Gemini (21 page)

Henry said, ‘Uncle! Saunders, what can I say? To find the living dead in your own family! To see your pretty sister bound to a mindless half-man for life, performing for him every service but one, I should suppose. What have the Adornes, the Sersanderses done to deserve this?’

Sersanders took one stride before Nicholas stopped him, his voice harsh. ‘It is my fault. I acted childishly, and Henry is returning the compliment. Come to another room.’ He picked up the letter. It was much longer than Archie’s, and not in code. Nicholas said to Henry, ‘Have you shown this to others?’

‘To everyone I could think of. Did you think you could keep it secret?’ Henry said. ‘If little Mistress Kathi has another child now, they will know whom to blame, won’t they? Or what about your own wife, and Cousin Diniz! What a close-knit family we all are, to be sure!’ And he laughed.

Nicholas did not then know what he meant, but Tobie’s letter explained it. Studied in Nicholas’s own room, and shared with Sersanders, it contained the medical details that the writer had spared Robin’s father. It also contained an account, for Gelis’s husband, of the true circumstances of Robin’s arrival in Bruges, and all that Gelis had done, helped by Diniz, to warn her cousin, and the convoy from Nancy. Reading it, Sersanders had exclaimed, and then had the sense to go on talking until Nicholas recovered his sense of proportion. It was ridiculous that, for a moment, he had lost it. Gelis and he had lived apart for months, for years. Gelis had experienced far greater dangers than this. But now they had what they had, and he could not bear the idea of losing it.

After that, he and Sersanders reread the rest of the letter, and discussed it painfully but thoroughly, as it deserved. It was perhaps the most adult conversation Nicholas had ever had with Kathi’s brother. Presently, Sersanders left. Tobie had not referred to Adorne, save to say that Kathi’s uncle was determined to do everything possible for Robin.

Phemie’s letter, of course, had barely left Scotland when Tobie’s two missives were written. If it were otherwise, and Tobie had mentioned it here, Henry would now know the truth about Phemie. The thought turned Nicholas cold.

As it was, Henry’s words were a cruel distortion of what Tobie had said. Robin could not walk, that was true. But he had the use of part of his body, and was not mindless: his intellect was unimpaired. Tobie had said he had made himself Robin’s personal physician, and would remain so. He had said that Robin would need life-long attention, and Kathi’s presence was paramount. He had added that naturally all Robin’s friends would have some part to play, but that he did not think Robin could survive the next months without Nicholas.

Sersanders had looked at Nicholas then, frowning a little. ‘Of course, you did so much together. But now? Won’t he be jealous of us all?’

‘I don’t know what Tobie means,’ Nicholas said. ‘But of course I shall do all I can. Do you think he’ll come home?’ Tobie had said that he should.

‘It will break his father’s heart if he doesn’t,’ Sersanders had said.

After he left, Nicholas waited, thinking, for a space. Then he went and tapped on Henry’s door.

‘Yes?’ said Henry’s voice. ‘If it’s you, Uncle, I’m sleeping.’

Nicholas opened the door and closed it quietly. He said, ‘I’ve come to apologise. It was not your fault that you found business tedious. I should have let you ride off.’

‘Uncle!’ said Henry. The candlelight rested on the smooth, fair planes of his face and made his deepened eyes bright. ‘Is this remorse? Or fear of retribution to come? There but for the grace of God go I, a one-legged cripple unable to fuck?’

‘It doesn’t happen very often,’ Nicholas said. ‘Men usually die from wounds as bad as that, partly because they want to. Robin wanted to live.’

‘You sleep with his wife,’ Henry said. His lips sneered, contradicting his eyes.

Nicholas said, ‘No, I don’t. But you might think I would say that anyway. You have to judge for yourself.’

There was a pause. Henry lifted himself angrily in the pillows, his tangled hair shadowing his cheek. He said, ‘I want to know why I am here. You haven’t real proof that I attacked you. You couldn’t really harm me, although Grandfather thinks that you could. I’m really here as a hostage, amn’t I? You think if I’m here, you can force my grandfather to do what you want?’

There was an easy answer.
Your grandfather, Henry, is one of the cleverest devils I know. If he thought as you do, you would not be here now
.

Nicholas said, ‘It’s not very difficult. I
can
prove you attacked me. So your grandfather is right: whether you are physically with me or not, I can still dictate to him. To begin with, I thought I’d deprive him of your company. I’m willing to send you back, if you suggest something else he’d hate more. You tell me. Money? Kilmirren?’

Henry laughed with something suddenly close to real pleasure. ‘You think he’d give you
Kilmirren
!’

‘To save your life?’ Nicholas said. ‘As soon as I denounce you, you will be condemned. Wodman is a royal officer. I’m a Knight of the Unicorn, come to that. You don’t try to kill unicorns every day.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think you’re doing too badly. What are you grumbling about? I promise I’ll hit you only every third week.’

‘I’ll knock you off your horse next time,’ Henry said sharply.

‘All right. Wager you one of the bloody bashed jugs you don’t. Are you on duty tomorrow?’

‘No. Yes,’ said Henry. He looked slightly dazed, as he had on the road.

‘Oh. Well, don’t get too drunk on that,’ Nicholas said, producing and dumping a flask by the bed. ‘Salve for the wounds. Good night.’

Henry said nothing, only stared as he left. But he didn’t fling the wine after him.

Nicholas returned to his room and, ignoring the bed, walked to where the other flasks were, and pulled down the first, by his chair. Then he set it aside with one clumsy hand, as the first wave of reaction overwhelmed him.

He was too far from childhood, at thirty-six, to expect comfort. Eventually, he resorted, instead, to the wine-flask.

Like father, like son.

P
ROSPER SCHIAFFINO DE
Camulio de’ Medici of Genoa, once Milanese diplomat, now a nuncio of the Pope and the Apostolic See, and Collector of the Apostolic Camera in the realms of England, Scotland and Ireland, had first bustled into the orbit of Nicholas some seventeen years previously, entertained him in Milan, and in Bruges. Their common interest had been an illicit one, in the chemical alum. You would suppose that, now in holy orders, Camulio would have abjured every form of chicanery but you would, of course, have been wrong. Debts and misguided patriotism, between them, would always talk louder than God.

At just over fifty, he had begun to weather, in the way that run-about envoys usually did, whether representing a Duke or a Pope. Nevertheless, his black eyes beamed upon Nicholas, entering his comfortable guest-room in the monastery of the Dominicans, Edinburgh. Nicholas, who had never minded Prosper de Camulio, beamed back. He said, ‘I like the robes.’

Camulio plucked at them. He said, ‘It is a living,’ and laughed, and waved Nicholas to a seat. A serving Brother, in humble black and white, poured some very good Chios wine. ‘I thought it appropriate,’ the Nuncio said. ‘I hear you have just returned from the lands of my forefathers. I wish to hear about Caffa, and the Adornes. And, of course, about your own circumstances, these disturbed times. Ah! Perhaps you even miss the days when you were a simple apprentice called Claes!’

‘I am constantly being reminded of them, at least,’ Nicholas said; but he smiled. They had a lot in common. And it passed the time until he could ask about the Nuncio’s splendid new procurator.

‘David? But you are his close friend, of course. How sad he will be to have missed you. No doubt you were dazzled, as was I, by the gifts he was anxious to send you. What great service did you perform for him in Cyprus?’ Camulio asked.

‘Not the one you’re thinking of,’ Nicholas said, and waited while the Nuncio cackled. It was easy to confirm, talking further, that Camulio knew something of Simpson’s past history, but nothing of his long campaign against Nicholas. There was no reason, indeed, why he should.
Simpson, as a Scot working abroad, had the sort of disconnected career that was hard, even for the Curia, to examine completely. And he had no public blemish on his character. David Simpson had left the Scottish Archers in France at the same time as Wodman, and had followed him into the service of Jordan de St Pol. Even his dismissal from the Vatachino company had not been publicised; Wodman professed not to know why. Nicholas thought it was obvious. The traitorous Simpson would be tolerated by Henry’s grandfather in Scotland, just so long as Simpson aimed to kill Nicholas. When Nicholas died, no doubt Simpson would be seen off immediately. It made his own threat against Henry fairly useless.

David Simpson, it transpired, was at Newbattle. From politeness, Nicholas protracted the interview, eliciting, from habit rather than anything else, all the Roman gossip that might be relevant, and a diatribe about Germany: Prosper had once been attached to the Emperor Frederick as agent and councillor and had loathed every coarse, ill-fed moment. If the Emperor’s son married Burgundy, Camulio’s prospects would shrink. And, of course, there was nothing but rebellion and political turmoil in his adored native Genoa, since the assassination of the last Duke of Milan. You did not have to speak to Camulio for long to know what he thought of Milanese rule in Genoa.

Nicholas listened from politeness; from expediency; and because Prosper de Camulio, long ago, had been considerate in his dealings with Marian de Charetty, and forbearing with Felix her young son, now dead.

Before he left, he arranged to entertain the Nuncio in his own house, in advance of the Nuncio’s forthcoming brief vacation from Scotland. Nicholas extended the invitation, at second hand, to his good friend David Simpson. He didn’t mention throwing big jugs at Henry.

W
HILE HE WAS
feeling responsive, Nicholas undertook, that same day, the short journey to Newbattle Abbey, and found that, sadly, the good Master David had left for Beltrees. He had feared (said the sub-prior) that he might miss his dear friend Ser Nicholas, and wished him to know that Ser Nicholas would always be welcome at Beltrees, where he would notice many necessary and delicious improvements.

Since he was there, Nicholas asked to be received by the Abbot and his steward, and opened a number of business matters which met with an instant and enthusiastic response, leading to a number of gratifying proposals which he took away, promising early decisions. The Abbot escorted him to the doorway, still talking. Outside, everything was covered with building dust. The epidemic was growing. The Abbot viewed the wreckage and said, ‘Ah! I had almost forgotten. You know the wretched pirate Paúel Benecke? Master David wished me to tell you that,
most happily, he has now departed this earth. Knowing his bestiality, the Procurator asked his French friends in particular to look out for him. The ship he was captaining was seized, and the man himself killed in the struggle. Master David said you would be pleased.’

Nicholas gazed at him. Then he said, ‘I am glad to know. Thank you for telling me. I shall find a way to thank Master David when I see him.’

Paúel, too. But then, the Tough Seabird had been disappointed in his hopes for the future. Drunk and defiant and reckless, he would have made a fine target.

The day went on. It was no longer young, but on the other hand it was still free of Henry, whether Henry was on duty or not. It seemed to Nicholas a good time to embark on one of his regular calls on Mistress Phemie. These days, he had no trouble entering Roslin Castle. It was having nothing to report from Adorne that was the difficult part.

Phemie was alone, so that he was able to talk right away. ‘No word yet. But for what it’s worth, I have a letter from Dr Tobie. He’s back in Bruges, and gives all the news, but not yours. If Anselm had your letter, I think Tobie would know, and would tell me.’

‘So it is still too soon for an answer, that’s all,’ Phemie said. She was right. It was only a month since she’d written, and she was too sensible to expect the impossible. Indeed, since his visits these last weeks, her cheeks had begun to carry more colour; her manner had regained some of its natural edge. Now she said, ‘But Nicholas, how are you? You begin at once on my affairs, and never mention your own. Or—’ She broke off. ‘Tobie is back from Nancy? Nicholas? Is it bad news?’

‘Not for Kathi,’ Nicholas said. ‘Robin is alive, but can’t walk. He can think, and hear, and speak, and see. Apart from that, he has the use of one side, and he may be able to sit. He’ll be like that for life.’ He didn’t go on.

‘But Kathi will manage,’ she said, after a bit. Phemie Dunbar had lived with the King’s sister and Kathi in Haddington. She had stayed with Kathi’s uncle in Bruges. She knew Kathi, almost in the way that Nicholas did. She added, ‘And so will Robin, Or he would not have come back.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Nicholas said. ‘Now we have to build a business here for him.’

‘We?’ she said. In her face was the distress they all felt.

‘Robin’s father. Kathi’s brother. And me.’

‘And Nowie,’ she said. ‘I hope you had thought of asking him.’

‘Should I?’ Nicholas said. It was best to be frank.

He had taken her thoughts, for the moment, from Robin. Phemie said, ‘What has happened to me was at my desire. Even if he knew, Nowie would never deny help to someone I loved, or to his family. As it is, he knows what Betha and I both think of Kathi. He will help. I shall
come with you just now and make sure of it.’ She lifted herself from her chair and stood, examining him. ‘And don’t look so doubtful. He knows what I think of you, too.’

Nicholas altered his expression, which concealed apprehension rather than doubt. It might be weeks before Phemie heard from Adorne. If Adorne didn’t support her, this whole scheme would blow up in his face, and in Robin’s. But if it worked, it would achieve a number of small, desirable miracles.

T
HIS TIME, THE
session with Sir Oliver Sinclair of Roslin was not one of assessment; it was exhilaratingly dangerous. Very soon, Phemie dropped out of the exchanges, but not because she did not understand, Nicholas thought, what the issues were. She had brains; she had helped run a large and complex Priory. And she was a teacher, with all that implied. Adorne would have chosen no one less.