Gemini (88 page)

At any rate, Wodman now carried the family silver. The dispatch from the front. The report of all Nicholas had discovered. He hoped to God he remembered it. Part of it was simple enough: the probable size of the army at York; the numbers still to arrive at Durham and Alnwick and Berwick. First target: Berwick, employing heavy artillery, and allowing time to warn Albany’s friends that he was about to make for the throne. Given enough popular support, they would then invade up the East March, and take the King. Alternative: if disappointed in Albany’s friends and threatened by a Scots army, a probable pitched battle at Coldstream, with Norham prepared as a base.

At that point, Andro’s reaction had been one of disgusted alarm. He had already expressed himself—they all had—on the subject of Albany’s
volte-face
in his attitude to the English. ‘So he does plan to usurp the throne, the little bastard. And that’s the hell of an army. That’s the biggest for decades. What’s Edward thinking of?’

‘His obituary, some say. There’s more.’

‘What?’

And so he told him. He remembered the sick look on Andro’s face, turned towards him. ‘After all that show of patriotism, he bought himself the throne
by promising Scotland to Edward
?’ And after a space he had said, ‘Once they know that, no one will follow him.’

He had spoken with satisfaction, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that few would follow Albany anyway, except for personal profit, and that these few might not care who was overlord. There had been no time to dwell on that; or on Albany’s reasons, or his uncertainties; or what could be done about it. That would have to rest with the small group of dedicated advisers who knew the King and his brother through and through. Later, Andro had asked who else was with Albany and Nicholas had mentioned everyone he had noticed: not the Earl of Douglas; not Holland; but he had seen several Douglases, leaving York, and one of the two Alexander Jardines, who had ridden past him, kicking dirt in his face. For sure, this visit had done Sandy no favours. And he had seen—he thought he had seen—Jamie Boyd.

Andro had expressed disbelief. ‘Jamie? The Princess’s son? He’s barely twelve!’

‘Still,’ Nicholas said. ‘And someone called him Lord Boyd. The old man is dead. It must be Jamie.’ Andro looked shocked, but not horrified. Nicholas had been horrified, and still was.

In all this, he had made sure of one thing. If Andro got back without him, he was to repeat what he knew to no one except the innermost circle. It was too explosive. It could set off a wave of violence in either direction: a torrent of Anglophile traders with a good personal connection in Leighton Buzzard, or a host of Wallaces led by Blind Harry, baying for his former champion’s blood.

Baying. There was none at the moment. Nicholas drowsed, and woke dizzily, and drowsed once again, vaguely aware of what was happening and annoyed by it. Finally he let go and sank into some sort of oblivion.

When he woke, it was quiet; and he felt both better and worse. His eyes had cleared, which was good, and so had most of the nausea; his headache was clangorous but not mind-deadening. He could think. At the same time, pushing his way from the peats, he found himself shivering. Whatever happened, he couldn’t stay here for the night. Indeed, there was no point for, by now, Wodman would be dead or far away. He fervently hoped far away, on a fresh horse, and settling down to carry his information on the long, long ride by the route they had already decided, through northern England and up the Till valley to the Tweed, and Scotland, and safety.

There was no reason why Nicholas shouldn’t follow him, once he had acquired a horse. No doubt later on he would also be the better for food, but he preferred not to think of that now. Anyway, for God’s sake, he was resourceful. If he weren’t, he would hardly have survived until now. The sooner he got out, the sooner he’d be back in the game.

The game. Once, it was the term he found reassuring to apply to almost everything that he chose to do: to trade, to war; to the moves and counter-moves, even, for the avoidance of war. But not after Nancy. Not now.

He forgot to be pleased that he had got into and out of York and had escaped both beheading and hanging. He began to fret over what might go wrong in Scotland without him.

I
N
E
DINBURGH, JUST
before the end of the third week in July, unauthorised news was brought to the King that the English army was fully operational in its camp at Tweedmouth and about to begin a bombardment of Berwick. The same messenger, awed to find himself with the King (he had been let in by mistake, at a shift change), confirmed that
the English were led by their King’s brother, Richard of Gloucester. He added, carefully, that he was sorry to report that early rumours seemed to be true, and that his grace the Duke of Albany had come from France to join the English attack, and was in the van of the army with Gloucester.

The shouting from the King’s chamber brought in his ushers. His ministers of state were haled in thereafter. Within the hour, the proclamation had issued. The incomplete troop now assembling on the Burgh Muir was to march south to fight the Auld Enemy. And James of Scotland would command it himself.

The waiting was over; the period of grace had come to an end. Now they had to know Albany’s intentions. Now, Nicholas de Fleury had to be found. A rider was sent, sparing nothing, to Upsettlington, to find and notify Anselm Adorne.

H
UME, BESIEGED BY
messengers, only heard about Adorne’s mysterious visit after he’d gone. According to a lieutenant from Wedderburn, Lord Cortachy had been conducting an ambush near Upsettlington with a handful of men. Verra secret, it was. A trap for the English, belikes. Now he had left.

Henry had been on patrol several times at Upsettlington. Simon sought him out. ‘Did you know this?’

Once, Henry had had only three expressions: bullying, defiant, or sulky. In the last year or two he had acquired one which Simon detested: you could almost call it exasperation. Henry said, ‘No, I didn’t. No one mentioned it. Anyway, he seems to have gone home.’

‘Has he? Because his tents are not there? I’m glad you’re sure. I’m not,’ Simon said. ‘Have his horses gone, can you tell me? Are his tents really packed, or have they just been set up elsewhere? Do you know why I’m asking?’

‘No,’ said Henry.

Sometimes, he asked to have his face smacked. Simon said, with force, ‘Because I can think of two explanations. Adorne has gone to meet de Fleury. Or he’s gone to change sides like de Fleury. He’s gone to join Gloucester’s army.’

‘You think so?’ said Henry.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Simon. ‘And I’m going to find out which it is. I’m going to tell Borthwick the whole story, and he can give me a troop. Or if he won’t, by God I’ll find out for myself.’

Henry didn’t argue: at least the Guard had taught him that much. Borthwick, a self-opinionated boor, professed to disbelieve unsigned messages, and poured scorn on the idea that de Fleury or Adorne might be a traitor. At first, he forbade Simon to leave. He couldn’t stop him, of course. When Simon de St Pol walked out with his son and his bowmen,
the captain let him go. In a final, typical jibe, he said he had other things on his mind.

After that, Simon simply rode down to the river at Carham, and then followed it eastwards for seven miles, asking questions. If Adorne had joined Gloucester, he’d be at Berwick. If he’d crossed the river to one of the fortresses, he must have left traces. All the crossings were watched, on both sides.

He passed by the ford that led over to Wark. He examined Coldstream. Then he had his stroke of luck. Two of Borthwick’s men came up with a prisoner: an English scout from over the river, where the Tweed was joined by the mouth of the Till.

The Till was a sturdy, small river which carved a long, wilful passage to the frontier, sometimes smiling between sloping banks, sometimes snarling at the foot of a winding ravine. Several keeps guarded its passage. The biggest, by name Castle Heaton, was heavily garrisoned, both to prevent Scottish inroads and to check would-be absconders. The garrison, bleated the scout, was at this moment looking out for a double agent who was on his way to Scotland from York. All the strongholds in the north had been warned.

He did not know any names. He had been given the agent’s description: a very large man with two pits in his cheeks, and a Burgundian accent.

Simon de St Pol knew his name.

S
INCE THE RIVER
Till was the place of their rendezvous, Nicholas de Fleury shouldn’t have been stunned to find Wodman there. He
was
stunned, but also grateful to see him alive, that went without saying. But he might have been less stunned and more grateful if they hadn’t parted over two weeks before, and if Nicholas hadn’t been persuading himself forcibly that Wodman was by now home in Edinburgh, and all the information from York safely delivered.

Nicholas, in a thumbed felt hat and cowled tunic, was one of a dust-covered group tramping the rough path that led to the hamlet above Castle Heaton. All of them looked like artisans, and the only one mounted and decently dressed had a set square sticking out of his saddlebag. Nicholas, walking cheerfully at his stirrup, was carrying a sack full of tool-shapes over one shoulder. Half his face was smothered in a bright yellow growth of new beard, and Wodman wouldn’t have recognised him if he hadn’t turned his head as he passed. Then Nicholas turned it away and walked on, but his smile had broadened.

The encounter was almost as much of a surprise to the Archer, but even more of a relief. He knew what could come of a blow like the one Nicholas had taken. For two weeks, he had thought of little else. And
here Nicholas was, the ultimate survivor, large and capable and effortlessly in command of himself and probably everything else—except that he was not about to be understanding. From his point of view, he had risked his life to obtain information which Wodman had failed to deliver.

Wodman watched. At the little inn above the slope to the river, the rider dismounted; someone led off his horse, and the entire group wandered round to the side, where the benches were set out. After a while, Wodman got up and followed them, but to a different part of the yard, where some men he knew were already planted in front of their tankards. They cleared him a seat with a greeting: ‘Aye, Fletcher!’

Making arrows was a skill Wodman had that he could take anywhere, especially close to a garrison. Fletchers were not all that common.

He had wondered what Nicholas would do, but he just looked up and sang out the same nickname, ‘Fletcher!’ Then, waving his mug, he rose and wandered over, as if they knew one another quite well. Nodding to him, he grinned easily round at the company. ‘I said to myself, he won’t remember Cuddie the Hod, but there, he did. Fletcher, how are ye?’ There was no trace of French or Flemish in his voice. He was a hellish good mimic. And what he was doing, of course, authenticated them both. The English were looking for a single, displaced Burgundian whom nobody knew.

Later, alone in his primitive lodging, he got the flaming row he expected; then Nicholas calmed. It was for him that Wodman had gone back, once he had eluded the dogs. Then, finding him gone, he had tried to trace him. After that, it was a story much like that of Nicholas. Horses were not easy to come by. Like Nicholas, he had come most of the way on foot. He had only been there for a few days.

‘I might have gone over already,’ Nicholas said. He still sounded curt.

‘Then you would have carried the message yourself,’ Wodman said. ‘I took the decision to wait. Gloucester’s been sitting opposite Berwick for days. Everyone will know what his strength is by now, and it won’t be hard to work out his plans. Your guess about Norham and Coldstream was just a guess.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s why this squad of builders is here. We are to strengthen the bridge, in case they have to bring cannon from Norham.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Wodman said. He didn’t ask how Nicholas had passed himself off as a mason’s man. He had worked with Cochrane, and with Fioravanti in Moscow. He probably knew more than his master did.

‘No. And what the Council needs to know about Albany isn’t a guess either,’ Nicholas said. ‘Let me alarm you about that as well. We know
Albany has paid Edward homage, and promised part of the Lowlands and Berwick, provided Edward puts Albany on the throne. Revolting. Dastardly. But how much does he mean it?’

‘You think it’s a trick?’ Wodman said. He was sceptical. He was avidly fascinated.

Nicholas said, ‘In anyone else, it might be. Sandy’s mind takes one step at a time. Provided it turns into an easy, popular conquest, he’ll let it happen. He’ll lose face; he’ll lose Berwick; but he may convince himself that the English can never afford to garrison the other lands, and the Borderers will take them back. If Edward dies, the overlordship will die, too, very likely. And meanwhile, Sandy is so well loved compared with James, that he’ll be forgiven.’

‘He believes that?’ Wodman said.

‘He wants to. Edward wants to as well. Edward wants, and has got, something on paper that justifies virtually anything he wishes to do, and redeems his prestige as well. But he’s kept his fleet in the south, and he’s only licensed the army, once they’re mustered, for a total of four weeks in the field. That means he expects to win Berwick, for sure. Then Gloucester has to achieve something conclusive that will give him control in four weeks. A national rising for Sandy would do it, forcing the King to stand down, and then proving strong enough in itself to consolidate. The next best thing would be an actual conflict, in which the King is either captured or killed.’

‘Will they rise?’ Wodman said. He knew why he was being told. Now it really mattered.

‘Sandy tells himself yes, but I think almost certainly not, not in the numbers he needs. That leaves battle, and on the Border for preference; hence the artillery hereabouts. Otherwise Gloucester has to invade, with lengthening supply lines. The chance of success is much less, and he may have to cut loose and go home, with considerable losses and James still on the throne.’