Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I don’t remember agreeing,’ said Wodman. ‘Or Nicholas.’

  ‘How strange,’ said the fat man. ‘Perhaps this was because your agreement was not deemed to be necessary. David? I offer you justification, or single combat with this—what shall I call him?’

  ‘Knight?’ said Wodman.

  ‘Of course. Of the Unicorn. A curious order of horse. David? What do you choose?’

  ‘To fight,’ David said. Justification meant execution under the law. His delicate features were set.

  ‘With what weapon, if any?’

  ‘With one dagger each. There is a pair over there.’

  There was a slender box on the same table that Wodman had stood behind. If Nicholas and Simpson were going to fight, the centre of the room would have to be cleared. Nicholas slowly rose. He had not yet agreed; but as the old man had pointed out, agreement was not necessary, any more than victory was sure to be recognised. Outside the door were Kilmirren men, and inside were St Pol and his grandson. This was a duel which neither antagonist might win.

  Simpson was smiling at Nicholas. He said, ‘Supposedly so brilliant, my dear; yet you could not foresee this? Shall we choose our weapons together?’ He had kicked off his soft boots and risen, collected and lithe in the long hose and white shirt and russet tunic. His feathered brows above his dark eyes were raised in amusement, but there was no colour in his fine skin.

  Nicholas said, ‘If you had taken ship, you would be free.’ The windows, now, were as bright as the candles. Wodman, with a glance at the old man, had begun to lift away stools and coffers. After a moment, Henry helped him. Henry, too, was keeping an uneasy eye on his grandfather.

  David Simpson said, ‘Free for what?’ He paused and added, ‘I became very tired with some of the things that you did, you and your friends. You should have listened to me. I could have told you something worth hearing.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Nicholas said. It was unwise, he knew. The more he heard, the less likely he was to survive. Suddenly, he realised that this was why David was talking.

  David said, ‘What would you like me to tell you? About your birth? You are a bastard. About this embittered old patriarch who set us all to spy on his family? St Pol will kill you if I don’t. But before he does, ask him about his dead wife and the old woman, Bel. Or ask Andro Wodman what it is he isn’t telling you.’

  They had arrived at the table. Jordan de St Pol stood behind it, with his ringed hands on the box. Nicholas recognised one of the rings. He bore the mark of it on one cheek.

  Nicholas turned to David Simpson. He said, ‘If you know me, you know that none of these things matter.’ He was not really addressing David Simpson. He was speaking to Henry.

  Simpson said, ‘You mean you don’t care if Monseigneur kills you, if I don’t?’ He stopped and said, ‘No. Of course you care. But other things seem more important. We are very alike, you and I.’

  No one laughed. No one spoke. Nicholas said, ‘You mean if things had gone otherwise, we should have been soul-friends?’

  The fine eyes studied his, gravely. The Archer said, ‘But isn’t this true of most antagonists? We dislike our own flaws in others. We resent those whose admiration we want. Only sometimes, if we are blessed, we may reverse the process.’

  He stopped.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said.

  The box was open, and the two daggers lay there, side by side. David Simpson said, ‘I was sent to Cyprus, and told to beat you in business, and make sure you went home. But for this old man, we should have been friends.’ And lifting one of the knives, he drove it into the breast of St Pol.

  It grated on steel. The fat man fell back, staggering. Henry screamed. Simpson dragged back the dagger and lifted his fist to slash it across St Pol’s bloated neck. Nicholas snatched the second blade up. It cracked against the first, diverting it from its path, and, when Simpson turned, Nicholas used it again, plunging it into the other man’s arm. Blood sprayed, and Simpson gasped. It was not a duel. It was a face-to-face struggle, with the edge of a table before them, and Wodman and Henry running up from behind. The fat man straightened and said, ‘I’m all right. Go on.’

  Henry and Wodman stopped running. Nicholas stepped back. Blood pumped from Simpson’s arm, crimsoning the shirt and falling on to the floor. He made no effort to stem it, or to transfer his dagger, which hung from his fingers. His lashes flickered.

  Nicholas said, ‘Do you concede the fight?’ His voice was hard.

  Jordan de St Pol spoke, his voice quite as harsh. ‘He concedes. His other arm is useless. He was stabbed by your helpless cripple as he bent over his bed. An unreliable soldier, David de Salmeton. Flockhart always said so, in France. They were glad to get rid of him.’

  ‘To hell with you,’ said David Simpson in a clear voice. ‘With all of you.’ Nicholas saw a flash, and a thick spray of glistening blood hit the table and floor, followed without grace by the other man’s body. The wonderful eyes, when Nicholas stooped, were still open, but the life within them had gone. The knife was still sunk in his heart, where he had managed to push it himself.

  Lifting him, Nicholas saw now the bandages under his shirt from the earlier hurt. David Simpson could not have fought with a sword, and had only one hand for a dagger. He had not wanted, perhaps, to fight at all. He had meant to kill the old man, and himself. And the old man, perhaps, had even guessed it.

  St Pol had found a seat, and Henry, sent for wine, was bringing it slowly, his eyes on the bloodsoaked burden being laid down by Wodman and Nicholas. It was not a charlatan’s body. Nicholas thought it a pity that Simpson had had to hear those last goading words of the old man. From what Wodman had said, they were not true. For one thing, St Pol would never have employed an incompetent.

  Then he remembered what Simpson had done, and had tried to do, and was not sorry. Perhaps old age would have been unkindest of all.

  St Pol was watching him over his glass. There was no change in his face, although the blow to the chest had been considerable, and a mail-shirt was no protection against pain. Nicholas said, ‘You could have kept him under arrest at Kilmirren. Why risk this? For the amusement of seeing us fight?’

  ‘Dear me,’ said St Pol. ‘If so, I should have been disappointed, should I not?’ He emptied his glass and held it out. ‘No. I had in mind a small test. I thought your evaluation of Simpson was faulty, and his of you quite mistaken. I was right.’

  ‘You were?’ Nicholas said. Wodman, refilling the glass, was quite silent.

  The fat man said, ‘Of course. He persistently attracted your attention. He wanted you for a friend. It was time you showed him that remarkable core made of metal. You and I are very alike in that respect, my dear Nicholas. Only, of course, in that respect.’

  The man lay dead, by his own hand, in the same room. Nicholas said, ‘So you hardly needed the armour. You almost make me have second thoughts.’

  ‘No,’ said the fat man. ‘You may think so, but no. You would do the same thing again. And if he had not killed himself, you would have killed him, even had he had both his hands; even though he was the better swordsman. For you should know that you are that kind of man.’

  Nicholas drew a short breath. ‘No,’ said the other man. ‘It is enough. Finish what you have to do. I am tired of you.’

  Nevertheless, he had called him Nicholas twice. My dear Nicholas, no longer Claes. Why?

  For Henry’s sake, naturally. They had both been performing for Henry.

  LATER, NICHOLAS WALKED through the door and up to where Gelis and Tobie were waiting. They were not alone. Laid within the silks of a four-poster bed, Robin of Berecrofts was talking eagerly.

  There were circles under his eyes, but otherwise you would hardly guess how far or how roughly he had travelled. Or what else he had done. When Nicholas came in, they all stopped speaking.

  He was no longer covered in blood, and someone had found him a shirt and an extraordinary garment lined with wolfskin, which were all that came near
to his size. He didn’t know therefore why silence fell, unless it was something in his own face. It was hardly reverence for Simpson, whose end they already knew. Nicholas looked down at Robin and said, ‘Your father and Saunders are going to flay you, and you deserve it. You know you saved St Pol’s life and mine? If Simpson had had the use of two hands, he could have killed both of us. How the hell did you stab him?’

  He had, it seemed, carried an armoury inside his bandaging. No one ever remembered he had one arm that worked. It had given him some satisfaction, when the bugger had started to taunt him. He wished he had managed to kill him himself.

  ‘Well, he did the job for you,’ Nicholas said. ‘For all of us. Now all we have to do is get home. That is, I’m proposing to have a day’s sleep followed by a night’s sleep followed by a leisurely journey from one side of the country to the other, accompanied by a wagon full of provisions, and another full of girls.’ He smiled at Robin. ‘We’ve sent a very fast, fresh groom to Kathi, and another to Scheves. All is well.’

  He actually thought that was true. He fell into bed in a room which had once been his own, but now looked and smelled different, and was not disappointed or surprised to find that Gelis was sleeping elsewhere. It was not just that they all needed rest. It was to do with the building, and what was in it, and what had taken place there. It was not a place for that kind of joy.

  He might have stayed the threatened whole day and night, or he might have decided to leave, if nothing had happened. Jordan de St Pol had returned with his men to Kilmirren, and Henry and Wodman had gone with them. Semple had come, and asked questions, and removed Simpson’s body. No one talked very much, now it was over. They were all too tired.

  In fact, he woke later that day, and decided to rise. He was dressing when he thought he heard horsemen outside, and voices calling. When he opened his door, it was to find Avandale’s man come to find him, and Drew Stewart himself down below, having ridden post-haste from Strathaven.

  Drew had heard about Simpson. This was other business.

  By then, Tobie and Gelis had joined them. ‘What?’

  But Nicholas had guessed. First, the immediate news from Craigmillar: Adorne had been released, vindicated, with all the rest; Simpson’s guilt had been proved. All the victims were well, although John of Mar was still under treatment.

  Then Avandale’s courteous voice had made pause, impelling Nicholas to ask, ‘And the Duke of Albany?’

  For, of course, it was all about Sandy. Hurt, dismayed and upset by all that had occurred at Craigmillar, Albany had found Nicholas gone, and had promptly set off himself in the opposite direction. With all the men of his lordship, he had ridden off to the Borders, with the stated intention of showing those bastards the English who was master.

  ‘And the Earl of Angus?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Probably. Archibald. Purves. Jardine of Applegarth. There are a number of good friends whom he’ll call upon,’ Avandale said. ‘Your David Simpson left him with a few unwelcome ideas. It is really rather unfortunate.’ He looked puzzled.

  Sometimes the Chancellor was explicit. Sometimes it was all done with silence, and charm. Nicholas said, ‘Do you want me to follow him?’

  And Avandale assumed a conjectural look, as if assessing a new kind of taste, and said, ‘We leave you to do anything, my dear Nicol, that you think to be wise. But we should rather like you to come back to Edinburgh.’

  We. Argyll had been out of town, as Drew had. It was serious enough, then, to have brought them all back.

  But of course it was.

  Avandale left almost at once. Nicholas gathered his party and vacated Beltrees that same day. They would rest at Paisley that night, and next morning he would race on alone, leaving Gelis and Tobie to follow with Robin.

  There was no one in Beltrees when they departed. Semple had taken the guards, and there were no servants left to tend the glorious chambers with all their exquisite treasures which their owner could no longer enjoy. The doors were locked, the shutters closed, the gates barred, and the churned mud of its mishandling left around it. Arriving, Gelis had looked down upon a glittering travesty. Departing, in the low afternoon light, she was thankful to leave it behind in the darkening hollow, this detritus of gold leaf and obscene gargoyle, with the old, seemly tower standing raffish and shamed in its midst.

  They were a mile away when the thunderclap came, which set the horses kicking and stamping and caused Tobie to look back and swallow.

  Thunder had not caused the black smoke that blotted out the red sun at their rear. Nor was it the lurid glare of the sun that mounted the sky, broadening and brightening, and then blasting again into fury.

  Where, in this douce countryside, was there a place of terror like that; a mine powerful enough to erupt in that fashion, or to burn with such fury?

  There was one place.

  Gelis spoke in a whisper. ‘The kegs in the vaults? Why was the gunpowder there?’

  Tobie looked at her. She said, ‘And slow-matches. I saw slow-matches, cold.’

  ‘Simpson meant to set them,’ Nicholas said. ‘Once we had arrived and his own men had gone.’

  He had dismounted to soothe Robin’s horses, and answered without looking up, his arms on the back of one shivering bay. ‘Semple thought he probably intended to stay and die with us. You, and Robin, and Tobie, and Wodman and me. And Henry, of course, as it turned out. Next to St Pol, he would have been pleased to take Henry with him.’

  The smoke rose. Another explosion reverberated through the air, and another. Those would be the stores. Then, as the heat took hold, there would be the other objects that would turn white, and melt, and explode. The painted glass and the majolica tableware and the tiles. The tapestries would singe and then burn; the silks flare. The carved chairs and coffers would burst into crackling flame, and the plaster ceilings blacken and fall, as the rafters caught fire, and the precious things from one room crashed down to the inferno below.

  There was no human life there; there were no animals. Only a fortune in gold, converted to inflammable artefacts.

  Someone spoke, very low.

  ‘I take my refuge in the Lord of the dawn

  from the evil in what He created,

  and from the evil of the dusk when it envelops,

  and from the evil of witches who blow on knots,

  and from the evil of the envier when he envies.’

  Robin said softly, ‘Nicholas?’ And Gelis, dismounting, went to her husband, who stood smoothing the warm hide of the horse, over and over.

  She said, ‘Come here.’ And when he turned, folded him into her arms.

  He spoke presently, his lips in her hair. ‘It was built for all the wrong reasons. I should have destroyed it the first time. But instead, someone else came, and made it worse. I couldn’t leave it at that.’

  She released him. ‘No, you couldn’t,’ she said. ‘And here are three people that agree with you. Nicholas?’

  Tobie had come gasping beside her, and she could see Robin, his fist flung up like a wrestler in victory; caught, as she was, between weeping and laughter.

  She said, ‘Nicholas … Jordan de St Pol will be so very annoyed.’

  HE DIDN’T RIDE after Sandy. It was too late, for one thing. The repercussions of all Sandy was doing were already reverberating through Edinburgh when he got there. He did visit a few men who owed him a favour, and a number of them rode off south—willing, amused or cross according to temperament—to visit, placate, explain, and gather what information they could. Tom Yare had already raced back to Berwick in a shower of Browns, with instructions to get hold of Jamie Liddell, no matter what. Alec Brown was at sea with John le Grant. The Prestons and Sinclairs stayed out of it. Colin Campbell came back from Clackmannan, not having, thank God, lost himself in the wilds of Lochfyne-side, and called a council of war in his tavern. Lang Bessie presided. When Argyll hosted a meeting, all he ever served was drink and rough fare. At Avandale’s house, there would be nothing short of
a banquet. It amused Nicholas and, he deduced, Colin Campbell of Argyll. Some of us are more royal than others.

  There had been some contact already between them: a brief encounter between Nicholas and Whitelaw to establish what was known, and what still had to be done. Nevertheless, the Duke of Albany was not the first thing that they spoke of when they met in the high back room of the handsome timber-built tavern, with its stone gable and smoking peat fire.

  Through the low door was the bedchamber that Argyll occupied, for convenience, when he wanted to remain in the High Street. The reason was usually a business one, although he had no objection to the company of women. Nicholas had met the pleasant Highland heiress his wife, who came to Court for the regular festivals, as did some of his nine children, from their various households. They all spoke Gaelic, and enjoyed trying to teach him. He could see Colin watching him, sometimes, trying to calculate how much he knew.

  Colin. Drew. Master Archie. Now their footing was changing, it was even more necessary to remember, in public, the formalities which the Lords Three forsook sometimes in private. And even in private, Nicholas took no liberties, especially now, after Craigmillar. Exposing David Simpson had become a political necessity: his influence was becoming too strong. Sandy had been delighted to be part of the plot. It had gone astray for other reasons: that a trace of the poison, by some means, had reached the company; that the King, misunderstanding, had been moved to accuse Sandy in public. That he, Nicholas, had been forced to divine.

  Colin … The Master of the Household was curious about that little episode, and held up the meeting to enquire. ‘Tell me now. Is it a true gift that’s in it? Or does it perform as it pleases? Or as you please, perhaps? What did the pendulum really say?’

  He could have lied. He didn’t. He said, ‘It spelled the first name of Simpson’s hostage, Robin of Berecrofts. It was how the Conservator was able to trace him so quickly. And yes, it is usually correct, but it can be misleading. I prefer not to use it.’