Gemini (36 page)

‘Under normal circumstances, yes,’ Bel agreed. ‘But just at the moment, he’s as sharp as the Holy Dead. What with one thing and another.’

‘Of course. The cripple, and the all-too-vigorous helpmeet. Between the spearpoint and the sword-edge indeed. Are they subject to breeding impulses, do you think?’ asked the fat man. He had finished the mutchkin
he had been drinking when she arrived. She had refused refreshment. ‘Is it merely a transient pairing, or are they proposing to multiply?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Mistress Bel shortly. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I thought I had told you,’ he said. ‘I wish my importunate Claes to be chastised. I am delegating the task to David Simpson. If it is beyond Simpson, he will die. If it is not beyond him, he will still die, for I shall kill him myself … What was it you said of me always? That I wasn’t worth the baptism water? And what are you worth, Mistress Bel? Standing on a revolving lectern, complaining? Have you told Claes anything?’

‘No,’ she said. Then she added, ‘I have told him my son’s dead.’

His face changed. He said, ‘I should have begun—I failed to speak of it because of other things. Forgive me. I was very sorry.’ He paused and said, ‘Where will you live?’

‘At Stirling,’ she said. ‘And in Edinburgh at your house, if I may.’

‘Or here,’ he said. ‘Simpson will not sell back your own, but there are—what shall I call them?—the family rooms here.’

‘You may need them,’ she said, ‘if Simon comes back.’

‘He won’t,’ he said. ‘I have forbidden him.’

She said, ‘Then why don’t you go back to Madeira yourself? You need a business to run.’

‘I also like watching puppets,’ he said. ‘Tell that to your friend Claes, when you see him.’

‘And what else?’ said Bel. ‘You never said what you’d do if Davie died, and Nicholas didn’t.’

‘God at his eye-window knows,’ said Kilmirren. ‘I haven’t decided. I like to surprise myself.’

‘I
THINK
,’
SAID
Gelis, ‘you should do something about Davie Simpson. Are you as uncomfortable as you look?’

‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. ‘No, that’s worse. I
am
doing something about Davie Simpson.’

‘What?’

‘What he’s doing to me. Upsetting his schemes where I can.’

‘It doesn’t seem to be very effective,’ Gelis said.

‘It isn’t. That’s the whole idea. Then he launches a really big scheme to display his infinite superiority.’

‘Like Fat Father Jordan. He created the Vatachino expecting to crush you before he got rid of you.’

‘That’s right. He doesn’t have many original ideas, David. It’s no good.’

‘I know it’s no good. It’s too soon to try. But at least, whatever you did, it’s made Robin happy. Tobie says he’s transformed.’

‘Well, I bloody wish I hadn’t done it,’ Nicholas said.

•  •  •

T
OWARDS THE END
of that year, free at last from restraint, Nicholas recognised this period of incoherence for what it was: a bridge that led from the catastrophe of the Duke’s death to a new and as yet dimly realised future. He had come to Scotland with clear objectives but had not yet attained them, partly because he had been side-tracked by circumstances. And now he seemed committed to something much more challenging and protracted, with responsibility not only to his own family, but to the men who had left Bruges to join him. He was not short of plans. He faced the future in a state not far short of euphoria. But, imperatively, he must talk to Adorne.

Gelis would have had him do this at once, but instead, Nicholas had waited. He had made his reconnaissance. Adorne must do the same. Only then could there be any profit in talking.

In the end, it was Adorne himself who approached him, by means of a gift—a high-tempered, light-footed horse of the kind Nicholas had watched die in the lists at the Vespers rehearsal. It was brought, with an invitation, by a groom in Cortachy livery whom Nicholas sent back, rewarded, with an answer. Presently, he made his way down the High Street to the substantial house to which Adorne had now moved, together with Dr Andreas and Andro Wodman. There was enough space, in its several storeys, to house a young child and its nurse, as well as public rooms and offices and service quarters. It seemed to Nicholas, met and escorted upstairs by a chamberlain, that Adorne was preparing for a stay of some time, at least. It was what he expected.

Adorne received him alone before the fireplace in the most private reception room in the house, his own bedchamber. In all the years Nicholas had known him, he had changed very little. The wry, fine-boned face was perhaps leaner, the hair curling between his feathered cap and strong neck was paler than flax. But his shoulders had not lost their set of authority; his doublet, of pleated black cloth, was fresh and well-ordered; and his rings and shoulder-chain showed that he had just come from Court. Only his voice had altered, as he came forward, hand outstretched. ‘Nicholas.’

‘Sir.’ Nicholas inclined his head and took the hand, which closed on his and then held it.

Adorne said, ‘I hope this means that you accept what I sent you. You will have been told what your wife did for Robin, and what she and the van Borselen family did for me. I probably owe her my life.’

‘She was glad to do it,’ Nicholas said.

His hand was freed. ‘And I know now what you did for Mistress … for Phemie.’ He cleared his throat.

Nicholas said, ‘It was its own reward. But since the gift marks what
it does, I am glad, sir, to accept it. And I hear the small demoiselle flourishes.’

‘Some good has come of it,’ said Adorne. ‘Perhaps there are other things to be redeemed. Come, if you will.’ There were two fine chairs by the fire, and wine, which he handed himself, while he regained his composure. It shocked Nicholas that he had lost it. Then they were both seated and he felt himself under that level, magisterial scrutiny, so often experienced.

Adorne said, ‘I have watched you grow, with such pleasure. I have enjoyed crossing swords with you, as you mastered and entered my particular empire. I did not always appreciate it when you bettered me.’ He paused to smile.

‘Or when I stupidly injured you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or when I made a fool of myself in this country.’

‘Shall I tell you my mistakes?’ Adorne said. His eyes were clear and fine drawn, set between heavy lids in his narrow face. He said, ‘You have been here for most of a year, for half of it without supervision. You had no need to return. You did not do so to exploit the country, or you would have had to do so at once, before you could be detected and stopped. I am satisfied that you wished to make amends for what you had done. So far, you have devoted your skills to founding a future for Kathi’s husband, and having care for my lady. I merely wish to say that whatever else you wish to do, you can depend on my help.’

Nicholas lifted his eyes. ‘I am grateful. My understanding also has been limited.’

The clear gaze still rested on him. ‘But now we are two men,’ Adorne said ‘And you are a person who has experienced what is good and what is bad in many parts of the world. I am going to describe to you what I make, this time, of this country of Scotland, and its future. And if you will trust me with it, I should like you to do the same for me, as if it were an assessment of the court of Uzum Hasan, or of the Doge of Venice, or of Louis of France. Then, if you are willing, we might share our conclusions.’

Nicholas looked at him. Adorne said, ‘But, of course, you may have decided to make your future in one of these countries. Flanders is my home. I will repay Scotland’s hospitality to the last drop of my blood, but when the doors are open for me again, be it one year or two, I shall go back.’

Nicholas said, ‘My plans are less clear. But it seems likely that I shall be here at least as long as yourself. And yes. I should like above anything to compare notes.’

Then they talked until it was dark.

Adorne had the advantage, which Nicholas lacked, of years of dispatches from Sersanders and Wodman, and of the kind of overview of
mercantile business that his former Conservatorship conferred. Also, he was a nobleman. It made a difference, at Court and in Council, and in the great homes of those families from France and from Flanders who had poured into England four hundred years ago, and then, a hundred years later or less, had followed King David north. Some had dwindled, or produced only daughters. But the rest of that rich, virile stock was still in Scotland, often at war with itself, but still with a sense, running below, of the bond of blood they all shared. Adorne, son of Genoa, was of the same kind.

Nicholas was not. Nicholas was endowed with the intense experiences of his previous visits; a practical acquaintance with individuals of every station; and an intuitive understanding of the young, including the young of the Castle. By now, also, he had matched himself against many men, and knew the extent of his ability. This was, however, the first time he had used it in partnership with someone of similar intellect, instead of in opposition. It was like getting drunk, to hear Adorne’s exposition, so like his own, and to then add his own, and realise that Adorne had been silenced.

Then Adorne said, ‘I have, of course, been fatally stupid. Why didn’t I ask you to come and work with me for the Duke?’

‘Because, quite rightly, you didn’t trust me,’ Nicholas said. ‘Anyway, as it happens, I did work for the Duke. I was fighting for him when he died.’

‘You despised him?’ Adorne’s enquiry was soft and a little blurred. He had discarded his chain and doublet and was resting, as Nicholas was, in shirt and hose. His hair was damp.

Nicholas pulled a face. ‘There’s little point in despising what you can’t alter. You try to cushion the consequences, that’s all.’

Adorne said, ‘And here?’

Nicholas said, ‘Here there is everything to fight for. You’ve just said it all. Thorough, hard-working people. Growing trade. Growing towns. A structure of law and of education and of government ready to build on. And a decent team of veteran councillors to keep the throne steady.’ He made a deliberate space. ‘The single threat is the one thing no one mentions.’

When Adorne spoke, his voice sounded flat. ‘You have heard the rumours.’

‘I have used my eyes,’ Nicholas said. ‘But no one will trust me yet with the truth. You have been to the Castle. You have had a chance to compare what you found when you last came, and now. There has been a change in the King and his family. I think Mar is sick. I think the others share in the affliction, and that it is not a disease, but something hereditary. Their father stabbed a nobleman to death in a quarrel—a king, a
man at other times perfectly sane. Your friend and their relative the Archbishop Patrick is said to be mad. All of them are volatile beyond reason. If we are to make any design for the future, I need to know what is wrong. Do you, sir?’

Adorne rose and walked to the window. The panes were dark but outside, Nicholas knew, the stair-lanterns would be glimmering now on either side of the causeway that led up to the Castle, and there would be men and women passing up and down and pausing to chat and call to one another, while children who should be in bed were leaping the common gutter and playing hopping games on the flags. Adorne turned. ‘They haven’t trusted me either, but Saunders has seen what you have, and I was concerned enough to ask Dr Andreas.’

‘And?’ Nicholas said.

Adorne came back and sat down. ‘There is a certain hereditary ailment. The symptoms—a red flush, some unexplained pains, other signs—could be those of this condition, which affects the mind and the temper. It is sometimes mild, and sometimes intermittent. Sometimes it simply becomes worse. And it cannot be cured.’

‘There are five of them,’ Nicholas said. He could hear the horror in his own voice. ‘Two sisters, three brothers. And if these were debarred from the throne, the children might also be unfit to follow?’

Adorne said, ‘Nicholas. There is a fractiousness in the Stewart family, but it is not certain that this is the cause. It is feared, certainly, which is why it is not spoken about. But even if John of Mar is afflicted, your Sandy may be luckier. And if the lady Margaret is wild, her sister Mary is not.’

‘And the King?’ Nicholas said.

‘He is wilful,’ Adorne said. ‘But, I think, manageable. Perhaps too manageable. I don’t care for David Simpson’s prominence at Court. Nor, I suppose, do you. I plan to counter it. I think, between us, we may even ease the Councillors’ burden with these young people, as you are already doing with Albany. But it must be done carefully. And we should plan it together. Such activities are easily confused with high treason.’

He was smiling a little. Nicholas said, ‘Surely not. But leave David Simpson to me.’

Adorne had ceased to smile. ‘I am sorry. This is dangerous for you, as well as for Kathi and Robin. What has happened so far? The St Pols at least are not troubling you?’

‘Neither is Simpson,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or only in minor ways. I thought I might attract a stray arrow at first, but that would have brought in the law before he had disposed of the rest of us. And now we have met, and he is enjoying life at Court, and seems in no hurry to plan a grand quietus. It may not happen. Discontent sometimes fades.’

‘Discontent!’ Adorne repeated.

‘Why, what else would you call it?’ said Nicholas. ‘It is not rooted in conviction, like hatred.’

‘But you have experienced hatred,’ Adorne said.

‘Very seldom,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s usually discontent. I don’t work on a grand scale.’

‘I think you underrate yourself,’ said Anselm Adorne.

They talked for an hour more, then Nicholas left, walking carefully. He felt apprehension. He also felt very happy. As much as anything, it pleased him that, within minor as well as major ways, Adorne had placed their new and different relationship on a basis which would take them unembarrassed into the future. His name, to Anselm Adorne, had undergone no spurious change, and remained formally Nicholas. Equally, it had been established that Anselm Adorne was to be addressed, as he always had been, as ‘sir’.

The requirement was the reverse of what it seemed, and was taken by Nicholas as a compliment. It affirmed that the world was a place of order, which he found reassuring.