Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘We all did you a service,’ Nicholas said. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I do understand. My lord.’

  ‘Well, who better,’ Argyll said. ‘You, of course, were never over the Border. The King thinks you rode south to dissuade Sandy; you and Liddell are here to be questioned, after which you will be released. Sandy will stay until we know the damage that’s in it, and can see what best to do. Why is he cheerful?’

  ‘Because he’s won,’ Nicholas said. ‘He did what he was forbidden to do, and showed his disagreement with the English peace policy, and quite a lot of March lords agreed to ride with him, at that. I’ll give you a list of their names. No surprises. He’ll be a lot less cheerful as the weeks go by.’

  Argyll said, ‘I’ve asked Bishop Spens to come and talk to him. ’Tis known to me that he’s seen as the universal peace-maker, whateffer, but he and Sandy came through that business in England together, and he knows how Sandy thinks. If Sandy would agree to keep quiet, he could disappear into Annandale for a few weeks while this is all sorted out. So long as the English think he’s in prison, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘But that’s all that matters to Sandy as well,’ Nicholas said. ‘He expects a rap over the knuckles and freedom. If he doesn’t get that, he’s going to be the noisiest martyr we have all ever known.’

  ‘Faire, faire! I wish I didn’t believe you were right,’ Argyll said.

  He left. Liddell came back, followed by a supply of superior plenishments, including writing materials and books. Food arrived, wrapped in cloths, which was rather more satisfying than the Castle’s usual provender and came, Nicholas suspected, from the Argyll tavern.

  Bishop Spens arrived, wiping his face. ‘Man! He’s a thrawn devil, young Sandy!’

  Liddell got him a seat. ‘My lord, it’s not from lack of principles, or respect. He’s acting as his conscience directs.’

  ‘Aye. I ken,’ said Bishop Spens. ‘Rogues are easy. Ye can aye sink your teeth in a rogue, but a principled man can be poison. Which reminds me. All yon at Craigmillar is safely over? Cortachy came away without blame, like the rest of ye? That’s a good man. I’ve said before, someone should try to keep him in Scotland. He could earn his keep. He’s got my Linlithgow franchise, and welcome. And I’ve nine and twenty prebendaries floating about in the north that could offer a position for one or two sons, when the time came. Tell him that.’

  ‘I shall,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although I don’t think Lord Cortachy feels he can make plans just yet.’ Spens knew that. The previous year, the Duchess of Burgundy had had a son, Philip, delivered with promptitude the summer after her wedding, but her husband had still produced no decisive victory against the French, nor a new form of combined rule for Flanders in Burgundy.

  Spens rubbed his big-nosed, high-coloured face. Rising seventy, Bishop of Aberdeen but tied to Edinburgh by his skills as a judge, Thomas Spens was a former protonotary at Rome, a lord of Council, an auditor, a broker of truces and marriages who had, in his time, asked for and received a papal bull which exempted his bishopric alone from the superior rule of St Andrews. He got on well with Will Scheves. He simply liked to go his own way, and had earned the right to do it. Now he said, ‘Oh, it’ll open out some time, if only we exercise patience. I’ve every sympathy with Sandy Albany. He’s proud of his country, and so am I. How did he take it, the stramash at Craigmillar? The Prestons had a lot to say, I’ll be bound.’

  Again. Liddell was up, pouring wine. Nicholas said, ‘They’re a formidable crew.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bishop Spens said. ‘Yon John, he made a good marriage. Ah! A cup of Bordeaux! Jamie, your very good health, and may this all be settled by Christmas.’

  It was March. Liddell laughed, and so did Nicholas, and presently Bishop Spens left, and it was soon time for bed. In the darkness, Nicholas lay thinking. John Preston. Who was his wife? Then he remembered.

  GELIS SAID, ‘NICHOLAS is still at the Castle: they want him to keep Albany happy, and Liddell under his eye. Or that’s my guess. Anyway, you’re to go up and see him.’

  ‘Why?’ said John le Grant. He had always got on well with Gelis van Borselen, ever since she came to the battlefield at Nancy three years ago, and especially since she got himself and Tobie and Robin into Bruges that God-awful night. In fact, his life had turned round since then. He had replaced Astorre and his company with another: with young Kathi and Robin; with Tobie and Clémence; with Adorne and Sersanders and Berecrofts, and best of all with the sea, and all the friends he had made there. He spent most of his time in Leith. He was best pleased, although he would not admit it, when Gelis and Nicholas were at the Leith house, working with him. The news of Sandy’s crass raid, and Nicholas’s even crasser involvement had roused him to fury: he had fulminated round Robin’s chair until even Kathi grew dizzy and told him to stop. And Nicholas wanted to see him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s dying, perhaps? Or he thinks I’m pining, and wants to send me a token of undying love? Or he just wants some fresh shirts. How would I know?’ asked Gelis. She sounded as caustic as ever, but looked edgy.

  John said, ‘It’s all right. Give me something of Jodi’s. That’ll cheer him up.’

  AT THE CASTLE, Nicholas wasn’t locked in, but there was a guard outside the door, half asleep. Inside, Liddell and Nicholas were gambling with the brat, young St Pol. Nicholas said in a welcoming way, ‘John. Did you bring any money?’

  ‘Some,’ said John cautiously. Liddell, a big, good-looking man, looked worn but reasonably cheerful; Nicholas looked bland. The brat, vivid and bright-eyed, looked triumphant.

  ‘He’s winning,’ said Nicholas, indicating St Pol with a nod. ‘But that won’t last long. Go on, then. Sit down. We need a fourth.’

  John said, ‘Gelis thought you wanted some shirts washed.’

  Nicholas looked surprised. He said, ‘Well, I could send her some, but they do them very well here. Little thistle stitched in the corner, and a crown on the tail. Is that all the money you have?’

  ‘No. But I need—’

  ‘Put it all out,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll write you a note. My God, who would have thought you so mean?’

  ‘He’s an Aberdonian,’ said Henry de St Pol quickly.

  ‘And you’ve just lost that round. So go on, what happened?’

  The youth had been telling some story. He continued with it, glancing at John every now and then, and eventually forgetting him as the narrative rose to a crescendo and fell apart amid interruptions and arguments. It sounded normal, like anything you would hear round a garrison fire. The game ended and another began. When John left, eventually, it was dark and the youth Henry helped him down to the gateway. No one had mentioned guns.

  He found his way to Gelis’s house, and she led him in and put him to bed. The next morning, he came down, holding a paper.

  Gelis said, ‘It’s all right. I read it last night. He owes you two pounds, and you have to make some enquiries at Leith, while I find out when and how Sandy could have communicated with the family of Elizabeth Monypenny, wife of John Preston. How secure is that prison?’

  ‘It’s not a prison,’ John said. ‘They’ve just made Albany stay in his own apartments, and put a guard on the door. That is, if he escapes, in theory the King can tell the English Wardens how annoyed he is, and that he will bring him back as soon as possible.’ He paused. ‘I’d better get down to Leith.’

  ‘Yes, you had,’ Gelis said. ‘Where is John of Mar?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said John le Grant. ‘Just don’t ask.’

  ALEXANDER, DUKE OF ALBANY, escaped, with the help of his excitable brother, just as soon as it dawned on him that he was not in course of receiving a rap on the knuckles, but was about to be incarcerated for some considerable time. In the guise of a grim, long-nosed woman, he rode out of the Castle with Johndie Mar and down to Leith, where a small boat waited to take him out to a larger.

  As he had feared, at the last moment Johndie tried to come with him. Two of Sandy’s helpe
rs stood on the shore, holding Johndie’s arms, while Sandy’s oarsmen pulled off and began to move for mid-river. Sandy was waving a conciliatory goodbye from the stern when a familiar voice spoke at his hip. Nicholas de Fleury, sitting on the thwart just behind him, said, ‘I’m sorry, Sandy, but you can’t go any further. I have to take you back to the Castle.’

  It was so unthinkable that it was funny. Sandy Albany dragged his sword from under his skirts, but it took rather long, and de Fleury was already trying to get hold of him. The rowers, who didn’t seem to be in anyone’s confidence, had slackened their pace, while the boat jerked under the struggle and continued to wander out to the river-mouth. De Fleury was also wearing a sword, but at least had the sense not to draw it. Against a prince, that was treason. Albany panted, ‘Get him off me, will you?’ to the oarsmen, and two of them did. Of course they did. They knew they would be rewarded. They jumped on the Burgundian, and dragged him away, and banged his head on the gunwale until he slumped. Then they tied him up, while Albany got out of his cloak and kirtle and hood, and, in no time at all, they were alongside the bigger ship, which was a fishing-boat.

  Albany had been going to send de Fleury back in the skiff, and then had a better idea. He had him hauled aboard, after himself, and sent the oarsmen back with a message. ‘Tell my lord of Argyll that his plan has failed, and his minion has gone on a journey.’

  Hearing that, Nicholas groaned. It was partly sham, for the plan had not, of course, failed. It was partly real, because the oarsmen had overacted, and his head buzzed. He kept his eyes shut and lay on the bottom-boards, which were fishy. He wondered where they would transfer to a larger vessel. The rolling motion was soothing, and he went to sleep.

  He woke off the castle of Dunbar. That was all right. The castle was built over sea-rocks. Bigger ships sometimes changed cargo there.

  That was not all right. Another rowing-boat had arrived. Sandy was climbing down into another rowing-boat and he himself, still bound, was being bundled down after and thrown at Sandy’s feet. Sandy said, ‘So you’re awake? Don’t you wish you’d minded your own business?’

  ‘Where am I?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Arriving at my castle,’ said Sandy. ‘Where I propose to wait for the King of France’s army to come.’

  The oarsmen were grinning, but not because they thought it was a joke. They were proud of the Duke. Nicholas said, ‘You might have a long wait.’

  Sandy’s smile did not change. ‘It’s spring. I can hold out all summer. Ellem provisioned the castle while everyone was away because of the pest.’

  John le Grant had discovered that. Questioned, the masters of barges remembered bringing timber and lead and artillery. Men and food would come later, by sea, by the open back door to Dunbar Castle. The Lords Three knew the castle was fortified. They knew Albany would try to escape. They thought Albany would go straight to France, or if ships failed him, would use Dunbar as a temporary base until shipping arrived. They had all agreed, if this happened, to let him go.

  Instead, he had always meant to go to Dunbar. Long ago, he had asked for French help and (of course) had been promised it. Now, he had announced his escape, and invited the French King to send a fleet, bringing an occupying force to Dunbar Castle. And thus supported, of course, Albany and the French would demand an end to this cowardly peace between England and Scotland. It was for Scotland to proclaim her proud sovereignty by declaring war on her neighbour. And if the King still refused, his subjects would know where to turn.

  In a rueful kind of da capo, the note from Nicholas this time was the same as before: Gelis, I’m sorry. I’ll bring him back safe. Only it wasn’t Jodi who had left home this time, but a prince of the realm. And Nicholas wasn’t simply sailing to Berwick: he was a prisoner in a garrison preparing to withstand assault, and bound to go where Sandy went. For whether Sandy wanted it or not, that was why Nicholas was there.

  IT TOOK A fortnight for Sandy’s confident message to reach the French Court, and another fortnight for the reply to travel back.

  But for Sandy, Nicholas might have had a harder time than he did. Dunbar Castle was packed full of neighbours and henchmen in jubilant mood, at least to begin with. These, the Ellems and the Trotters and the Dicksons and the rest, were apt to remember that Nicholas de Fleury was a Burgundian before they remembered that he had ridden, after all, on Sandy’s last raid. And he might not be the King’s puppet like Adorne, but he was the one in the boat who had tried to take Sandy back. One of the Lochmaben supporters, Applegarth, made a point of that.

  It was Sandy who pointed out that Nicol, alone, could hardly have hoped to get him back to Edinburgh anyway. He might not agree with what they were doing, but all he ever tried to do was talk them out of it. To which he had added that they might not especially want de Fleury, but he made a good hostage.

  After that, it was like watching the lettering of a very long invoice, item duly following item, irrevocably, to the final accounting.

  The garrison, settling in, began to relieve the tedium with forays into the countryside, lifting fresh provisions, driving off sheep and cattle and adding to the numbers of compliant women. The King’s Councillors, having established that Albany was there, and apparently waiting for French help, sent a competent force to camp in the town and fields facing the castle, both to prevent depredations and to dissuade sympathizers from joining the Duke. By the third week, it could be seen from the banners that the companies which made up the force belonged to men of some power and influence in the kingdom, and that they had both handguns and light artillery. A week after that, the rumbling of wheels and the lowing of oxen told that Lisouris or Cochrane or Bonar or maybe all of them had been detailed to fetch the big cannon. Unspoken message to Albany: Even if the French come, what can they do against this?

  Nicholas hoped to God that the coastal lookouts had been warned, and Crackbene and John and Alec and Leithie and Gelis’s latest admirer the Great Andrew had ships tucked away and ready to intercept other ships, or were telling everybody that they had. There was no possibility, none, that the King of France would send an army to Scotland just now. But Sandy wouldn’t believe that. All they could do was persuade him that if an army did come, it would be nullified.

  The banner of the commander, flying from a comfortable house in the town, was that of Drew Avandale. It had an avuncular look. Drew Stewart, in his day, had been King’s Guardian to this young King’s father. Very soon, if he kept to the plan, he would send his own familiar chamberlain to the causeway gate of the castle, asking Sandy to meet him and talk.

  He sent the chamberlain, who was rebuffed but not killed, which was fortunate, as no response had came from France, and the mood within the castle had changed to one of angry anxiety. The failure was no surprise to Avandale, but it had established a channel. He was there, if Sandy wanted him.

  Then the reply came from France, brought by sea on an innocent salt-ship. Untied, it kept rolling up. The top said, Ludovicus, Dei gratia Francorum rex, illustrissimo et praeclarissimo principi Alexander, Albani duci, salutem cum prosperitatis incremento … Cher et spécial ami …

  The bottom said, Got your message, but No.

  Nicholas, trying not to beat someone at chess, looked up and then stood as Sandy erupted into the room. ‘Louis won’t do it,’ Nicholas said, guessing.

  ‘Go on. Say it. You told me so,’ said Albany. He was deeply crimson.

  Nicholas said, ‘Of course he wants to. But he can’t. It would be suicide while he’s at grips with Burgundy. What else does he say?’

  Sandy flung down a paper. ‘That the ship which brought the courier will return in a week, and that it is his dearest wish that I should use it to travel to France, where there will be a welcome such as no man ever had, and freedom to live as his guest until the time is ripe for me to bring about that alliance of Scotland and France of which we both dream.’

  He stopped. The other chess player, at a look, bowed and got out of the room. Albany said, ‘You were
right.’

  ‘I don’t always like being right,’ Nicholas said. ‘You will go?’

  ‘If I go,’ Sandy said, ‘it won’t be to stay as his guest. You say he can’t spare an army. I say he can spare enough men and enough guns to hold this place for France, until he can send more later. I’ll go. And I’ll bring them back.’ He paused. ‘You don’t agree. You never agree.’

  ‘I think of alternatives,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you go, you leave behind all these men who have supported you.’

  ‘They will wait,’ Albany said.

  ‘And if you don’t come back with your army? Or if they can’t hold out until you do? There are some big guns out there,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘The trouble with you,’ Albany said, ‘is that you don’t understand the men in this castle. You think that they would prefer to surrender quietly as soon as I’ve gone, and sell their ultimate freedom for a possible promise of indemnity. They won’t. And by God, before I go, I’ll make sure that Drew Avandale knows he has a long, weary summer before him, for I have guns, too.’

  That day, Nicholas remembered what the doctors had said about this family, for after so long together, it should have been possible to talk Albany away from his plan; even allowing for his frustration, his hurt vanity, his passion of indignation against England. But Albany was now beyond controlling. He ranged the castle, making his dispositions; appointed the captain who would lead the garrison when he had left, and prepared to depart in a blaze of glory.

  The enemy must not know he was leaving, or stop him. Therefore they must believe he was still there.

  He led a foray out of the castle, noticed by Avandale’s scouts, who brought a troop of horse down upon him; but not before he had fallen upon the barns and beasts of a loud-mouthed cousin of Eck’s and killed him in the hand-to-hand fighting that resulted. He got back to the castle, but with a toll of wounded that made the raid farcical. Then, his temper further roused, he sent for his gunners and planned to take his revenge for his company’s wounds.