Dr Andreas came out, and joined Oliver Sinclair where he stood, massive and frowning, in the helpless consternation that gripped them all. In the quietness of the green empty meadowland, with the abandoned masons’ marks under the grass, there existed small disparate sounds: birdsong; the hiss of the waterfall deep in its gorge; the cry of a lamb; the rustle, now and then, of the hanging linen in the warm air. Andreas looked worn.
Sinclair spoke to him quietly. ‘I am sorry. It happened yesterday. One would have wished very much to spare my lord of Cortachy this distress. He came, of course, expecting to see her? The Tribunal has freed him?’
Andreas stirred. He said, ‘He expected to make her his wife. He is free, so far as it goes. He is debarred from office in Bruges. The Duchess has made him her personal envoy, so that he could come for his marriage and stay until he had decided where his future would lie. How did it happen?’ His questing gaze had found the other professional, Dr Tobias.
Tobie said, ‘A premature birth, and a rupture. Everything possible was done for her.’
‘I am sure it was,’ said Andreas. He looked back at Sinclair. ‘I hope you know that my lord of Cortachy was unaware of all this until recently, and has been mortally anxious to make amends.’
‘We are not about to be harsh,’ said Oliver Sinclair. ‘There is a burial to arrange, and the infant’s future to think of. If he wishes to stay here, then he may.’
‘There is also my house,’ said Archie of Berecrofts. ‘Or Kathi and Robin’s. Dr Andreas would be welcome as well.’
‘Or either could come to me,’ said Nicholas de Fleury. He had remained in the background, as he had ever since he arrived at the castle. He was not related to Phemie. His gaze, all the time he spoke, was on the doorway into the church, as his thoughts were on Adorne. He added, ‘He will take this very badly.’
‘It is the final blow,’ Andreas said. ‘You must speak to him. But not at your house. The others will all be there by now. John le Grant was taking them there, straight from Leith. They will know nothing of this.’
Nicholas, beginning to speak, was overridden by Tobie.
‘John?’ said Dr Tobias. ‘John has come to Scotland?’
‘He decided, eventually,’ Andreas said. He was already moving towards Nicholas, who was standing quite still.
Nicholas said, ‘What others?’
‘Your wife and son,’ said Dr Andreas. ‘Forgive me. Of course, you couldn’t know; I had forgotten. Adorne and I left the ship to come here. Your wife and son have gone with le Grant and their servants straight to Edinburgh. They will be there when you reach it.’
The doctor had taken his arm, as if something in his face gave cause for alarm, or as if he, Nicholas, were Adorne. At the door of the chapel, the hangings parted as a small person quickly emerged and looked about. Kathi, hunting him. She darted over. ‘Nicholas! Gelis and Jodi were on the same ship.’
‘I’ve just heard,’ he said. ‘Why?’ His voice cracked.
‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Kathi said. ‘You can protect them. They’re here. They’re here.’ She looked round. ‘Tobie?’
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Tobie. ‘Sir Oliver, you don’t mind if some of us leave? M. de Fleury’s wife is in Edinburgh.’
He didn’t say, as he might have done, And so is David de Salmeton, who has been waiting for this. And the brat St Pol, who has already once tried to get rid of Jodi. And Robin, who is not ready, yet, to share his protectors.
Kathi, with the aid of a groom, was dragging over Adorne’s horse, and Andreas’s own. ‘Take these. They can come back with yours.’
Her voice was not cracked; it was fierce. Nicholas drew breath, and walked across, and curled his hand over hers as it lay on the reins. He said, ‘I’ve just realised what you said. Gelis and Jodi are in Edinburgh.’
Oliver Sinclair studied de Fleury. He had a remarkable facility, the Burgundian, for switching expressions. The light in his face was reflected, Sinclair observed, in the young woman’s; the light, still mixed with the pain.
The young woman, Adorne’s niece, said, ‘You should listen.’
FOR GELIS, DISEMBARKING and travelling to Edinburgh, this was not a first marriage she had come to consummate, nor even a second: she and Nicholas had already marked with a few days of desperate happiness the end of their war of eight years. Since then, five months had gone by, and she could bear it no longer. Adorne’s departure had presented an opportunity. Against orders, blindly rebellious, she had come. So we, from evil thorns, shall harvest grapes.
The day seemed as radiant as her mood. Seagulls gleamed; the sea whispered over the bar; banners rustled in the warm breeze. John, subtly provoked by his old mistress the ocean, had arranged the disembarking with abrasive efficiency and a touch of reluctance that gladdened Gelis’s heart. Then they set off, John and herself with their servants on horseback, and Jodi riding beside her, sharing a saddle with Manoli, his friend and his bodyguard, whose presence, with John, was meant to reassure Nicholas. Look, we are safe. Between you all, how could we possibly come to any harm?
A boy of eight remembers a place where he once lived with his father and mother and Mistress Clémence who used to be his nurse, and kept a parrot, and played in gardens, and slid on ice, and got sweetmeats for being ill, and marchpane from his wee Aunty Bel, and sat on the knee of a man called Whistle Willie in the Queen’s room up at the Castle. Jodi said, ‘Will we see Whistle Willie?’
‘Yes,’ said Gelis.
‘Will we see Aunty Bel?’
‘Yes. I hope so.’
‘Will we see Robin? Will he be better?’
‘He’ll want to see you. He is better, but he has to lie in his bed.’
Silence. ‘So who else will I see?’
They had been over all this a dozen times. She had told him, on Nicholas’s advice, that his silly cousin Henry was up at the Castle, so that Jodi would never even see him. She had told him that they would visit Dr Tobie and Mistress Clémence very soon. She had told him that Henry’s fat grandfather sometimes came to Edinburgh, but that he was too old to harm anyone now, and Jodi had to be sorry for him. She had explained that Robin’s father now owned both the big Canongate houses, and that the other house had been sold. Jodi was going to meet papa in a splendid new house in the High Street.
It was possible, of course, that Nicholas would not be there, since he had no idea that they would be coming. That is, a message they had sent from the harbour would hardly arrive much before they did. Gelis had, nevertheless, no qualms about the capacity of a de Fleury household to receive all of them without warning, if necessary. The world was strewn with Nicholas’s efficient former establishments and well-trained ex-servants. There would be no fuss.
They passed the Holy Trinity Church, and turned up Leith Wynd into the Canongate.
Now Jodi, warned against emitting loud personal comments in crowded streets, had settled for watching the houses, bright-eyed, and the children and the chickens and the stalls and wheelbarrows and dogs. It was steep, unlike Bruges. It had no flat canals, as Bruges had. If you twisted sideways in the saddle you could see that the lanes on the right plunged down and down to a hollow, and then up a low ridge, and beyond that, you could see the sea. You had to go three miles before you could see the sea outside Bruges. He had been promised a boat.
Gelis watched the road without seeing it. After the wedding it had been she who had waited for Nicholas, and Nicholas who had come to her through the streets, walking with his friends, a little drunk. She wondered if he were at his desk now, very sober; or interviewing someone on business; or perhaps entertaining a friend. He had many friends, men and women. She didn’t fear them. She knew what she was to Nicholas, and he to her.
He might, then, have been entertaining a friend when the message came from the harbour. At first, he might not believe it, but only at first. He knew, as she did, how terrible the separation had become. He would understand that she had reached a conclusion: that nothing mattered but t
hat they should be together. Then he would make some excuse to dismiss whoever was with him and, throwing orders at Lowrie his steward, would come, on foot, striding down the High Street to meet her.
Or no. That was not how he would want their first meeting. He would wait. But not as once she had made him wait.
He had described the house: she could see it. It was timber and tall, and stood near the Bow, past where the High Street merged into the Lawnmarket. Because of its site, it had been expensive, and he had taken care to explain why it was necessary. The money that had leased it was hers, as were all the funds that had financed his journey. In fact they were his: they represented the wealth he had bestowed on her at their marriage, which she had since used to restore the fortunes of the Bank he had left. Now that was done, and the investment returned to her with interest. She was rich, but he had his fortune to make all over again. There was irony in it as well. He had had no desire for wealth or position, but had acquired them as a prize, to lay at Marian de Charetty’s feet. And now he would not rest, Gelis knew, until he had earned and repaid every groat that she had given him. Her heart wept for the pride she felt for him.
Now they were near. The windows were sun-struck and blind. She saw two or three men in newish dress hastening out from the courtyard, looking towards her, preparing to lead in their horses. John, riding quickly, bent and called to them. She heard his voice and theirs. She heard what he turned and called to her.
‘Nicholas is not at home.’
It was just as well. Her riding gown was filthy with dust. The roar of the packed streets was deafening. The sun, beating down, released the stench of the town, which she had forgotten during fresh weeks at sea. When she dismounted, the ground swayed, reminding her that she had had a long, tiring journey. It was a relief, in the end, not to have to manufacture some sort of greeting. Jodi was silently crying. John put his arm round him. A brawny middle-aged woman emerged and ushered them into the house, explaining something in a broad accent. She wore a white cap and apron, and a heavy gown of the same stuff as the livery doublets.
John, who came from Aberdeen, said, ‘Apparently Nicholas left home early this morning, for how long no one knows. Our message came later, and rooms are being prepared. Lowrie, the steward, had to go out, but they say he’ll be back, and ask us if we would like a refreshment in the parlour. One of the girls is coming to look after Jodi.’
They were inside the house, and the woman had turned and was encouraging Gelis to follow. ‘Just a step this way, my lady. You’ve had a wearisome journey, but you’re home now. And I ken who’ll be richt glad tae see ye.’
The man behind bringing their baggage muttered something, and the woman turned on him, arms on hips. ‘And why for should I not say what I think?’ And to Gelis, ‘Am I being familiar, my lady?’
The noise had receded, the air had become cool; the smells inside the house were of seasoned timber, and scented wax lights, and something fragrant, cooking. Gelis said, ‘You are being welcoming, and Master John and Jodi and I are most grateful. What is your name?’
It was Mailie. The girl who came next was called Ella, and was introduced to both Jodi and his bodyguard. A few questions more, and the first steps had been taken towards integrating with her new household. She kept it friendly and brief, and at the end was left in the parlour, with John and Jodi, and some dishes of pastry and marchpane, and some wine.
John said, ‘Well done. Well done, Jodi, as well. By the time papa comes, you’ll be as much at home here as he was. He’ll be astonished.’
No one knew where my lord was. Mailie said that this was unusual: that everyone knew, as a rule, what his movements were. She would take a wager that Master Lowrie, when he came back, could say.
After a while, Jodi fell asleep in his corner, and Gelis felt her own eyes beginning to close. She sat up. The engineer was standing at the window. Gelis said, ‘Do you want to wait for him?’
John le Grant turned. ‘I’d like to go and see Robin. Would you mind?’
She didn’t mind. In anyone other than John, it would have been tact. Before he went, he carried Jodi up to his new bed, accompanied by Ella. Jodi hardly woke. Below, Gelis walked round the room, touching cushions, lifting books. She had glimpsed Nicholas’s office with the desk in it, efficiently marshalled. It was much as she had imagined, except that he was not there. She had seen, too, the chamber with its wide, canopied bed which she saw he had made half his own. She had had her coffers put there, but hadn’t opened them. She would have to ask Mailie to find her a servant. Or the absent Lowrie.
She was tired, but she would not lie there, to be found. This time, he must take her.
Soon after that, the absent Lowrie arrived. She heard voices outside; then the steward tapped on the door and came in.
He was hard to assess: a neat man with a collected manner. Only when he began to speak could you guess that he was a clerk, as well as a man who managed the house and its master. She realised he was saying that he had brought someone to see her.
She had no wish to receive anyone. She said, ‘I should like to hear first, please, about my husband.’
‘That is why I brought this lady,’ said the man Lowrie. ‘She will tell you.’
Someone stood in the doorway: someone short and plump and not very young whom Gelis, rising, recognised as if four years were nothing. Bel of Cuthilgurdy, sharp-tongued neighbour of Jordan de St Pol, and once friend of Jordan’s dead daughter Lucia. Bel, who could live in Kilmirren House, and yet prove a staunch friend of Nicholas, and herself, and young Jodi. Bel of Cuthilgurdy here—why?
The round shapeless face gave nothing away. Bel said, ‘I mauna stay. I’ll not spoil your homecoming. I’m fair pleased to see you, but ye’ve come on a bleak day, my hinny. I’ve something to tell you.’
Lowrie slipped from the room. Gelis, rising to rush forward, stopped. Nicholas. No, of course not. Not in these words. Then she said, hesitantly, ‘Robin?’
‘No.’ The small woman came forward, and kissed her, and pulled her down beside her on a settle. She said, ‘Anselm Adorne went to Roslin. I ken why. So do you. He went to see Phemie Dunbar. He’ll see the bairn: it’s born; he has a wee daughter. But Phemie died yesterday.’
The silence stretched on. Anger was the first overwhelming emotion. But for the ingrates of Bruges, Adorne would have been with her; would have shared her joy at the coming child; would have made her his wife. Even if death had come in the end, they would have had that. Now he would arrive and find he had lost her by a day.
Then she realised why she was being told. ‘Nicholas is there?’
‘The babe was baptised this morning, in private. They were all there: the Dunbars and the Sinclairs and Phemie’s good friends from the Priory. Jamie Liddell, for Albany. Not Robin, but Kathi and Saunders, of course. Adorne would find them, at least, when he arrived. And Dr Andreas would be with him.’
‘And Nicholas? You know what he—’
‘I ken what he did for Phemie Dunbar. Love and pity have aye been the key to the puzzle of Nicol de Fleury,’ said Bel. ‘And yes, he’d be stricken, but he’d be among friends, as Adorne would. I’d trust one of them to bring him back to you, for he’ll know by now that you’re here: Adorne or Andreas will have told him.’
Bel stopped. ‘That’s all. I’m going. If you can stand that old besom Kilmirren, that’s where I’m staying. I know that ye canna fathom how I can thole him, but I’ve kent Jordan de St Pol for a long time, and I’m used to him. Will ye be all right, now?’
‘No,’ said Gelis. ‘But I know what I owe you. Nicholas too. He wrote that you hadn’t come to see him, or sent.’
‘No. I had my reasons,’ said Bel. ‘But now I’m just over the road, if you want me.’
IN THE EVENT, it was Tobie’s stalwart wife Clémence who rode with Nicholas to his new house in the High Street, and saw, as he did, that there were extra horses in the stable, and a familiar saddle set to one side. ‘So she’s safely here,’ Clémence said. �
�Now there’s Lowrie, who can tell me where Master John and Jodi might be. You go to the parlour.’
He disliked being organised. He was trying, very hard, to keep his breathing even, and the turmoil within him under control. Gelis had come. Whatever it meant in terms of extra anxiety—and it would increase his burdens tenfold—was outweighed, as she had realised too, by the necessity that they should be together. Now he had let go; now he had given into her charge all the part of him that found expression in physical love, he could not manage without her. With her, he could do anything.
So he must leave her in no doubt that he wanted her. The desolation he felt must be set aside, even though it ensured that, for all time, he could never explain what the death of Phemie had truly meant. But one did not repeat one’s mistakes. This time, Gelis came first.
She was in the parlour, and alone. Her face was paler than it had been in winter, and her eyes marked a little with strain and want of sleep. She looked as if she had waited there a long time. She rose, and stood still, and said, ‘Nicholas. I have come at a bad time. I am so sorry.’
Of its own accord, his throat jammed, leaving an ache like a sprain. ‘You know?’
‘About Phemie, yes. Bel told me. But Adorne, arriving like that … What happened?’
‘Bel!’ He was still bewildered. He said, trying to recover, ‘Adorne came, with Andreas, and found her in the chapel. Scheves was kind. Kathi and Saunders were there. He’ll stay at Roslin until the burial. No one knows what will happen after that.’
‘He meant to stay in Scotland for a while,’ Gelis said. ‘Until the baby could travel. What have they called her?’
‘Euphemia,’ he said. ‘She’ll have a plethora of nurses. Cristen. Clémence. Ada. Nanse Preston, even.’ He broke off.
‘What?’ said Gelis. She walked forward and drew him down to the settle, as Bel had done with herself.
He said, ‘I wonder what Robin will make of it? Another rival. He needs so much …’
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