Gemini (68 page)

It was still impossible to tell, half an hour later, what was going on, if anything, in the old monster’s head. The formalities had been normal enough, except for the lack of a welcome. It was four years, for God’s sake, since his father had left him in Madeira, and you would think that his reappearance deserved more than a raised eyebrow and a long, insulting scan. In another way, of course, it augured well. As they sipped wine and embarked, without interruption, on a long, tedious recital of the difficulties of their voyage, it began to seem almost likely that the old man had lost his wits, and that Simon and the women could escape very soon. To where, he hadn’t yet made up his mind. He had to find out where de Fleury was first.

He hadn’t mentioned de Fleury, and trusted, with increasing confidence, that his father had not noticed which house he had been attempting to enter. The fat man was now talking, like some rambling old crone, about babies. The girl was smiling politely. The nun, who couldn’t understand English, was just smiling and sipping. Simon waited his chance. It seemed that Anselm Adorne had a bastard daughter. (Who cared? Had the girl ever heard of Adorne?) She smiled. And the King’s sister Margaret had had another. By my lord of Crichton, did Simon remember him? Simon, aware this time of surprise, smiled and nodded. And after two Jameses, the Queen had had a third son—not a bastard, of course. Born at Cupar this summer, and this time named John, after the Prince whom the King and de Fleury had supposedly killed. Was this,’ asked the lord of Kilmirren in the same amiable, discursive manner, ‘why the lady von Hanseyck had wished to visit de Fleury? To congratulate him, or give him a commission, perhaps?’

The girl’s face became blank. Simon said, at the second attempt, ‘I am sorry. This is all new to us.’

‘Certainly,’ said Fat Father Jordan, ‘you are not well informed; or did you not ask Jock Ross the right questions? Mar is dead, as I told you, and there is unrest over it. The Princess’s error helped to break the peace pact with England. Adorne’s child links him to some of the most powerful families in the kingdom. And, of course, any child Albany has by this French marriage could be more dangerous than all these put together. These are things, my son, I should expect you to know. Or at the very least—descending to your own simple affairs—where else would de Fleury be at this moment, or anyone else of military age, but fighting on the Borders? The large English invasion didn’t come—it is promised, they say, for next year—but the Duke of Gloucester’s northern army is busy. There have been frontier attacks on both sides. Henry is in the thick of it, on the West March, a trained militiaman, with his troop of
fine horse. You can join him in Annan: father and son, defending the Border. After all, that is why you are here, is it not? To fight the English?’

The bastard. The fat, cunning old bastard. Henry had begged Simon to come. Henry had led him to think that the old man was going soft in the head, and was falling under the influence of Claes. Simon had come—of course he had come, to get rid of both the old brute and Claes. And the old man, suspecting it, had been mocking him.

He didn’t know what to say. He said, experimentally, ‘I heard about Henry. Indeed, I promised to introduce him to the lady Bonne.’

The old man smiled at the girl. ‘Henry is a charmer, just like his father. But not, I am afraid, a friend of de Fleury.’

‘Neither am I,’ said the girl. She caught herself. ‘That is, I should not be ungracious. He pays for my keep, since my mother seems to have been related. But I do not know him. We have hardly spoken. He has his own family.’

‘Then you must visit them!’ said Jordan de St Pol. ‘His wife, his son, his household are all in the company house in the Canongate, awaiting the return of their warriors. And, of course, when de Fleury comes back, he will bring his gunner, his doctor, his chaplain, and Julius, your stepfather. I am right? Your mother married Master Julius, de Fleury’s friend at Cologne? Or is he not a friend of yours either?’

He and the girl gazed at one another. Her diffidence had disappeared. For a moment, Simon thought that he saw a softening: an inclination perhaps towards tears.

Then she either conquered or thought better of it. Uncloaked, she had a good, compact body, he noticed. More expressive, in a way, than her face. Almost generous, you could imagine. She said, ‘My mother died in disgrace. I remind him of her. He avoids me. It is understandable. But I do not think I could ask for shelter in the same house. There is a Cistercian convent. Sister Monika will find it.’

‘Well, of course,’ said Fat Father Jordan. ‘But not today. These things take time to arrange. Meanwhile, I must ask you to accept the hospitality of my poor house. You will be safe, with the Sister. I am an honourable man, as anyone will tell you. And when those gentlemen return who are responsible for you, I shall ask them to call on you here, where you may have support should they seem importunate, and help if they offer you none. Would you give me the happiness of agreeing? If the Sister does not object?’

The bastard. The bastard. The bastard.

They agreed. They rose to be shown to their rooms. The lord of Kilmirren, walking after, plucked a warm little feather from his son’s silken crotch.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Has that cooked your goose?’

R
ETURNING
HOME AT
the end of the season, Nicholas brought with him all his men, including Julius, as predicted. He expected to be home for the winter. No one could afford to keep troops in the field for very long, and it made even less sense, if the weather made action impossible. As it was, no integrated northern invasion had happened, but the cross-Border fighting had been serious. He was not sorry it was over, and yet in a terrible way he had enjoyed it. It was the first time, this summer and autumn, that he had ever fought side by side with Adorne, who had ridden south several times with Sersanders and Dr Andreas, and men of less eminence who owed him service. They had made a good team. Adorne was an international jouster, a leader, a man of wide experience whom Nicholas willingly followed; and Adorne in his turn willingly gave him his head when some novel idea entered it. Among other things, they created their own style of banter. Tobie noticed it. It occurred to him (but not, he thought, to Nicholas) that none of Adorne’s sons ever talked to him in that way. The other who did was, of course, Kathi.

Adorne’s was now a voice of authority in the cabinet of men who were handling this war. Rumours had reached them of the scale of the English fleet which Edward was amassing. Scotland was not unprepared. Since Nicholas had returned, funded by Gelis, he had invested all he could in the charter and purchase of ships. These served in peace-time as merchant vessels, sailing from Berwick and Leith and Dundee. They were leased for long-distance fishing. They were there, if the kingdom needed them, for the transport of troops, or for fighting. There were others who were doing the same—the Fife captain cheekily known as the Great Andrew, for one. Discovered by Gelis and Crackbene, he had become a good friend of them all, as had all the skippers of Leith,
although some ran closer to the wind than Nicholas thought wise. When you knew both sides in a war, it was tempting to earn money by serving both sides. Master traders such as Alec Brown kept it even, in a rough way, but some day, someone would find out and object. Gelis kept lecturing him.

Now, of course, she wasn’t lecturing anybody as, unshaven, unwashed, and straight from the Borders, they all tumbled into the Floory Land, and broke open the kegs, and regaled the counting-house with their tales while the cooks got out all the food they had been saving and started to prepare it. Robin was coming, and Kathi, and Crackbene, and all the company from next door.

The food had had to be saved because the bad weather had caused a poor harvest, and grain was scarce and high-priced. In some places, there had been real suffering, but in its way it had also cut down the killing: without meal, you couldn’t provision long campaigns. It was one of the reasons why Adorne had burned his own mill. All its stores had been transported to the far bigger mill at Kirkhill, and the small one at Abercorn had been left meantime. But Adorne’s had been next to Blackness: an invitation to under-provisioned English shipping.

Nicholas had asked about Adorne, after disentangling from Gelis and Jodi, and was told that he was next door, and wouldn’t mind a quiet word before coming to join them.

He tried to read her face. ‘What about?’

There were too many people. She shook her head. ‘He’ll tell you. Why not take Father Moriz?’

His mind made several connections, all of them unpleasing. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. ‘The Peloponnesian War?’

She smiled, but there was ruefulness in it. He could guess why. Simon was here. And, of course, so was Julius.

N
EXT DOOR, ADORNE
had some very good wine and a lavish hand for those who appreciated it. Father Moriz, still smelling of gunpowder, closed his eyes as he sat back and drank. Nicholas nursed his, and thought as he listened. Not only Simon, there in the High Street, but Bonne. It was his fault. He had left the Abbess with money, in case of an emergency. Bonne had created the emergency. And because Sluys was blocked, she had joined the other travellers waiting for one of the rare ships to Scotland. That Simon had been among them was not an unreasonable coincidence, but it was an unlucky one. He said, ‘Just think. Julius will be able to ask them all about my mother, and tell them all about Bonne’s. And if they also think that I’ve appointed Julius to prove me legitimate, they’re not going to do nothing.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Adorne said. ‘Julius must be told to drop this campaign. And I have already been to Kilmirren House and talked to St Pol.’

Father Moriz sat up. ‘The old one?’ Nicholas said.

‘Jordan, yes. Speaking, I said, for the Council, he ought to know that his son Simon was here on sufferance, and at the slightest sign of animosity against a man such as yourself, serving the King at a time of great danger, he and his father would both be returned to Madeira. I said nothing of Julius.’

‘But you discussed it with the Council,’ said Nicholas.

‘My lord of St Pol believed so,’ said Adorne. He smiled. ‘But it is for you now to be persuasive with Julius. What do you suggest, Father?’

The big head had sunk on its chest. ‘Deportation,’ Moriz said. ‘Opiates. Paralysis of the jaw.’

‘I thought,’ said Adorne, ‘remembering Thorn, that my young Kathi, Nicholas, might be as persuasive as anyone? Then, of course, you and Father Moriz must go and see Bonne and settle her future. It may not be easy. She is not a compliant child, it would seem.’

Thorn was in Poland. Nicholas had lost his temper with Julius, and Kathi had, in her impartial way, been a help to them both. ‘I shall talk to Bonne,’ Nicholas said.

‘Yes,’ said Adorne. ‘I am afraid you will have to travel to do it. It seemed to me unsuitable that the girl, even chaperoned, should remain in a household such as Kilmirren’s. You had not yet returned. I therefore took the liberty of asking the Prioress of Haddington to take both ladies temporarily under her care. It is a Cistercian foundation, although not the one which Sister Monika evidently had in mind. It will serve, though, until you have seen the young lady.’

‘She is there now?’ Nicholas said. He sat and tried to visualise the scene in Kilmirren House: Adorne’s bland proposal to remove Bonne; the Prioress arriving with her cohorts. The old man had let the girl go; he couldn’t have stopped her. And, of course, Simon had been out, Adorne said.

‘You approve?’ Adorne said. He was smiling at Moriz.

‘More than I can say,’ Nicholas said. ‘I owe you a great deal, sir.’

‘But for Gelis, I might not be here,’ Adorne said.

These days, there was a passage between the Berecrofts house and its neighbour. Crossing back to their own side, Moriz stopped just before the connecting door, and drew Nicholas to a halt. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘From the sound of it, probably not. What?’ Nicholas said.

The mountainous face glared up at his. ‘You tried to claim legitimacy once, I am told, and then retracted. Now Julius thinks he can try for you again. Do you in fact believe—Do you know that you are Simon de St Pol’s son?’

He didn’t want to reply. He had said more of his family in the last half-hour than he ever normally did. But this was Father Moriz, who wore the mantle of Godscalc.

Nicholas said, ‘Yes. Yes, I believe it. Yes, I am sure it is true, but I don’t have proof, and don’t want any.’

‘Even for the sake of your mother?’

‘I have thought of that,’ Nicholas said.

‘But other things are even more important. I see. But it has occurred to you, while thinking so deeply, that if you are Simon’s son, then Bonne may be his granddaughter?’

‘She is not mine,’ Nicholas said.

‘You think not. But are you sufficiently sure to risk a relationship forming between Bonne and Henry?’ Moriz asked. ‘For Henry, beyond doubt, is your son, and Simon does not know it.’

‘There is no risk,’ Nicholas said. ‘Bonne is penniless, fatherless; her mother impugned. Henry’s wife will be a rich, landed heiress, personally handpicked by Simon.’

‘Did I mention marriage?’ said Moriz.

He opened the door. Since they left, the convivial clamour from the other side had become louder and, it suddenly appeared, less convivial. Wavering above the uproar was a single thickened voice: that of Julius. Shouting it down was another, far more furious, rather less inebriated and also unmistakable, although it had not been heard by anyone there for seven years or more.

‘Simon,’
said Nicholas. He turned. ‘Tell Adorne—’

‘—not to come,’ Moriz finished. He had already spun round.

‘And tell Wodman,’ Nicholas called after him. It was necessary. This wasn’t the lord of St Pol, executing a bold plan of revenge. This was a man in his cups, come to wreak against someone the hatred and fear he could not indulge in at home. This was … Simon.