Gemini (92 page)

But if he did not come, who would stop the King?

‘Where is de Fleury?’ said Whitelaw. ‘Where is Adorne?’

‘You heard the courier,’ Avandale said. ‘Adorne will be here tomorrow; de Fleury cannot be long delayed. Their usefulness, we agreed long ago, lies in Nicol’s relations with Albany, and Adorne’s with the King. This still obtains, whatever happened in York. We do not wish the Burgundians to play any part in removing the King into custody. They know this.’

‘If de Fleury has disappeared, it hardly matters,’ the Secretary said. ‘So who will stop the King? You are confident that somebody will?’

‘I shall make sure that they do,’ Avandale said. ‘A little more rain, Will, would help, if you are praying. A thunderstorm, even. Let’s make it unpleasant for Dickon and Harry Percy and all those brave Englishmen crossing the Tweed. Come.’ He slapped his hands on the board and stood up. ‘Let’s go to it. If we can’t meddle ourselves, we can send someone who will. Archie, you spoke of de Fleury? Has anyone told his wife that he’s safe?’

The Secretary got up, removing his spectacles. ‘Adorne is coming tomorrow.’

‘Of course. But he has achieved prodigies, Nicol, and has been lost to his folk for a month. Someone should tell them tonight.’

•  •  •

A
CHAPLAIN WENT
, braving the rain, and paralysed the de Fleury household by chapping insistently on the front door at midnight. When the door finally opened on a firm, compact man with a stick, the chaplain in turn was alarmed. Then the man, a superior servant called Lowrie, fetched his mistress, and the chaplain received his reward in Gascon wine and raisins (great grape, not currants), and a comfortable chair, and the anxious services of a tall, dimpled child with courtly manners, who put his arm round his smiling lady mother, and brought her a kerchief when her tears trickled into her smile.

E
ARLY NEXT MORNING
, forcing her way down the sluicing gutters to Kathi’s house, Gelis presented her bulletin: Kathi’s uncle was well, and would be back by late morning; Nicholas was safely in Scotland but still in the south; Andro Wodman was hurt and would be brought to the Floory Land by Adorne’s men.

During all this recital, Kathi, sitting firmly by Robin, had gone very pale and then flushed. ‘Damn you,’ she said.

‘I know,’ Gelis had replied, with a scowl. Robin had given a laugh.

Jordan, who had come with his mother, looked surprised. Margaret was not there. Everyone younger than himself had been bundled off to their homes in the country, along with their valuables. Those who didn’t have homes in the country sent their children to friends and dug holes for their silver. Some got permission to store their goods in the Castle, or one of the other stone towers. Robin was here because people thought him a cripple, when he was as capable as Jordan’s father, or nearly.

Robin’s wife said, ‘I’ll go across and prepare Saunders’s household. Perhaps they’ll let us have Dr Andreas from the Castle. Uncle will have to go there first.’

The demoiselle’s brother was at Linlithgow. Dr Tobie was with the King. Jordan had wanted to march with the King, but he had promised his father to stay. He had been taught how to fight. Robin had trained him, and his friends. If the English army marched into Edinburgh, the militia would stop them. Jordan and his friends were in the militia. Rankin and Hob were still babies.

While the women talked, Jordan stayed with Robin. He wished to ask about hackbuts. Sometimes Robin’s attention wandered, as it did when he was tired.

Andro Wodman arrived just before midday, brought to the Floory Land by one of Adorne’s men, who immediately left. There being a shortage of fully grown men, Jordan crossed the road to help his mother and the demoiselle Kathi, who were putting Master Wodman to bed.
Lord Cortachy had gone straight to the Castle, but was supposed to come soon, with the doctor.

Master Wodman had been hurt in the thigh, and was feverish. He kept trying to talk. He had grown a black beard, which made his squashed nose look worse, and his cheek-bones were red. He had saved Jordan’s life once. He was the best man Jordan had ever seen with a bow, apart from his father and Robin. When he did manage to speak, it was to say what they already knew: that Jordan’s father and the demoiselle’s uncle were safe. He added that Jordan’s father had been to York and back, and had spoken to the Duke of Albany and the Duke of Gloucester, and had found out what they were likely to do. It would be of great help to the kingdom, and Jordan could be proud of what he had done.

The demoiselle Kathi was sitting beside Master Wodman’s bed, wiping his face. She said, ‘You went with him too, and helped him to get out. That was pretty useful as well. I’m glad it was worth it.’

She was smiling, but not with her eyes. Master Wodman wasn’t smiling: he was looking up at Jordan’s mother with lines like bricks on his brow. Jordan’s mother said, ‘But there was a price to pay, Andro? You were wounded, and Nicholas hasn’t come north?’

‘He had something to do,’ Master Wodman said. Then he suddenly shifted, and swore, and took Jordan’s mother by the wrist so hard that she slipped from the bed quietly and knelt, her wrist still in his hand, looking down at him. She had beautiful hair.

Master Wodman said, ‘You’ll hear when Adorne comes. He wants to tell Kilmirren himself. Simon and the young lad—Simon and Henry are dead.’

Jordan frowned. His cousin Henry had gone to war with his father, as Jordan would have done, had his father been here. His cousin Henry’s campaigns had always seemed rather grim, but he had never been wounded. His cousin Henry had bullied him once, but not now. Henry had belonged to the Royal Guard. He jousted. He sailed. Jordan said, ‘Forgive me sir, but are you sure?’ His mother looked at him.

So did Master Wodman. He released his mother’s hand just as suddenly, and then gazed at her, and at the demoiselle, taking his time. Then he said, ‘Forgive me. It’s true, but that was no way to tell you. What happened was … There was a skirmish. Simon and the boy had come down to the Tweed to—to—’

‘To scout,’ Jordan’s mother said. Her voice was quiet, the way it was when she was slowly tracing something wrong in the counting-house.

‘To scout,’ Master Wodman said. ‘They had followed some rumour … They happened upon us just as we were escaping. The English shot Henry.’

‘And wounded you,’ the demoiselle said. The cloth in her grip was oozing water.

‘And me. The river was flooding. The boy fell from the bank. His father drowned trying to save him.’

‘Simon drowned?’ It was his mother.

‘Nicholas found them together. They were dead. He nearly lost his own life, swimming after. Simon did lose his life. He was brave.’

‘And Nicholas?’ his mother said. Transfixed with horror, Jordan hardly noticed what a long gap there had been.

‘At the Abbey in Kelso. He left us to take the two coffins there. We don’t know what he will do. Adorne said he must decide for himself.’

‘He would be distressed,’ Jordan’s mother said. It was an odd, unmanly thing to impute to his father. His father wouldn’t be upset over Simon, who had made such a fool of himself in that fight with the puddings. Jordan was distressed over Henry, but Henry was his cousin. Had been his cousin. And now he was suddenly dead, like Raffo, and Captain Astorre.

As it happened, Master Wodman didn’t answer. The demoiselle, maybe thinking as Jordan did, abruptly said, ‘Never mind. We mustn’t tire you. Gelis, I think Robin ought to hear about this. Do you think Jordan might go and tell him? He and Robin understand one another very well. Jordan? Would you?’

Leaving, he tried not to show his relief. He blew his nose, crossing the road, and prepared what he was going to say. He thought again of the pudding fight, and unexpectedly remembered Simon’s big sword, the one he had never been permitted to use. Now it was really his. He felt pleased, then ashamed.

He spent some time with Robin, and answered the door when Master Julius called to speak to the demoiselle. Jordan explained she was with Master Wodman and why, and asked him in, but he was in a hurry. Jordan watched him go, and returned to what he had been doing. Julius knew the St Pols. Jordan liked Julius. If his father was really upset, perhaps Julius could help him.

A
CROSS THE ROAD
, Andro Wodman was sleeping. He had talked erratically for some time, relating the truth that he had kept from the boy, but would not withhold from Nicholas’s wife, and Adorne’s niece. Simon had gone to kill Nicholas. A malicious rumour had sent him—an anonymous letter, some said—but he would have seized any excuse. It had not only robbed him of life, but the lad had died too, believing the man they pursued was a traitor. And so the wilful feud had come to an apogee, with none but Nicholas and the old man still on the board, far apart, solitary: Nicholas tending his dead, and the old man, all unawares, about to learn that the house of St Pol was now finished.

How distressed would he be? How distressed had Nicholas been?

Andro knew. ‘I have never before,’ Wodman had said, ‘heard a man’s heart break with pity like that; and I hope I never have to again.’

Gelis had said in her low, contained voice, ‘I hate Simon. I hate the St Pols. He is well rid of them all.’

And Kathi had looked at her and said, ‘He will never be rid of them now.’

Neither of them had wept. Neither had said very much; they simply remained in the same room, in companionship. It was Kathi who was most aware of this aspect of their curious friendship: that the comfort that was useless to Nicholas they could bring to each other, at least.

B
ECAUSE OF HIS
years and his girth, Jordan de St Pol, lord of Kilmirren, did not nowadays lead companies of men into battle; he let his son and his grandson do that. But, hearing that the enemy was massing at Berwick, he chose to stay at his Edinburgh house rather than at Kilmirren, guessing that Simon and Henry would move east as well. He expected them to ride with the West Warden, John Stewart of Darnley, and either remain in force on the Tweed, or join the main host as it moved south from Edinburgh. He did not know that Darnley was expected at Lauder.

In common with half the town, late that Monday morning, he learned that Adorne had arrived from the Borders, and was now at the Castle. His men, sent to investigate, reported that Andro Wodman had appeared, wounded, at the same time. They could discover nothing but speculation about de Fleury, who had disappeared when Wodman did. Jordan de St Pol had expected Wodman to inform him of de Fleury’s movements, and had been displeased when he did not. He had other agents, to be sure. To a powerful, inactive man, information was crucial.

When, therefore, a visitor was announced, the fat man expected it to be a Kilmirren fellow, with news or a commission from Simon. Serious news would have been brought by Adorne, who would have given his name, knowing what it would convey. When that tailor’s dummy Julius of Bologna entered the room, astonishment and antipathy drove the old man to his feet.

‘Indeed, sir? I cannot remember inviting you.’

‘Then I shall go,’ the man said. He had always been impertinent, trading on his mediocre good looks. ‘But I expected some thanks for my wretched tidings.’

He still looked impertinent. It meant that he did have disturbing news, and was planning to impart it with relish. Jordan de St Pol said, ‘In that case, I apologise. Please take a seat. You are about to tell me that
poor jumped-up Claes, our mutual friend, has overreached himself at last. Is he dead?’ Seating himself, he had signed to have the best claret poured. It came. He took a cup and drank.

The lawyer looked at him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. Unexpectedly, he had sobered. He said, ‘I know Nicholas meant more to your family than perhaps they wished to say. We watched him try to help Henry. It almost seemed that he and your grandson might become friends. That is,’—the handsome features were earnest—‘I am right, am I not, in thinking that Nicholas was truly your grandson? A pity, of course, that Simon had to marry so young, to someone he came to dislike. But I suppose that the confusion over the birth gave the perfect excuse to renounce the marriage. Do you regret it? Nicholas’s son is named after you, isn’t he? If Nicholas had been legitimate, Jordan would make a fine heir. If, sadly, anything happened to Simon or Henry.’

The change of tone in the last words was slight, but St Pol heard it. He said softly, ‘What is it to you?’

The lawyer looked down. His voice also was soft, even pleading. ‘I have watched Nicholas fight this undeserved stigma. He never held it against you. We didn’t always see eye to eye, he and I, but I knew and admired him for most of his life. I know how he yearned for your affection. My lord, tell the world he was legitimate, and honour him and yourself.’

He had hurried a little. The door behind him was open. As he spoke, there had been voices, and the minor flurry of someone approaching.

Adorne, of course. All, all, all.

It was not Anselm Adorne in the doorway.

‘Thank you, Julius,’ said the man who was supposed to be dead. Claes stood there. Claes. The so-called Burgundian. De Fleury. The lawyer whirled round.

For the second time, St Pol forced himself upright. Planted, his legs did not shake. The blood mottling his vast face and neck withdrew, leaving him chilled, but with sense enough for what had to be done. He said, ‘I see you contrived this moment between you. The apprentice pretends to be dead, and his underling is sent to coax forth lies and forgiveness.’

De Fleury said, ‘Julius is not here by my wish. I have come on other business.’ There was something stiff about his manner of standing. His flesh was swollen and mottled with colour, as if he had been set upon and kicked by a mob. One hoped, with fervour, that he had. His eyes were immense and, in any other man, would seem to be asking a question.

St Pol said, gratingly, ‘So. Let me declare at once that which I have always declared, and which I shall maintain to the grave.

‘
This man is illegitimate, and none of my blood
. He comes of an illicit union between an unknown man and the wife of my son. He is a bastard.
This I will swear to before any authority. I shall repeat my affidavit if need be, before the highest courts of the Church; and it will stand for all time. Are you satisfied, both of you?’