Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Phemie said, ‘I think, Nowie, that you should accept his suggestions. I also think that you should tell the Lords Three to compel this man to settle in Scotland. Chain him, if need be.’

  ‘My dear, your eloquence gladdens the heart. Indeed, you might almost persuade me. Nicol, I think she has almost persuaded me to help you. What do you think?’

  Nicholas said, ‘I think we should both thank her, Sir Oliver.’

  ‘What a nice speech. Doesn’t he have a nice turn of speech?’ the other man said. ‘So I think that, yes, I might do as you ask. And by the way, my name is Nowie, dear Nicol. (A glass of something?) If we are to work together, of course you must call me Nowie.’

  Crossing the bridge, rather drunk, Nicholas was stopped, not very surprisingly, by Tam Cochrane, who wanted a word in the sacristy. At the end of it: ‘Mares,’ said Cochrane, who by this time was drunker than Nicholas was.

  ‘What about them?’ said Nicholas, who was playing with a plumb line. He dropped it.

  ‘The clack was ye were buying stud stock frae Eck Scougal. Now he says they’re all going to some client in Renfrewshire. So would you like me to get you some others?’ Cochrane knew about horses.

  ‘Never mind. I’ve changed my mind. I’d better go,’ Nicholas said.

  He supposed that, back in Edinburgh, his groom would have departed already. Up and down, up and down like the pendulum.

  ‘It’s a shame about the young laddie. It’s a shame about Robin,’ said Cochrane.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Quhy has the se thé thus misluffit maid?’

  SPRING CAME, TO mend the brutal geometry of space. A ship arrived in Sluys bearing a poem, of which Gelis van Borselen took sasine:

  Suspendit gaudium

  Pravo consilioSed desiderium

  Auget dilatio

  Tali remedioDe spinis hostium.

  Uvas vindemio.

  (Delay …

  A perverse tutor

  Suspends joy

  But redoubles longing.

  So we

  From evil thorns

  Shall harvest grapes.)

  Below this artful translation, her husband had written: Be patient. I am not.

  IT WAS THE first communication from Nicholas since the coded note about Phemie. With the poem came several pages of news, characteristically scurrilous: about people she knew; about where he was staying. She gathered that he had been accepted at Court and elsewhere without too much trouble; that Davie Simpson had failed to surface; and that he had had a non-lethal meeting with Jordan de St Pol which boded reasonably well. There was an idiotic story about one of the King’s brothers and pepper. The letter was dated mid-March, and when it was written, it was clear, he had received none of the letters she had been trying to send him since February. His ended with a careful reminder that, despite all this good news, she was not to come back as yet. No grapes. Also in the packet was a budget for Jodi of everything he was accustomed to receiving from his roving father: letters, verses and drawings, puzzles and questions.

  She assumed she was being told perhaps an eighth, perhaps even a quarter of the truth. Kathi, consulted, agreed, but added that Nicholas would be much comforted by the belief that he was sparing her, and Gelis must simply suffer in a good cause. It did not occur to Gelis, then, that Kathi might know more than she did.

  By the end of April, there were two further letters from Nicholas, written later in March, and after he had received some of her own. It appeared that Tobie had told him something of her share in the Ghent Gate arrival, and Nicholas was frightened enough to be angry, which touched and pleased her: tit for tat. She read, with awe, his plans for Robin’s business, and learned that he had met Prosperde Camulio, but not Simpson, so far. He mentioned Adorne, and asked Gelis whether she had received a letter in code. He did not know, of course, that Adorne was in prison, or how delayed Phemie’s letter had been. He must be waiting, with more and more disquiet, for Adorne’s reply.

  He would have it soon. By mid-April, when that cautiously worded enquiry reached Gelis, Kathi had left, braving the seas to take Robin and her children to Scotland, and Tobie and Clémence with them. And taking, too, the precious document, newly written by Anselm Adorne, which accepted with joy Phemie’s child, and which asked her to marry him. It brought to Gelis’s mind that other, older affirmation whose existence she had confided to Diniz. Then, there had been no question of marriage, for the child’s mother, her sister, was dying. This was different. Now she must pray that Adorne, the father, would survive.

  Now, with Kathi gone, Gelis was alone with her anxieties in Bruges. But no. Of course she wasn’t alone. She had Jodi. Diniz was here, and his family. John had travelled to Sluys, as she had, to see Robin and the others depart; but, returning, had withdrawn into silence, sitting in corners with clerks, engaged in the final, dreary paperwork to do with the ending at Nancy of the mercenary company of which he had been master gunner. Outside, she had acquaintances: Bruges was full of people who had known Nicholas from boyhood. Letters came from the managers who had been friends—Gregorio in Venice, Father Moriz and Govaerts in Cologne, where they had been joined by Julius, direct from his successful visit with Tobie to Nancy. And with them (and long might she stay there) was Julius’s step-daughter Bonne.

  Gelis had no right to repine, and indeed little time, for she was occupied with the closing of Robin’s affairs as well as the normal business of the Hof Charetty-Niccolò. And above all else, she set to work for the survival of Adorne of Cortachy, who was still under duress, untried, despite all that she and Wolfaert and Gruuthuse had so far been able to do. The little Duchess, temporarily freed for her inauguration, was applied to, but Gelis herself—tellingly escorted by John—had seen her only briefly, and left with no promises and a feeling of helplessness on both sides. Their protests had, however, borne some kind of fruit: the execution of Adorne’s condemned companion had been delayed, and so had the trial of the others, as well as his own. But that was also to keep matters quiet during the visit of the Imperial embassy, come to Bruges to arrange for the Duchess’s wedding. And then there had followed the actual contract of marriage, which required the Duke of Bavaria, representing the groom, to lie down with the Duchess in bed, both being fully dressed, with a naked sword lying between them. Thus, to keep the land safe from King Louis, was contracted that union which would yield Burgundy, bit by bit, back to France, and would ensure that for three hundred years the Low Countries would belong to the Habsburgs.

  That day, it was not wise to walk about Bruges, where drinking was fierce and tempers ran hot and high. When the caller arrived at the Hof Charetty-Niccolò, he had passed through the streets with some difficulty, and before that, through France itself with even more trouble, so that his return had taken many weeks. The bright-eyed, middle-aged figure whom Diniz introduced to the parlour where Gelis and his family were gathered was the astrologer Andreas of Vesalia, physician, guild-brother and friend to Anselm Adorne, and—in his time—Court physician in Scotland.

  His first words were, ‘I have been to the Hôtel Jerusalem! What has happened?’ And at the end, ‘It has begun then. I was afraid.’

  Diniz, a sceptic, was silent. But Gelis knew from Nicholas, who had the power to divine minerals, the narrow boundary that lay between the occult and the rational, and was prepared at least to listen to astrologers; especially of the worldly sort with a much-cherished mistress in Blois.

  On the other hand, listening to astrologers was not always productive. Dr Andreas had been touched by no premonitions, it transpired, about Anselm Adorne. Speaking of him, he expressed the same angry anxiety that they all felt. This trial was iniquitous. Its effects would be felt by the unborn as well as the living.

  Gelis, distrusting the phrase, changed the subject. Tilde returned to it. What did he mean, It had begun? Pressed, Dr Andreas made a nonspecific reference to Scotland.

  ‘So what about Scotland?’ said Diniz sharply. ‘Is there something we should know? Or Nicho
las ought to be told?’

  ‘He will find out before we could tell him,’ the astrologer said. ‘He has experience of the King and his kindred. So has Dr Tobias.’

  Gelis stared at him. The King and his kindred? But before she could speak, the door opened on John le Grant, and the chance was lost in an exchange of fresh greetings.

  When she questioned him later, Dr Andreas was willing but not much more informative. He had formed an attachment for the ruling circles in Scotland, and had sensed a certain increasing tension in recent years. So far as he knew, M. de Fleury was not endangered. He did not know why he had connected the ills of Scotland with Lord Cortachy’s present predicament.

  He said nothing of Phemie. He probably knew nothing of Phemie, but his sixth sense had told him that something was wrong. She did not blame Dr Andreas. She knew, through Nicholas, how perverse that gift was.

  That perverse gift. That perverse tutor, Delay. That dire master, redoubled longing.

  She wished she were where Kathi was, sailing to Scotland.

  Be patient. I am not.

  I cannot wait much longer, Nicholas.

  UNFORTUNATE THE DOCTOR who, sick at heart, is also sick at sea. For nearly three months by this date, Tobias Beventini had been physician and shepherd to others, protecting Robin of Berecrofts and John while Julius argued for their release; caring for them when Julius had gone. Now Tobie was moving away from home, away from Bruges, away from the Italian states where he had grown up and trained, and towards Scotland, and Nicholas. And Robin was still in his care.

  Fortunate the doctor who, sick at sea, has a highly trained, much younger wife as formidable as Clémence, and a dear young former patient such as Kathi, to tend the sick man, and the sick doctor, and the sick children.

  They put in often to shore, and allotted themselves time to recover between the ceaseless storms and the buffeting. Only a journey by land would have been worse. England was at peace with both Scotland and Burgundy, and they had safe conducts from the little Duchess herself. But always Robin, appealing in whispers, was anxious to hurry and Tobie, deeply disturbed, had to weigh the effect of a refusal against the damage already inflicted by an elderly, badly packed vessel in tumultuous seas.

  Which was when Nicholas sent the Karel to collect them.

  Already anchored and waiting at Berwick, Crackbene had scattered drink-silver and threats through the fishing fleet and set off at the first word from the south. At Newcastle he found the slime-heavy vessel and boarded it with distaste, discovering Tobie emerging from his shoddy cabin. Tobie said, ‘Mick!’

  ‘Not much of a seaman, are you?’ said Crackbene. ‘Well, Mistress Sersanders? And these’ll be the young sprouts? How’s your husband?’ And presently, sitting by Clémence at the crippled man’s side: ‘How did we know? We guessed you’d have enough sense to come, and not enough to choose the right ship. I’m to take you to Berwick and wait there for your father and Nicol to join us. It’ll give you a good rest, and some nourishing food. I’ve got some on board, too. I’ll wager Master Tobie’s missed his fried minnows and seethed mutton gobbets. And I’ve got a nice bit of pork belly in lard.’

  ‘That wasn’t fair,’ said Robin, in his light, gasping voice. He was smiling. Tobie would have been pleased, had he still been present to see it.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Crackbene. ‘You’re one up on him: you’re not seasick.’

  Cushioned and comforted, they were in Berwick in days, and passed from the Karel to Tom Yare’s big house at The Ness, to wait and to recuperate. Tom and his wife made them readily welcome, although Tobie perceived on their faces, in private, the expressions Robin would learn to confront for the rest of his life. And he did not tell Robin, as they rested, what he had learned about Nicholas on the voyage.

  Had Nicol not thought to tell them? Crackbene had asked. Well, they had better know now. Remember that little rat Henry? Well, Henry was not only in Scotland, but now living with Nicol after trying to kill him and Wodman. Remember old Jordan, the grandfather? Well, where was he but in Edinburgh, planted over the road, breathing murder. Remember the King’s brother, Mar? Well, Nicol had riled him again, and there he was, wanting his blood.

  It had come out, and, to Tobie’s displeasure, it had also come out that Kathi knew this already. Wodman had sent an account of it all to her uncle. But her uncle being in prison, she had opened and read it.

  And then, of course, Crackbene had exclaimed, ‘Prison!’ and listened in turn, deeply startled, to the news from their side.

  Watching then, Tobie deduced that Crackbene knew nothing of Phemie’s involvement. He continued to watch. In Berwick, later, Yare happened to mention her name, but only to say that Mistress Kathi’s friend had left Haddington, and was now biding with her cousin at Roslin.

  So the pregnancy was not public knowledge.

  No doubt Kathi had made the same deduction. She never spoke of it. In public, she led Tom Yare rather to talk of what was happening in Scotland, and Yare, responding, conveyed caustic details, in his soft Berwick burr, of the great tournament that was to end the royal English Almoner’s current visit to Scotland. He’d heard her brother was involved with the jousting, and Nicol of course—anything for a ploy—and big Tam and Dob Cochrane and that wee hoor St Pol. Even Davie Simpson had been recruited, they said, to give them the benefit of his grand Archer’s training.

  ‘So when is all this?’ Kathi had enquired brightly.

  But Yare didn’t know. The Almoner wasn’t staying in Yare’s house, thank God, and it was up to the Governor to see to him on his way south. Anyway, even if Nicol or Archie were delayed, Master Robin was comfortable here. They were free to wait here as long as they liked.

  Kathi thanked him, with warmth, and so did Tobie. Inside, he felt seasick again. Nicholas. Simpson. That wee hoor, St Pol.

  Tobie didn’t like Henry either. Only the wrong people liked Henry. For Henry’s own sake, the boy should have been settled, for life, in Madeira. As it was, he was being used as a pawn. Tobie could imagine Simpson at the King’s ear: ‘Why not let the boy home? What would look better in this élite corps than a golden beauty like Henry?’ The voice of malice which, by chance, had achieved more than the speaker could guess.

  And so Nicholas had taken Henry into his house. And now he, Tobie, was bringing him Robin.

  GRANTED THIS ROMANTIC view of himself, Nicholas would have reminded Tobie of Tobie’s age (forty-seven), and observed that he himself was as yet perfectly capable of dealing on or off the tournament field with sixteen-year-olds, twenty-year-olds, and even Davie Simpson, who was a year older than he was.

  He was probably right. He was never to find out, as the trial took place during the rehearsal for the passage of arms, and not the tournament itself, which he never saw.

  He had not been greatly surprised, on the eve of the event, to find Davie Simpson sitting in one of the half-erected rough stands, smiling in his direction. Well, at last. Nicholas smiled back, wading and leaping over the exercise ground. The fifteenth horseload of mixed sand, earth and straw plodded in and disgorged itself at his feet, plus some inadvertent manure: he skidded round it. Orchardfield lay in the lee of the royal Castle: the smell rose to its windows, winking in the mild midday sun. Practice performances were supposed to take place at Vespers, but Will Roger had squashed that, having the music and the procession to rehearse, while the carpenters had to be reminded that the fence posts were still piled in the huts.

  He had tried to get Nicholas to take part in the singing, the fighting, or even just to dress as the Shepherdess, but Nicholas had refused, while being foolishly pleased to be asked. He shouldn’t have been here now at all, except that he knew Henry was coming; and the two Cochrane cousins had urged him to watch. They were defending the Shepherdess. It was only part of the programme, none of which would be carried out properly until tomorrow: traditionally, the Vespers rehearsal was for young tyros and townspeople, cheered on by their parents and friends. He sat down beside Simpson, nodd
ing to the others also taking their places, and turned his full attention to the only enemy he possessed who was not a St Pol. It struck him as embarrassing that, having caused havoc over three continents, he should end with a small, winsome Scot as one of his ultimate adversaries. It was true that most of the others were dead. It was also true that David Simpson was a highly skilled soldier and dealer, who had threatened Gelis, and who had already, in the past, tried to dispose of Nicholas and wrest away Jodi.

  Simpson was dressed in clerical black and, below the shallow black hat, it could be seen that the black waves that once brushed his neck had been finely shorn by a craftsman. Below the brim, the lazy, brilliant eyes smiled. Nicholas said, ‘Davie! Do you have a tonsure as well?’

  He didn’t raise his hand very fast, but in any case, Simpson’s iron fingers took his before they reached the edge of his hat. Simpson said, ‘My dear, don’t give me away. Prosper would hear, wherever he is, and be devastated. How are you?

  ‘Enjoying your hollow-ware,’ Nicholas said. ‘Has Camulio gone? Laden with profits from investing with Newbattle?’

  ‘Of course,’ Simpson said. ‘Your loss was his gain. I do understand your timidity: your wife will demand an explanation, I know. And what will she say about the loss of your brood mares to young Henry de St Pol! His account to the Guard, so I hear, was quite convulsing. Persuading Eck Scougal to sell him all the beasts you had chosen, and lifting your own groom as well!’

  Nicholas knew the account had been convulsing. Henry had given it, under his nose, one day at the Castle, when surrounded by some of his rather young, drunken friends. Taken to task later on, he had been impudently unrepentant. ‘You always said I should interest myself in new projects for Kilmirren. The Abbot of Melrose wants horses. So does Knollys. I thought of looking into shipping arrangements at Leith. You wouldn’t mind that? You haven’t bought Leith, Uncle?’