BACK IN AVANDALE’S office: ‘That might have been worse,’ Argyll said. ‘He had two new hounds to try out. Has de Fleury been sent for? Are we still agreed that we shall use him, whateffer? And that he should not be told what doesn’t concern him?’
‘I think so,’ said Avandale. ‘If he moves in too fast, we get rid of him.’ There was little more to say. They had made their decision the previous night, after their private interrogation of Nicol de Fleury on the matter of the Duke of Burgundy’s death. The precision of the account he had given them had revived memories of what had seemed enlightened about the man in the past: his fertile imagination, his abundant energy, his undoubted intellect, all of which the kingdom could utilise. Also, on the occasion of his four previous periods of residence, he had formed a close but seemly relationship with all the royal siblings, and especially with Albany. Which could be a good thing, or a bad. Yare, in his note, had recommended it, with respect, as an exploitable asset.
The future of Flanders could not have received, in Avandale’s view, a more valuable airing than it did in the exchanges that followed. On personal issues, de Fleury had been markedly less forthcoming. His reasons for leaving Scotland were specious; and it was hard to believe that he had relinquished control of his Bank simply in order to travel. He also omitted to mention that, although he passed for Burgundian, he had once tried to claim to be Scottish. It was said on good authority that he had pretended to be the son and heir of Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren, but had dropped the claim for personal reasons. The claim was invalid in any case: it was known from the same source that his Burgundian mother, whose name he now took, had deceived her husband Simon by producing a bastard. It was what they believed in Kilmirren, where the woman’s name was anathema.
He had taxed the fellow with the matter last night, since it had seemed coincidental that after de Fleury’s last visit, the St Pol family had gone into exile on grounds of fraud and deception. And now, by a similar coincidence, the old man was back, and so was de Fleury. Perhaps that was de Fleury’s true interest in coming back?
The Burgundian had sworn, last night, that he had no intention of harming any one of the family. He was here to do business and leave. If he could serve their lordships meantime in any way, he would be happy to do so. They had all listened. Their conclusion last night was summarised by his own answer just now. The man was worth courting a little. And if it didn’t work, they would get rid of him, one way or another.
IT WAS WHAT Nicholas, pragmatic as ever, fully expected them to conclude. He was on trial. On trial for all the weeks he might stay, as well as now, before the Secretary, the Chancellor and the Master of the Household, and before James, Third of the Name, who might be moody.
He was certainly haughty when Nicholas was ushered into the room to make the customary reverences, choosing the dangerous Italian style, for the hell of it. He could see Argyll’s mouth twitch. His own expression was serious. Knight of the Unicorn or not, a courtier who had left without warning was not going to be embraced by a Stewart. Seated on his chair of state in a velvet side-gown and magnificent chain, below which his riding dress could be glimpsed, the King stared down his long nose. On his right hand sat Sandy his brother, and on his left the three interrogators of last night’s privy encounter, gazing at Nicholas as if at a stranger. There was a page at the King’s feet, and two of his men at the door.
‘So,’ said the King. ‘I hear you have news to tell us of the circumstances of the noble Duke of Burgundy’s death. We are prepared to hear it.’
Nicholas embarked on his narrative, which was clear, and grave, and concealed nothing. The King then enquired whether M. de Fleury believed that the young Duchess, the Duke’s bereaved daughter, would marry the young lord, the Emperor’s son, to which Nicholas answered, Yes, this was the general view. Asked about Scottish trade, he answered that in his opinion the Staple would desert Bruges for Antwerp or Middleburg. Finally, he reported the wide-held belief that the King of France would now attempt to restore his claims over Burgundy.
The questions were as he expected: obvious, sensible, and deriving mostly from the royal ministers. They were voiced with some resentment. To James, the death of Charles of Burgundy was a severe inconvenience, and reduced his own standing as kinsman. Unlike Sandy, James had not travelled in Flanders or even in England. Princes in conflict praised his offers to mediate, but were not generous with their invitations, unless he promised to come with an army. And his Parliament had always stopped that.
The elder by only two years, the King lacked the haphazard taste for adventure that his brother displayed, but dreamed intense dreams of leading armies, and attracting the envy of chivalrous Europe with his well-placed artillery, and his timely advice, and the great marriages that his children would make. Scotland, at present a place of thatched houses and hens in the street, would become a second Lombardy. Nicholas thought, automatically answering the pre-arranged questions, that James and his brother would probably never understand one another, even though on the surface they seemed so alike. The King was slighter in frame, with a long, reddened nose less attractive than Sandy’s, and short, full pink lips. But the auburn hair of the Stewarts was the same, and the curiously innocent appetites. James had tried, once, to seduce Gelis in front of Little Bell.
As if on cue, the King began talking of Gelis. ‘And your lady wife. I trust that, if you intend staying, your lady wife will come to ornament our Court? She is here?’
Nicholas took a short, calming breath. The picture in the King’s mind was not necessarily an echo of what was in his, but the naïveté of the question was unfortunate: Whitelaw’s face, below the grey hair, was pained. Nicholas smiled and spoke mildly. ‘No, my lord and great Prince, but I hope to bring her one day. She also feels for your loss, and asked me to add her condolences to mine.’
The King gazed at him as if he had forgotten. Then irritation returned. He said, ‘The Duke’s death. The lady is kind. I suppose, then, you’ll have brought a shipload of expensive black doublets to sell me? Velvet cloaks? Fancy pourpoints? I am sure you think I can afford them.’
Nicholas said, ‘Mourning may take many forms, my lord King. The interment is over. All the world knows the grief you carry in your heart. A Mass in the spring would surely suffice, at the time of the usual change in the wardrobe. Your grace’s own merchants know what serves best.’
The King looked surprised. On earlier trips, Nicholas de Fleury would have jumped at the chance to press costly goods on them all. Forgetting his stance on economy, the King said, ‘Now here is a surprise! The good sire de Fleury cannot aspire these days to a nobleman’s cargo, but has fallen on hard times, perhaps? Of what sort is this cargo—some salt and a few sacks of alum, or a few barrels of the cheaper sorts of wine? If that is all, he cannot expect to trade here.’
A man was shouting outside the door, and there came the sound of faint scuffling. The King started, and then said something petulant to his door-keepers, who retreated to the posts they had started to leave. Albany swore. Continuing his undisturbed solo: ‘Your grace, I have no expectations,’ said Nicholas musically. ‘I came to fulfil some orders and, since you were pleased to send for me, to tell you my news. The lady my wife is the trader.’
The door burst open, revealing two men-at-arms and an usher attempting to restrain John of Mar. John of Mar shook them off and, marching forward, slapped Nicholas viciously across the side of his face. Nicholas jerked and recovered, breathing deeply, standing repressively where he had been. His gaze locked with Mar’s.
‘They could afford pepper,’ snapped the King’s brother over his shoulder. His entire face was as red as his rash. Where James’s hair hung in loose waves, John’s was crimped like a thunderstruck wedder. He spat at Nicholas. ‘You could afford pepper, couldn’t you, you obsequious brute? You weren’t smirking and making reverences this morning when you thought you had me alone with your bullies about you. I could have died.’ He turned to the chair of state, his voice risi
ng. ‘I could have died!’
Someone—Whitelaw—spoke in an undertone, quickly. ‘My lord! We can discuss this elsewhere.’
‘I am discussing it now,’ said the Prince. ‘Now the man is here, and can answer for what he has done. Hang him. Hang him, James.’
Albany said, ‘Don’t be a fool. He’s done nothing. James—’
‘Wait,’ said the King. ‘What has de Fleury done? An attack on a prince of the realm constitutes treason.’
The large, grey eyes of the Burgundian glanced at Albany, and then returned to the King. The Burgundian said, ‘In the presence of the King and his nobles, my lord, may I confess that what you say is true as the Lord’s Prayer? An attack on a prince is a hanging matter. A prince who drives his sword into another man’s merchandise and then suffers the consequences must, however, blame only himself. Indeed, he should in law recompense my lord of Albany, whose pepper it was.’
‘I told you,’ said Albany. John of Mar, with deliberation, set his hands to the thick table below him and heaved, so that it crashed to the ground, sending a candlestick rolling and ringing. Then he turned and raised his arm, fast, once again; this time towards his brother Albany. The Master of the Household, the Highland Earl of Argyll, seized and held it with ease.
The youth struggled. He yelled, ‘All right, lick his arse, Sandy. You’ll still not get to marry the Duchess. Christ, would you put a brute like de Fleury in front of your own flesh and blood?’
‘The law herself so puts him,’ said Colin Campbell. ‘If you disagree, there is a place to complain, my lord of Mar. But surely it is not here and now, when you are unwell. Let me help you out.’
Others came. Presently the door shut on them all, and the sound of Mar’s bawling receded. Nicholas de Fleury rubbed his cheek, which was numb, and collected the silent support of the Council. The King, talking fiercely to Albany, had avoided his eye. The table was righted and Argyll returned, adjusting his robe. He said, ‘I am sorry, your grace. Were there other matters your grace wished to open with M. de Fleury?’
It seemed there was nothing, which suited M. de Fleury very well. He had conveyed all he wished to convey. A cynical ear might have noted that there were some details that he did not pass on, such as the precise plans of the leaders of Bruges. He had however reminded the King of their names, causing him to exclaim when he mentioned Adorne. ‘My good baron of Cortachy! If they change his office in Bruges, then perhaps he can resume as our Conservator for Scotland? We miss his visits. That is, his nephew and Wodman do well enough, but Adorne was an ornament to our Order.’
It sounded heartfelt. It gave Nicholas reason to remember Mar’s antipathy to foreign advisers, who might arrange foreign marriages. The Duke of Albany had aspired to the little Burgundian heiress. No doubt the King had encouraged him, even though he might suspect it was a lost cause. It would suit James to be free of brother Sandy. He probably wished to God he could be free of his second brother as well. A confused King and two rudderless Princes, adrift in a world which they hardly seemed to realise was splitting apart.
He didn’t know why he felt quite so dismayed. If everything was all right, he wouldn’t be here. He knew why he felt dismayed. It had nothing to do with the Princes.
The interview ended. Nicholas withdrew, after establishing that he hoped to stay for some weeks, and could be reached through the Abbot of Holyrood. He tried to sound grateful for the Abbot’s insistent hospitality. Albany left the room with him, which he hadn’t expected, but which made the next step easier. Before, he had meant to set out at once on the journey Yare had mentioned in Berwick. It was only an hour after noon. There was time to go and return, and make his call on Adorne’s nephew, Kathi’s brother Sersanders. Their house was in the burgh of the Canongate, the lower part of the single thronged street that plunged down from the castle to Holyrood. He had passed it, coming from Leith. Dawn and Leith seemed a long time ago.
That had been the plan. Now he had to make one small alteration. Leaving the King’s apartments with Albany, Nicholas spoke as they walked. ‘Thank you for your support. I found it difficult to know what to do. Does the King fear for his life, that he has a guard now?’ They had begun to walk between the armed men, whose captain lifted his sword in salute. His face was unfamiliar. All the faces were unfamiliar. The Guard had changed since he had arrived.
Albany said, ‘Against you, or John? Hardly. No. It’s only for show during audiences. The men will stand down and eat very soon: they have a place by the wall. Then they’ll gamble and drink till the next call.’ He smiled at the captain, who returned a grin: they were comfortable with Albany.
Nicholas said, ‘It sounds quite enticing.’
The King’s brother looked at him. ‘Where were you going to eat? We could join them. I don’t stand on ceremony.’ He paused and said, ‘You deserve some ale after that buffet. I’m sorry.’
Nicholas supposed the bruise must be obvious, even among the rest of his contusions. It felt swollen: the face of a thug above the splendour of the unicorn collar. Well, the King hadn’t demoted him, yet. He said, ‘Rather that than a hanging. Ale sounds good.’
The rough stone lodge for the King’s élite Guard was not large, but the rushes were clean, and the big brazier warmed the room where they spent their off-duty hours. Because the windows were small and half shuttered, the light inside came from the blue and red peat-flames and the torches stuck on the wall. A trestle far from the door was littered with pewter and food, and some men were sitting there, eating. One of the Castle dogs rooted for scraps. Four Archers who had finished were using a cleared space for a dice game, while others nursed their ale-cups by the brazier, stripped to their shirts, lolling on benches or stools. The timber roof shot back the talk and the laughter, and the air was thick with masculinity and ale.
Sandy went in, and the seated men got hastily to their feet, and then relapsed slowly when he told them to. You could see they actually thought it an honour. Someone ran out for food, and several got up and started clearing the table while Albany turned to introduce Nicholas.
Nicholas stood in the doorway. Across the room, a slender, an exquisite Archer also stood where he had slowly risen; the candle-flame gilding his hair and the ends of his lashes; his eyes wide and lovely and blue.
‘You know each other,’ said Albany, looking from one to the other. ‘Of course. I’d forgotten. Aren’t you even related by marriage? So may I reintroduce to you Henry de St Pol of Kilmirren, our newest member?’
‘My dear Uncle,’ said Henry. ‘You didn’t recognise me. You passed me just now without recognising me. Won’t you forget your looks, and take out your eyeglass?’
He was sixteen, perhaps. His voice, husky and soft, was full of sweet mischief. Men laughed.
• • •
THE MOST PATIENT of men, Nicholas awaited the end of the meal. Seated by Albany, he could do nothing else. Despite Henry’s golden attractions, or perhaps because of them, Albany did not offer to the newest and youngest recruit an elevated seat at his board. Henry, court-trained to sense the unspoken, sat and ate in the shadows, submissive and sad, his dulcet voice seldom raised, even when his companions attempted to tease him. Nicholas met the situation by restraining his own performance to match. It was not the moment, in any case, to break into a breathless display of buffoonery, whatever Sandy might have been hoping for. They talked mainly about war. By the end, he knew them all reasonably well, and took his leave of them and of Albany, who was walking back to the tower. Albany directed him to present himself the following day, and Nicholas thanked him. Then he turned to where Henry de St Pol stood awaiting him, derision in the wondrous blue eyes. Henry said, ‘After that, how dare I hope to claim your attention, my uncle?’
‘I expect you’ll risk it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Shall we go somewhere and talk? I thought I saw you up there, but couldn’t believe it. I admire you. An appointment to this Guard is given only to the best.’
‘It must indeed have seemed unbelievable,’
Henry said. ‘Will you trust yourself, then, to my house? It is just down the hill.’
Nicholas knew where it was. It was where he had first been shown the child Henry by a triumphant Simon de St Pol. Where other things had happened, with other people. He said, beginning to walk, ‘Thank you. Your father is still in Madeira?’
‘Where your false information sent him? Yes, Uncle. But my grand-sire is here.’ His voice taunted. ‘Do you still want to come?’
It was not what Nicholas had heard; nor, he suspected, the truth. Two days ago, the fat man had been in the west, at Kilmirren, and was most likely still there. Nicholas remarked, ‘Should I have a bodyguard? And who else will be there: Mistress Bel?’
‘You remember our old friend Mistress Bel,’ said the youth, gratified. His hair curled, ducat-gold, from under the tilt of his bonnet, and the guard at the drawbridge saluted him. He said, ‘Sadly, no. She stays in Stirling these days, since you threw her out of her house.’
Nicholas had bought her house. He had not thrown her out. He said, ‘I can’t quite recall doing that. Could it have been David Simpson?’ It was what de Salmeton called himself now.
The boy stopped and slapped the side of his own head. ‘That was it! After he bought your castle of Beltrees, he took over her land and expelled her. Life in Scotland has become very rough; I wonder you dared to come back. I heard Johndie Mar slapped your jaw. I see he punched your eye also. Did you stand still and let him?’
‘I’ll blind him next time,’ Nicholas said. ‘The black eye and the rest came from another fight. As you say, Scotland has become very rough.’
‘Another fight? When? You only came yesterday.’ The boy came to a halt. Two washerwomen and a cowherd stopped at the top of the West Bow, admiring him. A servant of Wodman’s, seeing them both, raised his brows and unfurled a hand in some sort of greeting.
‘So people started hitting me yesterday,’ Nicholas said crisply. ‘You might even have been without an uncle if Andro Wodman hadn’t ridden out with me. We were waylaid by some rascals. They broke his arm and his nose.’
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