Gemini (59 page)

It was true. Nicholas stopped. Whitelaw stepped down beside him. Argyll ran on, and Scheves followed. Of course, they had more power than he had to halt this. Argyll had men down below.

From the inner stairs, where he stood, Nicholas could witness the whole scene like a play. So could the customers, two floors below, who were already beginning to crowd the bottom steps, peering upwards. The muffled voice of the woman, Lang Bessie, came from one of the gallery rooms, testily commanding both visitors to go away. The visitors, John of Mar and Henry de St Pol, were outside her door, glaring at one another.
Mar had a knife in his hand, reversed for hammering. As Argyll arrived, he turned it blade outwards. Henry’s hand went to his waist.

Colin Campbell of Argyll put a strong, friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘
Dhia!
What a commotion! You want a girl, come and I’ll find you one.’

‘I have one,’ said Henry. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He was eighteen: the Prince three years older. His eyes had never left Mar’s. His face was pale.

Mar also spoke. ‘Go away.’ He was addressing Argyll, and Will Scheves behind him. In the darkness of the upper stairs, Nicholas and the Secretary were invisible. Nicholas, finding a pair of spectacles in his grasp, handed them up, and felt them taken.

Argyll had answered. ‘Certainly, my lord prince, if you will come with me. I have some good wine upstairs. This is too public a place for these matters.’

Johndie Mar paid no attention. Even in the poor light, you could see the red flush that coloured the whole of one cheek, and the tension that tightened his jaw and his neck. A boy came thrusting his way upstairs, bearing something, a mixture of excitement and fright on his face.

‘A second key,’ said Johndie Mar. ‘Now kindly open this door.’

Behind the boy, three men had appeared. One, at a nod from Argyll, stayed below, barring the stairs to the crowd. The other two slowly mounted the steps. There was no way for Mar to go except upwards. Whitelaw hastily turned and led the way up and into Argyll’s office, which was separate from his parlour. Nicholas waited a moment. Below, Argyll had taken the key. He turned it quickly, speaking Lang Bessie’s name, and opening the door a short way, pulled the woman out and into the arms of the two henchmen behind him. She looked at Mar as she came, and screamed, for the Prince had steel in each plunging hand, aimed at her face. ‘Slut! Any man’s filth!’

Argyll was not wearing a sword, but Henry was. The woman escaped, dragged downstairs by Argyll’s men. Johndie Mar’s dagger hit nothing, but his sword, changing direction, sliced across towards Argyll and St Pol. Henry parried it.

It was, Nicholas was to think later, through no self-effacing wish to protect the Household Controller; the blade was coming towards Henry as well, and Henry was trained to save himself. There was a clash and a blister of sparks in the gloom, and then a mutter, the trample of feet and a flash as Mar changed position and lifted both blades again. The woman had gone. The two servants obeyed a signal to halt. Henry ducked and retreated, sword in both hands, towards what had been Lang Bessie’s room, and Mar followed. There was no fear of Henry attacking Mar. There was every likelihood that Mar was about to do his best to kill Henry.

Nicholas suddenly saw that Argyll was going to do nothing. He said,
‘My lord?’ And when Argyll looked up, threw him down his own sword. Henry saw it.

So did Johndie Mar. He laughed. He said, ‘So the Burgundian is your hireling? Whom does he want you to kill, Colin? This pasty-faced heir to Kilmirren, which would suit M. de Fleury? Or me, the King’s brother, which would suit every one of you, because I detest England as Sandy and Margaret do?’

‘Sire,’ said Argyll. Below, men were falling silent.

‘Shall I tell you something?’ said Mar. ‘Shall I tell you why Meg will never marry in England? Why my sister the most serene Princess, lady Margaret, has twice been summoned to her great English wedding, and twice has failed to arrive?’

‘My lord,’ said the Earl of Argyll, ‘are you coming, or do you need assistance with this young man?’

His voice was helpful, not threatening. He had not used the sword Nicholas had flung him to bring Mar to order. Instead, he was reminding the Prince of his quarrel, to divert him from whatever he had been going to say.

The Earl of Mar said slowly, ‘No. I am not coming. Not until I have finished with Master Randy St Pol, and taught him not to take what does not belong to him.’ And, turning, he advanced on the youth.

It was a small room, lit by guttering wall-sconces, with one unshuttered range of windows giving on to the street and a low ceiling, unsuited to swordplay. Within it, Henry stood quite still, presenting his sword to his enemy, and to Argyll who stood at the door, with Nicholas now silently by him. Like Mar, St Pol wore only doublet and hose, without other protection, and his bright hair was uncovered. His stance, like Mar’s, was that of a highly trained swordsman, but there was a physical balance about him, a grace that Mar lacked. Mar had the advantage of age, and also a knife which Henry did not possess. But as one looked at the two, it was not impossible that the unthinkable could happen: that the youngest member of the King’s Scottish Guard, to save his own life, might be forced to kill the King’s brother.

With a flash and a clatter, it began. Engagement; disengagement. A click as sword parried dagger; a slur of shoe upon wood as someone ducked; and a whine as someone swiped and missed. Fast, irregular breathing; an imprecation; Johndie’s furious laugh. From outside the windows, the murmur of a gleeful and increasing crowd (It’s Johndie, right? And Lang Bessie’s bonny wee pet fighting it out); and the same sounds below, rounded by the confines of the tavern. Argyll’s men still barred the stairs and the cause of the fight, Lang Bessie, had long ago been spirited away.

Nicholas watched, his face impassive, his hands clenched. By now, he knew Henry’s style, having witnessed it in practice at Greenside, and
heard Robin’s judicial assessments. Since there was nothing he could do, he stood back from the jumping figures and the massive swings of the heavy blades. It was Mar’s dagger hand that he followed, and he saw that Henry was watching it too. Then came the moment when Mar feinted and lifted the short blade as well as the long. Henry ducked, missing the sword by a long hissing fraction, and struck at the dagger instead.

It fell. And as it struck the floorboards and hopped, Argyll sprang forward and scooped it up, retreating immediately to the door, where he tossed the little weapon to Nicholas. Mar gave one amazed glance at the Highlander, then he whirled to defend himself against Henry’s swung blade. They were even.

They remained even. Circling, swiping, slipping the length of the room, ducking, returning, there was no advantage lost or given for a long time. Young, well exercised, angry, they were more able than most to bear the weight of the great swords, and the jar of repeated impact along their shoulders, their wrists, their backs and their arms. Only Henry, driven by necessity, kept his head, while Mar, as the minutes went by, was seized by mounting waves of fury and resentment and disbelief.

You could see his attention waver. And you could see Henry watch for his opening.

It came. His dark auburn hair wet, the red flag of his inheritance burning over one cheek, John of Mar made a single wide swing that left his heart open, and Henry swept his blade forward.

The killing blow never fell. Nicholas made a single, vigorous gesture and the little knife left his fingers in a whistling arc that ended with a thud in Henry’s body, between shoulder and neck. Henry’s sword dropped to the floor, and Henry himself went crashing back against the unshuttered windows of the gallery. For a moment he swayed there, his eyes closed. Then his weight tumbled him over the sill and back downwards into the street, where the crowd’s chatter rose to a roar. Mar stood, looking surprised. Nicholas swept past him to the window, and looked down.

The storeys were low. Henry had not fallen far, and the packed heads and shoulders had cushioned his landing. Already their battered indignation was giving way to good-natured concern. Nicholas looked down and saw Henry’s body tumbled amongst them. As he watched, it began to unfold. Henry’s shocked face appeared. His upper doublet was sodden with blood and his face was chalk-white, but he was not dead or dying.

Johndie Mar said, ‘What did you do that for? I’ll go down and kill him!’

‘Do you think so?’ said the Earl of Argyll doubtfully. ‘That is, there is no doubt, my lord, that you won. He was disarmed. Men will see that he has been adequately punished. Is it worth any more? As I mentioned,
my rooms are upstairs, where we can sit comfortably with some very good wine.’

The King’s brother stared at him, coughing at intervals. Sweat shone on his face and he stood unevenly, as if in pain, although there was no sign of a wound. For a moment he resisted with petulance; then, driven perhaps by discomfort, he followed Argyll upstairs to his parlour. After a moment, Whitelaw discreetly came down.

By that time, Nicholas was out in the street. Dusk had deepened to darkness: breaking through the flickering circle of torches, Nicholas de Fleury dropped, a shadowy, anonymous figure, at the wounded boy’s side. St Pol’s eyes were closed, but every time someone touched him, he swore. He had no broken limbs, and you could see that the wound was deep but not threatening. Nicholas rose and stepped back, still unnoticed, as Argyll’s men came running out, followed almost at once by an apothecary. Then Henry was expertly lifted and conveyed, not to the tavern, but further uphill, to his grandfather’s house. Shortly after, the apothecary emerged, packing his satchel. To enquirers he said, ‘Nothing too serious. He was lucky. He is young.’ And added,
sotto voce
, to someone he knew, ‘Damn the boy. A little more enterprise, and we might have been rid of Johndie for ever.’

Nicholas went home.

I
T WAS NOT
, by that time, going to be the second homecoming that Gelis had personally envisaged, but she was far too charitable to object. Even when, stirring at last the following morning, Nicholas greeted her with shame-faced apology, she smiled, coming forward, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took his hands. ‘You asked if I minded if you got very drunk, and I didn’t.’

He had told her, in essence, what had happened. Now she said, ‘I sent Lowrie to ask how Henry is. The answer seems to be extremely angry, and in some pain, but not in any danger. Bel has been sent for, and word has gone to Kilmirren. The old man may come over, they say.’

‘With a knotted whip,’ Nicholas said. ‘No. At least he will appreciate what would have occurred if Henry had actually killed the King’s brother. The joke is that this isn’t the first time. I once stopped a quarrel between Henry and Mar, and Henry retaliated. Now he will suppose that I have duly taken my revenge. I don’t seem to get very far, do I?’

‘You’ve reassured Mar,’ Gelis said. ‘And that is surely worth something. As for Henry, you can never hope for too much. You know that. Godscalc would understand it as well.’

‘I know. I’m an idiot,’ Nicholas said. ‘And especially when there are so many other, attractive outlets to hand. One of the few advantages of
excess is the
rallentando
it brings to normally urgent affairs. In place of prompt completion, there is an opportunity for leisurely courting, for subtle incitement, for—what?’

She didn’t answer. He made a stifled sound. She continued to do what she was doing. He gave an involuntary shout, and then repeated in his ordinary voice, ‘What?’

‘Nothing. Pick your own pace,
rallentando
,’ Gelis said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’m making for prompt completion,
sforzando
. I’ll tell you what it was like.’

‘Like hell you will,’ Nicholas said, and crashed her over.

Making love, they always talked nonsense. Afterwards, if they spoke, it was heart to heart, whatever the subject, as if a passkey had been exchanged for a space. At other times, they lay without speaking, enfolded and silent, sharing comfort.

That morning, he was quiet, and she knew he was thinking of Henry. She was dwelling on something else: something that he had told her of his visit to Damparis. He had talked of it quite simply. ‘It confirmed what the family told you. Marian had a daughter, who was stillborn or died, and who was buried with her. She did not want me to know.’

‘And Adelina’s story?’ Gelis had said. ‘That the child lived, and was really Bonne, whom Adelina passed off as her daughter?’

‘There is no evidence,’ Nicholas had said. ‘I went to see Bonne. She could tell me nothing.’

Then Gelis had said, ‘She was younger when I saw her last. But she had no look of you, or of Marian.’ She paused and said, ‘Did you like her?’

And he had said, ‘Liking doesn’t come into it. If she is mine, she is for me to look after.’ But he had not spoken of friendship, as he had when talking of Henry.

She had said, smoothing his fingers with hers, ‘You need to know, and so does she, who she is. There is one step you could take, if you can bear it. The tomb at Fleury. If there is a child in Marian’s arms, then Bonne is not yours.’

And he had said, ‘I thought of that. I went to Fleury. I went to the crypt.’

He had stopped. Then he had said matter-of-factly, ‘I probably couldn’t have done it. I didn’t have to. The tomb doesn’t exist. The church was hit by cannon fire during the fighting, and everything burned to the ground. To below the ground. To ashes.’

His mother. His infant brother. His wife and her sister. And in his wife’s clasp, the little gift he had sent her. And, perhaps, their one stillborn child. He would never know.

Except that, as he had said and as she too believed, Marian would have told him. Had she left a living child, she would have bequeathed it
to him, with love and with hesitant pride. If she had given a child to the world, she would have made sure that the child would have Nicholas.

He lay still. She had thought he was dwelling on Henry. As it turned out, he was thinking of nothing personal at all. When he suddenly spoke, it was faintly querulous. ‘Gelis, do you think Bleezie Meg could be pregnant?’