Gemini (40 page)

Spens said, ‘I repeat, cultivate Liddell. He is mindlessly loyal, but in other ways a sensible man. I hear there is a proposal to make a grand tour of the Marches. I hope you will go with them.’

She hadn’t known that. Nicholas said, ‘Not before the play. The play with parts for one man and twenty-five women.’

The play was written, and performed, and Nicholas was harried by Will into using his voice, which as usual reduced Gelis to silence and Kathi, who was unwontedly vulnerable, to tears. The King and his courtiers, flattered, agreed to take part, and some of the children who had played seven years before. Young Malloch’s voice had now broken, but his place was filled by his sister Muriella, a vision at twelve, commanding the willing attention of all the male adolescents in sight. The performance took place, and was received with ecstasy. Then, before anyone could tell whether the King had emerged from the experience talking like Socrates, Kathi went into labour and produced a son.

Gelis went with Nicholas to visit, and found Kathi up, and Robin asleep, with the infant also asleep on his chest.

‘It all got too much for them,’ explained Kathi, who appeared to be lit from within like a lantern. ‘Guess what he’s called.’

‘Well, not another Aerendtken,’ Nicholas said. Departing from custom, the right to name Robin’s first child had been lovingly ceded to Kathi.

‘I don’t know,’ she said now. ‘It was quite hard to decide. But in the long run, we felt we might as well give him the same name as Robin. That is, Robert of Berecrofts. Little name, Hob.’

‘He looks like a Hob,’ Nicholas said, gazing down. ‘You could boil a pot on him, really. A small one. What did Robin say? When he could say anything?’

‘That now Rankin would have someone to fight with,’ said Kathi. ‘It wasn’t quite what I had in mind, these last weeks.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He meant that now
Margaret
will have someone to fight with. Would you like a lot of very fine claret? We’ve brought some. And also some extremely good news. Do you remember Prosper de Camulio?’

‘The alumnus of Genoa? Davie Simpson’s absent employer? He’s been sent back to prison?’

‘No! No!’ Nicholas said. ‘The Pope likes him! The Pope also likes Scotland, and Scotland has done some rather kind things for the Pope, so that it has been laterally agreed that Scotland should help the Pope reward Prosper de Camulio. He’s been made Bishop of Caithness.’

‘What?’
said Kathi. Robin woke up.

‘Caithness in Scotland. Bishop. He’s busy touring abroad. But once he comes back, Davie will be hard put to it to do as he likes any more. Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘What?’ said Robin. The baby woke up.

Nicholas said, ‘I was just saying, isn’t Dame Nature wonderful. It’s got Kathi’s nose and your chin, and can sleep anywhere, like Old Will.’

The baby opened an arched, gummy mouth and pantingly started to snarl.

‘He,’ said Robin, ‘objects to being called it. But you wouldn’t know, you’re too old to remember. Was there some talk of wine?’

‘I brought it for Hob,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if you insist, you can have some.’

Throughout, Gelis sat, sharing their happiness, but saying little. Sometimes, Kathi, Robin and Nicholas formed, unintentionally, a small unit upon which others did not intrude. She imagined it had been like that, at other times in his life, with other friends: men and women who felt they knew Nicholas, and indeed did, in some special way. She was never jealous; not now.

Fairly soon after that, she began to handle business, as Nicholas
did, out of Edinburgh, and with a powerful escort. For her first expedition to the west she had even better protection, for she travelled with that eminent Stewart, Andrew, Lord Avandale, the King’s kinsman and Chancellor.

She knew him, of course, from her previous visits, as she was herself known to most of the higher officials. She had served in the royal household; her cousin Wolfaert van Borselen had been married to the King’s royal aunt; she was the wife of the Flemish prodigy Nicholas. Once, she had been too close to Simon de St Pol, and had attracted the interest of the King. It had ended in shame and embarrassment for Simon and for James, rather than for her, and the King had since accorded her guarded respect. Latterly, she had been accepted in more general terms, in her own right, since she knew how to conduct herself, and had an excellent grasp of the inner niceties of business. That is, she always knew who was preying on whom, and was an intelligent listener.

She knew by heart, as Nicholas did, the inner structure of the Court. You had to recognise everyone in power. Titles were not a safe guide. The Master Cook was not a man in an apron. He was the administrator who ensured, if the King wished to travel with five hundred members of his household to greet an incoming embassy, that there would be fleshers and fishmongers, cattle and poultry, cooks and cooking utensils and ovens to provide all they needed for as long as they needed it. He accompanied the monarch to war, and if the King elected to honour a subject with a visit, the Master Cook would present himself and his staff to the host three days in advance, and would be responsible at the end for distributing drink-silver to all the hosts’ servants. Master Cooks were honoured with lands and privileges and frequently moved to other eminent posts. Ushers of the King’s Chamber Door were equally versatile. They could be Keepers of Royal Castles and pay the King’s debts, collect his dues and arrange for his personal luxuries, imported in the Usher’s own ships, or those of the King. Master tailors handled everything to do with woven cloth, from outfitting the entire court at Yule, to constructing tents for the King and his army. The new Archbishop of St Andrews dosed the King and imported his books and his medicines. Thomas Cochrane, master mason, built castles for comfort and war, and designed and assembled what was needed to furnish them, both for comfort and war. There was no clear demarcation. They acted, and were rewarded, according to their various abilities, and the order of these was very high.

Of the Lords Three, Gelis had found some affinity with Mr Secretary Whitelaw, who knew Cologne as she did, and possessed a practical knowledge of law which she seldom tired of dissecting. Colin Campbell she usually left to Nicholas, who could match him in malicious urbanity. But Avandale, riding beside her just now, equated more closely to the
courtly lords of Brabant and Burgundy, Zeeland and Flanders whom she knew, as deft in the field as when negotiating a marriage in some foreign throne room. A handsome man for his years, Andrew Avandale spoke with disarming enthusiasm of his preferences in music and poetry, and entertained her with faintly scandalous stories of prominent figures they both knew, and brilliantly scandalous stories of courts overseas. About the monarchy, he had no tales to tell. He had been an astute Warden of the West Marches in his time, and guardian of at least two of the great castles of the kingdom. He told her an anecdote, not to be repeated, about the present Bishop of Argyll (a Colquhoun), which made her laugh aloud.

They were riding towards the country of Lennox from which his rents came—the disputed rents from the earldom of Lennox which were his for life, but which might also be claimed by Stewart of Darnley, or even by Haldanes and Napiers. It was a measure of Avandale’s character and standing, and also that of Lord Darnley, that the situation, however irregular, had been accepted on all sides, if without particular pleasure. Stewart country such as the Lennox was historically loyal to the throne, and, in this instance, encompassed the salmon fisheries of Loch Lomond as well as the great castle of Dumbarton, built where the river Clyde opened out to the estuary.

Gelis was going to Dunglass, the stronghold of the barony of Colquhoun, two miles short of Dumbarton, in order to talk about cargoes. The Chancellor was to stay overnight also. She had promised Nicholas not to leave the right bank; not to go near either Simpson or St Pol, even if she came across a heap of dead horses. It was hardly her fault, therefore, that when she arrived obediently with the Chancellor on the rocky mount of Dunglass, the first face she perceived was that of Henry’s fat grandfather Jordan, standing beside Sir John Colquhoun.

‘Ah! My dear Gelis. Formidable as ever,’ he said. And, turning to his host: ‘My son’s sister by marriage. We last met in Trèves, when the Duke was alive. How strange to think that all that then seemed so hopeless has now come to pass! The Duke’s daughter wed to the son of the Holy Roman Emperor, and with a son of her own. Your own marriage to your Flemish swain refreshed and renewed. Your son Jordan and my grandson his cousin merry shipmates, so they say. Only Julius, your lawyer, has suffered a sad loss, I heard. His lovely wife took her life in a fit?’

‘She is buried in Ghent. We are indebted to my lord of Gruuthuse for his care for her,’ Gelis said. ‘And you, my lord? What good fortune have you had since you came home?’

‘Why, none,’ he said, ‘that compares with the joy of this present encounter. But you, perhaps, are less happy, demoiselle. You hoped for a private talk with Sir John? Perhaps I should offer to leave? Although I have been most hospitably invited to supper.’

Colquhoun said, ‘I am sure we all hope you will stay. Our business will not take long, and my lady will be happy to entertain you until we are free. If you do not mind?’ He was a capable gentleman, Sir John Colquhoun of Luss, as well as being a man with a trading ship, and a house in Berwick-upon-Tweed, and all the connections you would expect of a former sheriff of Dumbarton who had once held the post of Household Controller and was still a trusted officer of the King’s. Whose wife was Elizabeth Dunbar, widow of the forfeited Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray, and first cousin of Adorne’s adored Phemie. And whose niece by marriage was the wife of Oliver Sinclair.

Gelis had come to talk to him, and to his lordship of Darnley, principally on the subject of salmon, and fully expected the Chancellor to be present. Darnley and Avandale had worked together to prop up the throne since the King’s father was a young man, and all three had interests on the western seas: imports of the best wine (such as that directed to Hob of Berecrofts) came through Kirkcudbright or Irvine or Dumbarton. But the east coast led straight to the big buyers, and it was equally natural, given the Dunbar and Moray and Sinclair connections, that Colquhoun of Luss should have joined his kinsmen and friends in northern ventures in salmon and barley and timber. The Cochranes, canvassed, had put forward Tam, inconsequentially amassing wages in Nairn, to support at least one promising venture, and others had joined, like Ross of Kilravock and the Cumming brothers, who were intermarried with one of Leithie’s innumerable Prestons. Finally, of course, they all needed agents, and shipping-space, and Gelis had those. Although, of course, Colquhoun and Darnley were no strangers to French ships and shipmasters, and knew several who owed them a favour. On the quiet, Gelis had a word about that.

It ended. Men rose, and the chat became general. Bringing her wine, Colquhoun asked if she would object if his wife joined them, with Jordan de St Pol. Avandale intervened.

‘Johnny, the family is not well regarded. I gather the gentleman invited himself. Your lady has shown him great kindness, but I think the demoiselle here might be excused.’

‘Why,’ said Gelis, ‘I am pleased to have had this meeting in private, but there is no reason now to keep us apart. The two families are not close, but they are not enemies.’

‘Really?’ said Avandale. ‘I know your husband hoped to achieve as much, but I heard he had failed. Some business of valuable stud horses stolen, and hounds wantonly slaughtered?’

‘I am afraid,’ Gelis said, ‘both were acts of a mischief-maker known to us all. No. If you wish my lord to join us, I have no objection.’

Colquhoun touched her and left. Avandale said, ‘Who was the mischief-maker? The gentleman we discussed?’

‘Yes,’ said Gelis.

‘I see.’ The short, elegant Chancellor watched the door. ‘He is a formidable figure, Jordan de St Pol. I have seen men cringe before him.’

‘Not everyone,’ Gelis said. ‘Even women have been known to hold their own, sometimes.’

‘Yourself, naturally. And, of course, the indomitable Erskine. I was sorry to hear of the loss of her son. But Cuthilgurdy had already been granted elsewhere.’

The words were perfectly casual. It wasn’t a test. He wasn’t even looking at her as he spoke. Gelis made a great effort and kept her voice casual, too. ‘Bel? We were grieved as well. I never knew which branch of the Erskines she belonged to.’

‘I can’t remember. Not, obviously, the main line. Her people all died out years ago, and her husband hardly survived the birth of their son. It seems hard that his name now dies, too.’

‘Yes,’ said Gelis. Then the door opened and the lady of Luss made an entrance, with Jordan de St Pol.

The supper that followed was profuse, as befitted a household entertaining the Chancellor. With an equal degree of stately aplomb, Jordan de St Pol ignored the place he had been given and seated himself beside Gelis. ‘So,’ he explained, ‘that we may treat one another with our usual courtesy.
She who loves peril, into peril shall she fall
. Regard the noble Andrew, scion of kings. He attempts the duck: it is a shade too sweet. The plovers? Insufficiently sauced. I had the pleasure, once, of being entertained at one of his banquets and found it hard to know what tribute to bring.’

‘Your presence, I am sure, was sufficient reward,’ Gelis said. The duck
was
too sweet.

‘It was hard, certainly, to excel. But I went to the limits of refinement. I brought him a gift of the first migrating lark,’ St Pol said. His chins shone.

‘Was it a success?’

‘I suppose so. He ate it. I always wondered,’ said the fat man, ‘what you found interesting in the young Claes. Your beauty, of course, should receive its due tribute, as should his manlier qualities; but what else?’

Pears in crust had arrived, with roast veal. ‘What a question!’ said Gelis. ‘His restraint, perhaps? Although provoked, he does not always retaliate. And whatever appetites he may have, he lacks the vice of real greed. Given your lark, he would not have eaten it.’