar. Well, the King hadn’t demoted him, yet. He said, ‘Rather that than a hanging. Ale sounds good.’

The rough stone lodge for the King’s élite Guard was not large, but the rushes were clean, and the big brazier warmed the room where they spent their off-duty hours. Because the windows were small and half shuttered, the light inside came from the blue and red peat-flames and the torches stuck on the wall. A trestle far from the door was littered with pewter and food, and some men were sitting there, eating. One of the Castle dogs rooted for scraps. Four Archers who had finished were using a cleared space for a dice game, while others nursed their ale-cups by the brazier, stripped to their shirts, lolling on benches or stools. The timber roof shot back the talk and the laughter, and the air was thick with masculinity and ale.

Sandy went in, and the seated men got hastily to their feet, and then relapsed slowly when he told them to. You could see they actually thought it an honour. Someone ran out for food, and several got up and started clearing the table while Albany turned to introduce Nicholas.

Nicholas stood in the doorway. Across the room, a slender, an exquisite Archer also stood where he had slowly risen; the candle-flame gilding his hair and the ends of his lashes; his eyes wide and lovely and blue.

‘You know each other,’ said Albany, looking from one to the other. ‘Of course. I’d forgotten. Aren’t you even related by marriage? So may I reintroduce to you Henry de St Pol of Kilmirren, our newest member?’

‘My dear Uncle,’ said Henry. ‘You didn’t recognise me. You passed me just now without recognising me. Won’t you forget your looks, and take out your eyeglass?’

He was sixteen, perhaps. His voice, husky and soft, was full of sweet mischief. Men laughed.

•  •  •

T
HE MOST PATIENT
of men, Nicholas awaited the end of the meal. Seated by Albany, he could do nothing else. Despite Henry’s golden attractions, or perhaps because of them, Albany did not offer to the newest and youngest recruit an elevated seat at his board. Henry, court-trained to sense the unspoken, sat and ate in the shadows, submissive and sad, his dulcet voice seldom raised, even when his companions attempted to tease him. Nicholas met the situation by restraining his own performance to match. It was not the moment, in any case, to break into a breathless display of buffoonery, whatever Sandy might have been hoping for. They talked mainly about war. By the end, he knew them all reasonably well, and took his leave of them and of Albany, who was walking back to the tower. Albany directed him to present himself the following day, and Nicholas thanked him. Then he turned to where Henry de St Pol stood awaiting him, derision in the wondrous blue eyes. Henry said, ‘After that, how dare I hope to claim your attention, my uncle?’

‘I expect you’ll risk it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Shall we go somewhere and talk? I thought I saw you up there, but couldn’t believe it. I admire you. An appointment to this Guard is given only to the best.’

‘It must indeed have seemed unbelievable,’ Henry said. ‘Will you trust yourself, then, to my house? It is just down the hill.’

Nicholas knew where it was. It was where he had first been shown the child Henry by a triumphant Simon de St Pol. Where other things had happened, with other people. He said, beginning to walk, ‘Thank you. Your father is still in Madeira?’

‘Where your false information sent him? Yes, Uncle. But my grand-sire is here.’ His voice taunted. ‘Do you still want to come?’

It was not what Nicholas had heard; nor, he suspected, the truth. Two days ago, the fat man had been in the west, at Kilmirren, and was most likely still there. Nicholas remarked, ‘Should I have a bodyguard? And who else will be there: Mistress Bel?’

‘You remember our old friend Mistress Bel,’ said the youth, gratified. His hair curled, ducat-gold, from under the tilt of his bonnet, and the guard at the drawbridge saluted him. He said, ‘Sadly, no. She stays in Stirling these days, since you threw her out of her house.’

Nicholas had bought her house. He had not thrown her out. He said, ‘I can’t quite recall doing that. Could it have been David Simpson?’ It was what de Salmeton called himself now.

The boy stopped and slapped the side of his own head. ‘That was it! After he bought your castle of Beltrees, he took over her land and expelled her. Life in Scotland has become very rough; I wonder you dared to come back. I heard Johndie Mar slapped your jaw. I see he punched your eye also. Did you stand still and let him?’

‘I’ll blind him next time,’ Nicholas said. ‘The black eye and the rest came from another fight. As you say, Scotland has become very rough.’

‘
Another
fight? When? You only came yesterday.’ The boy came to a halt. Two washerwomen and a cowherd stopped at the top of the West Bow, admiring him. A servant of Wodman’s, seeing them both, raised his brows and unfurled a hand in some sort of greeting.

‘So people started hitting me yesterday,’ Nicholas said crisply. ‘You might even have been without an uncle if Andro Wodman hadn’t ridden out with me. We were waylaid by some rascals. They broke his arm and his nose.’

‘I wish I’d been there,’ Henry said. ‘Your army would have helped: you should have brought them. I remember Captain Astorre: you set me to train under him. How is he? And the gunner, John, wasn’t it? He taught me all I know about guns.’

This was true. In return for which, Henry had tried to blow him up, and Nicholas too. As he had tried to kill—

‘And Jodi,’ Henry said fondly. ‘How is your little son Jodi? If you aspire to place him with the Guard, I should be happy to teach him. He is a brave fighter, I’m sure, and could look after himself even in a rough country like Scotland. Ah! Here we are.’

And not before time. A different kind of assault was under way. But he was committed to his own, private injunction: to subdue his personal feelings; to recognise what forced the other to act as he did; to put himself, as ever, in another man’s place. And if he could see into the heart of a stranger, he could surely fathom this, the damaged son of Katelina van Borselen.

The servant who opened the door was not one of Bel’s. The man stood aside as if he were used to the way Henry brushed past unspeaking, making for the door that led to the parlour. It was a handsome, two-storeyed house with a thatched roof and a curved outside stair. It was built facing the causeway, on the slope of Castle Hill, with behind it a long, shelving garden. At the bottom of that was the Nor’ Loch where Gelis might have died, one icy winter, through the self-willed machinations of Simon de St Pol, man of impulse, like Henry. Impulsive as Simon’s far cleverer father, fat Jordan, was not.

It was very quiet. The servant, after hurrying, had left him. The door had closed behind Henry. Then it opened and Henry stood there, as he had stood in the guard house, straight and fair and defiant. He said, ‘My grandfather
is
here. He wishes to see you.’

Nicholas said, ‘It’s all right.’

‘Well, of course it is,’ Henry said. He backed, and Nicholas walked past him and into the parlour. Henry shut the door and stood still, his gloved hand on his sword, his chin up, as if on guard for his grandfather.