Gemini (67 page)

‘He keeps trying,’ his wife added tranquilly. ‘But we all remember Bruges very clearly. Hell on earth.’

Leaving that night, Moriz lingered a moment with his host. He said, ‘I wondered if you were sure of what you were doing. I wonder no longer.’

‘Thank you,’ Nicholas said, ‘but I am glad you came. You think Bonne is in good hands?’

It was Moriz’s one nagging concern. He said, ‘The convent is impeccable, and Govaerts will supervise all her material needs. It is as much as I myself have been able to do: she does not welcome visits or seem to possess many friends. I don’t know what else to advise.’

‘Should I bring her here?’ Nicholas said. ‘Only there is the war.’

‘No. No, I think she is safest where she is. Julius prefers not to think of her. À propos of which …’ From the street, the others were calling him. He moved to the door.

‘Something about Julius?’ Nicholas said. For a large man, he trod softly.

‘Yes. I ought not to tell you, but I shall. He is hoping, for your benefit, to prove your legitimacy. He thinks that the St Pol family have conspired to deceive you.’

Under the fluttering light of the porch, Nicholas gazed at him. Then he said, ‘I’m glad you told me. It hasn’t occurred to Julius that this will launch the equivalent of the Peloponnesian War? I will render vengeance to my enemies; I will make my arrows drunk with blood?’

‘He wouldn’t listen,’ said Moriz. ‘If you want my advice, keep him busy. And if Simon de St Pol is really coming, keep Julius away at all costs.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Nicholas.

In spite of his worry, Moriz smiled. ‘You’ll manage,’ he said. ‘You always do.’

T
O
S
IMON DE
St Pol, Master of Kilmirren, one of the most beautiful men of his day, the maritime wars of that summer were of some inconvenience, now he planned to return home to Scotland. He had not, initially, been sure where his future might lie. The whole of Portugal, never mind his island of Madeira, was bristling at the latest English threat to break the Portuguese shipping monopoly off the African coast—a line of trade Simon de St Pol had often thought of resuming, himself, during these last seven indolent, sun-filled years on the family vineyards and sugar estates. Or failing an African venture, there was a man married to the governor of Porto Santo’s daughter who wanted to assemble a fleet to sail west to Asia. But the thought of moving only came to him when irritated by some stupidity of the Governor’s, or when an affair ended more badly than usual.

To begin with, girls of the better class in Madeira had shunned him altogether, because of the lie that had exiled him: that he carried an infection that made all his partners barren, and had supposedly threatened the marriage of the idiot King. He now carried a copy of a certificate, from the King of Portugal’s own doctor, to the effect that his infertility was not due to disease. He objected to the way it was phrased, for he was not infertile. He had sired Henry, for God’s sake. And he had certainly got a child on that wretched woman he had had to marry, Sophie de Fleury, although it had been born dead, thank God. All he would concede was
that he was not very prolific as a young man, and had had no children at all in more recent years, even by Henry’s own mother.

But the certificate, long since transmitted to Scotland, meant that he could expect to return home, when and if he got the chance. And now the chance had come: a letter from Henry which surely indicated that the old man was losing his wits, and that Simon could oust him at last.

He was halfway home before he learned that a state of war existed between England and Scotland, and that a French blockade would stop him from changing ships at Sluys. He landed instead at Dieppe and was forced to wait, with other travellers, until he could find a Scots ship willing to take himself, his luggage and the suite of six men without whom, naturally, he never travelled. Then the master refused to sail by the English west coast because of the fighting round Bristol, and they had to thrash their way up the east coast towards the Water of Forth, with nothing to relieve the tedium but the crass conversation of the other passengers, most of whom soon succumbed to the weather.

For some days, the only exception was the German girl with the nun and the serving-man. The girl was a hooded, silent young thing, but Simon amused himself by gaining the confidence of her chaperone, Sister Monika, which was always the first step. He could feel the wench watching him; and when, in rough weather, she came up alone he was there, ready with some light banter in his disarmingly poor German. It was even better when he discovered that she also spoke very good French. Attracting girls had always been easy, because of his looks. He might be in his mid-fifties, but under the Madeira sun, as he was aware, his gilded hair had become rippled with silver; his slender nose and lean cheeks and noble brow were golden brown, and his eyes were still the same amazing blue.

Even Henry could not compete with his father. The boy, when last seen, had looked like measuring up to his grandfather’s height, which some found excessive. Henry’s beard, when it became worth shaving, had been brown and not gold, and his single womanish dimple was also, for sure, from his mother’s side: Francis van Borselen had been dimpled, they said. Simon de St Pol had no intention, ever, of being outshone by his son, but he was proud of the dynasty he had founded, and meant to arrange for it to continue.

This girl was a German count’s daughter, the old nun had said, but had refrained from revealing the family name. It made for interesting speculation, especially as the girl, got alone, proved to have a dry, tough turn of speech which suggested the opposite of the shy little thing he had taken her for. When, at the right moment, he took her hand in both his own, she did not resist, but merely gazed at him with her unremarkable blue eyes, and said, ‘I
beg
your pardon?’ upon which he unhurriedly freed
her, with an appreciative quirk of the lips. It seemed very likely that the girl was a virgin, as his nemesis Sophie had been. He felt the mild twinge of a challenge. It was one of the advantages of his disability that he seldom had to resist a challenge. There were no penalties now.

Then the old biddy came on deck, and that was as far as they got, for they were off the Scottish coast, and every King’s ship in the area came out to have a look at them and check that they didn’t have an English admiral and a full range of cannon on board. Once into the Water of Forth, they were actually escorted to their destination at Blackness, which was the vessel’s home port, and where Simon proposed to disembark for Linlithgow, four miles away, and take horse for Kilmirren. He wanted to find out what was happening. And he wanted, nursing his wrongs, to set out from this place, close to the salt-pans where, eleven years ago, he had so nearly died, and the frozen river where, the same night, his sister Lucia had drowned. Had been deliberately drowned, as he was going to prove, by the brute who also fought and tried to kill him at Carriden: by the apprentice Claes, who called himself Nicholas de Fleury, and whom Simon had come home to deal with, now that his old fat father had failed.

The other passengers disembarked and went off with their porters. As the port for the Queen’s Palace and burgh of Linlithgow, Blackness was an anchorage more than a harbour, but was well organised for its size. Dominating the eastern horn of the bay, with its jetties and warehouses, its fisher-cabins and seamen’s huts and single rough tavern, was the castle, royal fortress and prison, squat on its spit of black basalt rock, running out into the water. Behind the castle, and on the low rise that held the small chapel, were bigger houses, neatly thatched and mostly belonging to merchants whose homes were elsewhere. The largest, and the only one with a slate roof, was the King’s.

Simon waited on the coarse strand; and so, he noted, did the small German party. He wondered whom they expected. He had sent a note ashore, himself, and was gratified presently to see approaching a small group of horsemen wearing the livery of the Keeper of Blackness and sheriff of Linlithgow, and led by that same man, his old jousting partner, Sir John Ross. A good Renfrewshire man, Jock Ross of Hawkhead, with the kind of clear head, despite his versifying, which might well recall detail, for example, from as long as eleven years before. Anyway, he produced a warm welcome and an offer of horses and dinner at his Linlithgow house, which was what Simon wanted. Indeed, the sheriff went further and, noting the nun and the girl, sent to ask if he could help.

The girl, eyes downcast, approached and answered in French. They wished to travel to Edinburgh, and had sent for a wagon from Linlithgow.

‘Today?’ Sir John was kind but impatient. ‘My dear demoiselle, the sun will set in an hour. You must be content to stay in Linlithgow. Your
wagon can take you tomorrow. There are several good inns: never fear, my men will see you safely settled.’ He waited, smiling at Simon, as the girl translated for her companion. The nun’s voice, croaking fearfully, burst into reply.

‘She is not pleased,’ Simon murmured. The sea splashed on the pebbles, and kittiwakes wrangled,
kit-kit
, on a rock. A line of distant trees glowed, lime and orange in the sinking sun. From beyond the elevated ground to the south, there swayed a column of smoke.

‘Cortachy’s mill,’ the sheriff said. ‘You know Anselm Adorne? It’s a sore point with the local landowners, but he’s right to destroy it. The first thing any English fleet would do is raid the countryside for food, and that thing was stacked with grain. Quite a gesture: the man only built it the other day.’

‘Adorne?’ Simon said. ‘I thought your Burgundians would be in prison by now. Isn’t there a pact between England and Burgundy? I thought Adorne’s friend the Dowager Duchess had spent half the year at Greenwich arranging it.’

‘Oh, it’s open season for pacts,’ Ross said. ‘And I dare say Adorne, like a few others, had to decide which side he was backing. But he elected to stay, and the King and Queen trust him. He’s well established in Linlithgow, and he’s taken over Landells’s duties in the King’s house over there. If the English do sail in, my people won’t be sorry to know he’s on our side. Like your lad at Kilmirren. He’s going the right way to make a name for himself, your Henry, with the troop he’s raised, and those horses at stud. I suppose the idea was yours or your father’s, but the King is certainly pleased.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Simon easily. He wondered if Jock, who had put on some weight, hadn’t kept a clear head after all. Henry had killed a few mounts in his time, but that was the extent of his interest in horses. The nun had stopped gabbling, and the girl had come forward again. He smiled at her.

She said, ‘We accept your advice with gratitude, and regret our ignorance. None of us has been here before.’

‘But you have somewhere to stay in Edinburgh?’ Jock Ross asked. ‘You are not without friends or relatives? Some convent expects you?’

The girl glanced up, and then lowered her eyes meekly once again. ‘I am an orphan, sir, whose affairs are in the care of two gentlemen whom war is detaining in Edinburgh. I have come because I feared to be alone. They do not expect me.’

The sheriff frowned, his eyes on the nun. ‘Two gentlemen? Where do they stay? What are their names?’

The girl bit her lip. ‘There is an address, written here, for the gentleman who is married. But in case of difficulty, Sister Monika has the name of a Priory which will accept us.’

‘And the gentleman who is married?’ asked Jock. Horses were coming, the sun red on their harness. Simon judged that his mind was turning towards supper.

The girl said, ‘It is a French name. The sire de Fleury. Nicholas de Fleury, of Bruges.’

Simon’s mouth opened. Sir John Ross, his thoughts called from supper, said, ‘Nicol de Fleury? I didn’t know that he … How did you say you were called, demoiselle?’

She didn’t answer at once, but spoke to the nun, who frowned, and then rattled out her reply. Simon stared at the girl without listening: the teenage girl from Germany, who spoke fluent French from an area certainly far south of Paris; who was brown-haired and blue-eyed and impertinent, and who had come
to join two gentlemen who looked after her affairs
. He caught the word Köln. Cologne. That was where the Charetty lawyer’s business was. Julius. Julius, who had been married to—

The girl said, ‘Sister Monika says I may tell you. My name is Bonne, lady of Hanseyck, and the sire de Fleury is a patron of the convent at Cologne from which Sister Monika and I both come.’

The sheriff continued to frown. Simon presented her, on the contrary, with an expansive, a wonderful smile. ‘But what a coincidence! Nicol de Fleury is well known to me! Indeed, I will not hear of your travelling tomorrow to Edinburgh on your own. You must allow me to take you. And then I shall introduce you, if the Sister permits, to my son Henry. He must be just about your age.’

I
T WAS THE
continuous, excruciating shriek of the de Fleury guard-birds, effortlessly piercing the clamour of the High Street, that lifted Jordan de St Pol ponderously from his desk to his window, to witness the mêlée on the lower side of the street before the closed door and empty premises of Nicholas de Fleury. There, the lord of Kilmirren perceived horses, a wagon, and a party of seven men and two women, one of whom was in holy orders. Six of the men wore the livery (a stag and two ratchets) of his own house of St Pol. Stationed before them, in a battering blizzard of feathers, was his only son Simon, stolidly twisting the neck of a goose.

The lord of Kilmirren sighed, and sent for his chamberlain. When, after a short delay, his heir and the two women stood before him, his only expression was one of ineffable patience, and you could not have told—certainly Simon could not have told—whether the girl’s identity, cautiously revealed, conveyed anything. In Simon’s version, she was simply Bonne von Hanseyck, a German count’s daughter, whom he had escorted from Blackness. Simon hoped that was enough. This was Simon’s affair, not his father’s. He wouldn’t have obeyed this ridiculous summons (what
was the old fool doing in Edinburgh?) had he not wished to avoid a possible scene. He didn’t know how crazy the old man might be. There could have been a standing fight in the street.