Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He looked up. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And as I said before, there is nothing you need be afraid of in all this. There are no dire secrets, just small matters of loyalty and, perhaps, pride. But I’m glad to know, for Bel’s sake, what is being said. And doubly glad that the child can be helped. Adorne will be so thankful.’

  He broke off. He said, ‘We should be so thankful.’

  It was true.

  The gold had gone. It was better gone. It had caused little but death and mistrust and bitterness, and he could secure for himself all it offered. He had his brain, and his two hands and his health, to provide for the future. He had a strong son—two strong sons—and Gelis. He was free.

  SANDY RETURNED, AND Nicholas set to work on him. It was like dealing with Jodi. Liddell was easier: Nicholas respected his loyalty, which had to struggle all the time against his better judgement. That said, he could be an idiot like Sandy at times. That was why Sandy liked him.

  And it was unfair, too, to describe this operation in terms of the upbringing of Jodi, although there were parallels. Sandy had had nurses from birth, as Jodi had. The caring families, the Sinclairs, the Prestons, gave their nurslings all the continuity that they could not expect from their parents, and the children responded with love. The great René of Anjou had erected a statue to his nurse. The absences of Jodi’s mother and father had been no more or less than the separations Sandy had experienced.

  But, of course, the time for nurses came to an end. Royal princes lived in separate establishments, both as youngsters and later. Louis of France had no idea what his son looked like, they said, it was so long since he had sent him away. The boy was locked up in Amboise, to prevent his being exploited against his own father, as Louis had been. And many of Sandy’s first personal relationships had been shattered by death. His widowed mother had died while he was in Flanders, and the following year, aged only ten, he had lost Charles, his adored older cousin in Veere, and then Bishop Kennedy, his near-uncle. A proud boy, speaking a different tongue, he had found himself a prisoner at the English Court, and thrown into the equivocal companionship of Gloucester. From there, he had come back to Scotland to compete for attention with an older brother who was King, and a younger who rampaged at will. He had been given a Sinclair wife because it was necessary, and had resented it, and had been allowed to annul it in the hope of something better. It was no wonder that he was hard to control, or that his own children, legitimate or otherwise, were not much in his mind. He took more interest in his sister’s son, young Jamie Boyd.

  And yet he was not out of reach, or uncivilised. Sometimes, Nicholas could bring him round to a new point of view, or induce him to pause a little and think. The rest of the time it was no good, for there were other factors at work. There were bad influences, such as Simpson had been. But mostly the trouble lay with the imbalance in the family itself, and the friction it brought.

  Adorne, most often at the Castle, was able sometimes to mediate. The Councillors exerted what pressure they could. Nicholas, after long months of handling, had achieved only some of the acceptance he had hoped for in Sandy: his position was simply that of a person in whom Sandy would often confide, and whose affection he could count on, for most of the time. As Sandy’s steward, Liddell had greater authority. But in essence, he and Liddell were to Sandy what Josaphat Barbaro, that wise envoy, had once put into words. They were his boon companions, with whom a prince might relax, after work with his serious councillors, but who were debarred from all matters of state. The trouble with Sandy was that he didn’t have, or want, serious councillors.

  The winter was hard work. Complaints duly arrived from the English Wardens, and were given soft answers, to Albany’s fury. Yule and Uphaly, always useful distractions, spawned that year a series of ferocious entertainments, masterminded by Roger and Nicholas, which dazzled the young and were admired by the more thoughtful of their elders. Those who did not share in the profit were heard to wonder whether the Burgundians were not out to line their pockets again. Roger sent his singers out by the cartload for nothing, and the grumbles died down, except in Newbattle.

  The end of the January festivities brought the pest; not the direst variety, but one that encouraged families to move to their country estates, if they had them, while the forests became crowded with hunting-parties. Kathi took her three children and their attendants to stay with their great-grandfather at Templehall, but Robin remained with Sersanders and Archie, while Tobie and Clémence became busy, as did all the physicians. The Court jogged about between Linlithgow and Stirling and Falkland, with Will Roger in attendance, and Adorne, and Nicholas, if Sandy was there. Gelis stayed at the Leith house. The Lords of the Council for Civil Causes held one well-fumigated meeting in the Tolbooth, and dissolved themselves until spring, so that the number of disputes in abeyance began to overflow into several bags. The King subjected himself to a number of meetings with his better-liked councillors, and called a meeting of Parliament for March. In theory, Edinburgh would be healthy by then, or if not, the meeting could be transferred elsewhere. It would not be cancelled, for its chief purpose was to raise money for the lady Margaret’s contracted wedding to the Earl Rivers, the King of England’s good-brother.

  The lady Margaret was not present to comment, having formed the mutinous habit of departing from Court and staying in the homes of her friends’ parents, or with Mary her sister. Kathi, descending occasionally upon one or other of the Hamilton castles, took occasion now and then to hold mild discussions with the lady Mary on the advantages of keeping on the good side of England. Like Nicholas, she soon learned her own limitations; and took instead to sitting with the Princess’s elderly husband, whom she liked, and whose sickbed was always surrounded by clever sons from his earlier marriage. She saw, with pleasure, how well Jodi de Fleury fitted into that household, and how his confidence had grown. He appeared to be drawing again: one of the Hamiltons always seemed to be teaching him something. Kathi took Margaret with her more than once, to please Jodi, and enjoyed writing long letters to Gelis. She wondered if it was mortally wrong to be pleased that David Simpson was dead. They were all free. And Nicholas might be discovering what he wanted, at last.

  The pest was over by March, and everyone came home. The Three Estates convened in Edinburgh on a Friday, in solemn procession, in all their great hats and long robes, and crammed into the hall of the Tolbooth to sit before their sovereign and hear who was to pay what towards the Princess Margaret’s wedding. The answer, shatteringly, turned out to be more than twice the sum proposed seven years before to send an army to Brittany, a fifth to be paid by the burghs, and two-fifths each by the barons and clergy, the first instalment to be paid up by June. It would mean, at the very least, two shillings in the pound of a property tax. To farm out Margaret.

  She was present, in velvet and furs, with her long, unbound red hair crowned by a jewelled circlet that cost someone, such as the exchequer, quite a bit. Her attendants and her sister Mary sat beside her.

  Johndie Mar, their brother, was seated nearer the throne, and on his cheek was the red mark that spelled trouble. Johndie Mar, everyone knew, didn’t want his sister married in England, but that wasn’t going to change anything. Violence wasn’t the answer. Procrastination, there was a great word, now. And once the marriage took place, there were certain advantages. That girdle cost a pretty penny. And her shoes.

  The rest of the decisions were the kind that could be rattled through: to pursue new trading measures with Burgundy; to arrange to keep the peace between the dense crowds of quarrelling families who had abandoned litigation in favour of force. It was just as well. It was just as well to get through it all quickly, after Johndie Mar had had his say.

  What had happened was not at first clear to the crowds who waited to see the King emerge from his Parliament (‘He’s an awful wee man, is he not? And where’s Margaret? Where’s Bleezie Meg? How d’ye fancy a sonsy big Englishman, hen?’). But as the delegates emerged, and spotted their wives, an
d began to call out, everyone knew soon enough.

  That Johndie Mar. Standing up and shouting that they were selling his sister. And the officers of the house thumping their staffs, and the King going as red as his brother, and Argyll (it was always our Colin) leaping forward to get hold of Johndie and take him away, shrieking still. The Guard helped. (See that bonny yellow-haired lad, I’d buy him).

  And then Meg had burst into tears, and been taken out by her sister.

  And then Drew Avandale had stood up and made a speech about how the nation had prospered in these years of peace with England, and how important it was to strengthen the links between the two countries, at a time when trade with Burgundy was at its most prosperous, and mischievous intrusion by others should be repelled. Which everyone took to refer to the French, who didn’t want England to trade with Burgundy at all, and especially not to feel free to ally with Burgundy to resist the French advance into Flanders. For, of course, there was that. You might feel sorry for wee Meg, but she was performing a patriotic service, going to England, as well as getting her girdles paid for by somebody else. Well, that was what most thought. But here was someone shouting outside the Parliament door, and they had to silence him. Poetry, he was talking. Collecting for Blind Harry, maybe. Here, that was a joke.

  The procession afterwards was all the way down to Holyrood, where there was to be a banquet, with guests. The Burgundians were to be there: Adorne of Cortachy, who was a handsome man, the lassies all agreed, with his nephew and niece, and the big fellow, Nicol de Fleury. The one that sang, and put on the plays, and dressed everyone up. He was all right, was Nicol. And a right marrow of Sandy’s. Where was Sandy? Where was Nicol, come to that?

  Avandale said, ‘Speak in a low voice, if you will. You are telling me that it is as we feared? Albany has set out for the Borders?’

  Adorne said, ‘I am sorry, my lord. With Liddell attending Parliament, nothing so rash was expected But the Duke has collected some men and is riding south, gathering more. He has made no public proclamation of intent, so that there has been no excuse to stop him. Dispositions have been made: there are bands of men at various places who will try to divert him in innocent ways. But we know that he himself has secretly contacted others.’

  The Chancellor’s square jaw was set. ‘We should have arrested him.’

  Adorne said, ‘With respect, my lord. We did discuss it. An arrest without proper evidence would double his followers, and turn a disagreement over state policy into something much worse. All we could do is allow de Fleury, as he asked, to go with him. Liddell will follow. If they cannot restrain him, de Fleury can send for help when it’s clear that the Duke is transgressing.’

  ‘But some damage will have been done. I am not happy. First Mar, and now this. Well, we foresaw it. With your help we have contained it, a little. We can do nothing until we have word. Let us go in to the Abbot. We must not lose our heavenly credit as well.’

  Chapter 22

  Sa thocht this knycht desyrit to be fre,

  His lawté maid him presoner to be,

  And for the commoun proffet of the land

  He chesit him as presoner to stand.

  NICHOLAS DE FLEURY, immured with his charge on the English border at Upsettlington, had by this time no heavenly credit left, unless his state of mind was proof against angels.

  Riding like a maniac, he had overtaken Sandy at Duns, to be greeted with amusement mixed with triumph. ‘We thought we’d see you before long, didn’t we, gentlemen? And I expect you’ve left messages for Jamie as well. So how did the Three Estates fare? Agreed to everything, did they? If England wants Meg, then they get her, and everyone pays through the nose, because it’s good for business. That’s all it is, isn’t it? A pact that’s good for business?’

  It wasn’t Blind Harry sitting in the corner this time, it actually was Dick Holland, long since come down from the north, and an embarrassment to John Colquhoun, who had married into Dick’s poems, as it were, at a time when it was not a good idea—O Dowglass, O Dowglass, Tender and Trewe!—to praise some kinds of Douglases. Sandy, of course, was not concerned about that. He said, ‘All right. Let us have the lecture and get it over with. I’m going raiding into England, no matter what you say.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything. Where are you mustering?’

  It was Upsettlington, of course. The convenient Border land with its church on the Tweed, just east of Coldstream, and next to the Norham ford. Nicholas said, ‘Then can I go with you?’

  Sandy could never see anything coming. He agreed, surprised, relieved and touchingly pleased, and told Jamie Liddell at once, as soon as he burst in. Before Jamie had time to react, Nicholas said, ‘We’ll all go. With this number of men, we can attack ten different places and be back before anyone stops us. What do you want? Cattle? You’d have them taken off you when you get back. Just to make a few townships sit up, before the other Wardens get there? Then let’s plan it.’

  ‘I thought you were on their side,’ said Sandy.

  If you want to convince, keep as close to the truth as you can. ‘I am,’ Nicholas said. ‘But if you want to do this, no one can stop you. I’m just here to help you do it in the way that will cause you least harm.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Sandy said. ‘I can look after myself.’

  It should have warned him. It didn’t. He had to pull Jamie round to his way of thinking and then, encamped at Upsettlington, to go and plant a word in the shrewd ear of Will Bell, the Rector, who had the triple advantage of being a priest, a notary and a friend of the Abbot of Holyrood. After that, Nicholas wandered round, talking to all the hearty Borderers who had ridden in with their men, ready to wipe their English counterparts off the map. They didn’t need Blind Harry: they were going to out-Wallace Wallace on an elixir of personal euphoria.

  They liked the idea of co-ordinated attacks in different directions. It was agreed that it couldn’t be done without central control. It was further agreed that they didn’t want the King’s men on their tails, once all the local sycophants got wind of what was happening, and that there should be someone in authority to stop them. It was finally accepted, by Sandy, that the central control at Upsettlington should be himself.

  It was different, clearly, from his original dream of heading a young army into England, hacking and burning in freedom’s great name. On the other hand, if you knew Sandy, you could tell that shreds of normal thinking were already beginning to creep in. If he did that, he risked losing everything, including possibly his life.

  Small attacks were less contentious, but also less stirring. He didn’t fancy leading a hundred to burn some boats and mills and destroy a few barns. Staying at Upsettlington and outfacing the governesses when they arrived was not unattractive. Provided, of course, that Jamie led the band they had personally brought. And that Nicol, as promised, led another.

  It was a Lumsden he rode with: a jolly man he had met before, who didn’t frankly care who ruled what as long as he could batter his neighbours when he felt like it. As, of course, they battered him. He could see, and was patient with the high-flown arguments over it all, which Nicholas didn’t try to revive. Nicholas merely pointed out, from time to time, that theft was actually better than burning, and they might even get away with it, if they kept off whole herds, but took a horse or two here and there, and some nags that could carry bales of wheat, or malt, or a few kitchen utensils. If the English complained, it was even possible the King would settle up first himself. He had tried to instil the same idea into the other groups, and he thought Liddell saw the point. A lot of dead men, or raped women, or—God forfend—deceased royal or semi-royal noblemen would cause more trouble than even Sandy had wanted. It would be nice if it rained, really hard.

  Someone heard, for it rained. It was not the most joyous late winter’s day that Nicholas had ever spent but, returning cold and mud-coated and saddle-sore with his bedraggled company, he thought it might have been worse. They were all alive. He carried a few
hacks and slashes, as they all did: there had been some fighting, both on horse and off, but nothing too desperate. As soon as they splashed over the ford, Lumsden waved and set off, his men floundering behind with the booty. The banks of the Tweed would be littered for miles. Fortunately, it was not yet in spate. He waited a bit, until his own men returned with the news that Liddell was back, and most of the rest seemed to be over except for the Douglases, who could take care of themselves.

  Also, of course, that a troop from Berwick Castle had arrived with instructions to take the ringleaders back under escort. Including Alexander, Duke of Albany, Earl of March, lord of Annandale, lord of Man, with his odd little device of the three booted, spurred feet going nowhere. Albany, Liddell and himself. Except that they were going somewhere, all of them, that was for certain.

  It turned out to be Edinburgh Castle. Sandy was locked into his own rooms, tired but happy; Liddell and Nicholas were put in the spare chart-room, which was at the top of David’s Tower. Marching up from the gate in the darkness, they had passed Henry, who turned his head, against orders. He looked amazed.

  Jamie wanted to talk, and Nicholas let him. After a bit, someone brought in washing-water and strips of fresh cloth for their cuts: Nicholas recognised the servant. Later, Liddell was sent for. After that, it was not too long before the door opened and Colin Campbell came in.

  ‘Ochone, ochone,’ said Nicholas sourly.

  ‘No. You did very well. Liddell says you don’t need a doctor.’

  ‘For my head, perhaps. So what is happening?’

  Argyll sat down, a shade less spryly than usual. Nicholas could imagine what it had been like, steering the King and the others. Ordinary fighting was easier. The Controller said, ‘The consensus is that England will take the chance to make threats, now they need us much less. James will meet that by disowning all Sandy has done, and announcing that he is now in prison for his failings as Warden. The recriminations will occupy a few weeks if not months, during which time no one would dream of asking the lady Margaret to pass down to England, which removes that immediate bone of contention.’