Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘And now she has a chance to show her independence,’ Gelis said. ‘Nicholas thinks she’ll demand some sort of security for the Boyd children—she’ll have to bring them up with the Hamiltons, anyway, without a husband to finance them.’

  ‘That’s what my uncle expects,’ Kathi said. ‘And she’ll probably get it: the King doesn’t want Mary and Margaret and Mar joining Sandy against him. You asked me about Princess Margaret?’

  Rankin had been taken off, objecting, to bed, and Nicholas, mildly dishevelled, was talking to Adorne and Old Will on the other side of the chamber. Gelis said, ‘Apparently John of Mar nearly said something, at the time of the fight in the inn. And it does seem suspicious that she keeps missing wedding appointments in England.’

  ‘So everyone thinks,’ Kathi said. ‘I hoped Dr Andreas would work out a horoscope, but he’s been difficult. I have to say that, egged on by the late Master Simpson, she has been experimenting, I think. There would be no shortage of applicants for the post of royal consort and premature father, and no better way of spiting the King for selling her off to Earl Rivers. Opinion thinks that that was the original idea. Opinion further thinks that Meg enjoyed flouting her brother the King; slept with everybody; became rather too fond of one man and now finds herself pregnant to someone she can’t actually marry, because he’s married already. Abortion (this is guessing) has failed, and she is reduced to hoping that Sandy will ride up in French feathers and rescue her.’

  ‘So, who?’ Gelis said.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Kathi said. ‘But I can probably tell you the day after tomorrow. Everyone becomes indiscreet at a really good funeral.’

  ‘So!’ said Old Will, limping over. ‘What are you twa young quines talking about? Courting and babies and weddings, I’ll be bound!’

  Kathi got up and gave him a kiss. ‘You were listening,’ she said.

  CONSIDERING, OR EVEN because of the weather, it was an exceptionally good funeral, in that the less flexible landowners and bishops and business-men stayed away, preferring to pay their respects at a requiem Mass in a more accessible setting. For the Crown, Hearty James came with a brother, and Drew Avandale and Colin Campbell were there, with their servants, as well as most of the Hamilton neighbours: Semple and Haldane and Darnley; the Abbot of Paisley and Humphrey Colquhoun and his mother, glaring alternately at each other and everyone else. There were one or two others with houses in Berwick, such as Tom Yare and his fellow Edinburgh burgess, Wattie Bertram. John Doby from the College in Glasgow, which owed its first real building to Hamilton. David, Earl of Crawford, who had married one of Hamilton’s two daughters by his first wife. Preceptor Knollys of the Order of St John, which owned land in every baron’s domain. And, late and together, Tam Cochrane the (rich) mason, with old Bishop Spens of Aberdeen, his rosy face purple with cold. Knollys immediately crossed and bent solicitously over him.

  It reminded Kathi how much she liked funerals, provided the departed was old, and had led a full life, and had not been particularly well liked. Attaching herself, as was only seemly, to the lady Margaret her former royal mistress, she watched with approval as the Baron Cortachy and the sire de Fleury and his lady wife deployed their social skills among the gathering about to issue to Mass. There was no one there with quite the authority of Anselm Adorne: elegant, courteous, moving from group to group with his observant eye and quiet greetings. And few people there who drew the eye as Nicholas did, with his height, the quality of his voice, and the impression of hardly repressed energy that he did not seem to know he possessed. It was instructive, if you knew what he was doing, to see just which people he spoke to, and for how long. And the same was true of Gelis, who chose her own path, and for whom circles opened in welcome. She had won esteem enough for her name and her looks, but nowadays there was more. Men admired her for her ability. They were also right to admire her as a beauty. Physical love had done that.

  The music was good, but should have been better: Whistle Willie was stranded up north. It became very hot because of the candles, and then intermittently very cold, as the doors opened to admit some late-comer and an icy draught swept down the nave. Afterwards, breakfast had been arranged in various Hamilton properties, with the sole inn at the Netherton pressed into use for the overflow. With the family, Kathi was returning to Hamilton Keep, closer than Cadzow.

  The service ended. The coffin passed, with its procession forming behind. The doors opened on a livid sky and deep, trampled snow. Standing by the doors, just where they had entered, stood the massive cloaked form of Jordan de St Pol of Kilmirren and, beside him, Henry his grandson, disdainful and fair in royal livery.

  Kathi said softly, ‘Nicholas.’

  Beside her, he had already turned back. ‘I see them,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. They’ve missed the Elevation of the Host, and the Pazzis killed the wrong person anyway.’

  ‘But you’re terribly, terribly sorry you stabbed Henry,’ Kathi said.

  ‘And burned down Beltrees,’ remarked Gelis, on his other side, in a murmur.

  ‘What is it?’ said Jodi.

  All his elders became silent. Then Nicholas said, ‘Your cousin Henry and his grandfather are here. Smile, behave nicely, and especially be kind to poor Henry. He has a sore arm.’

  It was all the advice that Nicholas gave, Kathi noted, throughout everything that followed. As they left the church, and during the last of the ceremonies, distance separated them from Kilmirren, and the same was true at the keep, where the feast prepared for them was royal, as befitted the King’s sister and her late husband. Had the King succumbed to his illness, or been poisoned, had Sandy been judged and justified, Hamilton would very likely have ruled, as regent for James, Fourth of the Name, now aged six.

  The little Prince had a good nurse, Nanse Preston, but not a Nicholas, who was at present handling Jodi, nearly eleven, by doing nothing. When the snow had first come to Edinburgh, Nicholas and John le Grant had disappeared down to the workshops at Leith and returned with paint-smeared fingers and discoloured thumbnails, quarrelling noisily and hoarse with shouting and laughter. With them, they dragged four new-made and magnificent sledges, two for adults, one for a child, and one for a wheel chair.

  In the event, Robin hadn’t come to Hamilton, but three of the sledges were with them, red and blue and gold, and Nicholas had begged Jodi off duty last night to find a clearing and race them by torchlight, himself and Jodi alone. Kathi and Gelis had watched. Neither spoke. This was not remotely like the children’s sport he had devised for Margaret and Rankin. It was glorious in its excitement and beauty. It was as it must have been in Poland. Indoors, later, Kathi had talked of it to Nicholas.

  ‘That was dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ he had said. ‘I’m too old for that sort of thing.’ But he had turned his attention to her.

  She said, ‘Were you quite sure Jodi could do it? He was very brave.’

  ‘You have to guess,’ he said. ‘With men, as well. If they’re not sure, you can usually tell.’

  ‘Unless they love you,’ she had said. ‘Then they will die, rather than fail.’

  His gaze did not change, but she felt rather than saw a reflex movement, slight as that of a sea animal touched. It made her speak quickly. ‘No. It may not be so.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. His voice was quite clear. ‘But I shall watch for it now. Thank you.’

  But now, he had left Jodi alone. And Gelis never interfered, Kathi knew, with the way Nicholas handled Jodi. She ought not to have spoken, herself.

  • • •

  DURING THE BREAKFAST, nothing happened. Bishop Spens spoke, and John, the clever, lame, illegitimate man who was Hamilton’s oldest son, replied in a way that did himself as much honour as it did the long, controversial career of his father. Among the family, Kathi could not see that particular Hamilton girl whom, according to fevered report, Nicholas had once stolen from Simon de St Pol, Henry’s father. Nicholas had devoted a lot of time, in the past, to inv
estigating Simon’s discarded mistresses, but he had had his reasons, as Gelis certainly understood. Gelis, too, was watching Jordan de St Pol and his grandson, far down the table. Watching the exquisite golden-haired Henry, wearing the royal cipher of a King’s Archer on his shoulder, and an expression in his eyes, blue as Simon’s, in which amusement barely masked something darker whenever he looked towards Nicholas.

  The meal ended; the Princess and the family withdrew, and the rest of the company, reseated, waited to be summoned to follow them. Nicholas rose, and walked down to where Kilmirren sat, chatting amicably to his neighbour. Henry stiffened and said something, and the fat man broke off and looked round. ‘Ah, Nicholas! Come to receive an old man’s thanks for stabbing this moron. Where would he be now, if you had not? Where would my lord of Mar be! There would be another death for these two sad Princesses to mourn!’

  Henry had risen to his feet. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘I feel rather differently.’ Below the even tone, you could feel the hatred: for his grandfather; for Nicholas. Around them, seats had emptied.

  Nicholas said, ‘I expect you do. And Lang Bessie’s with Mar now, as well. A heavy price to pay for attacking him, but it might have been worse.’

  ‘It cost rather more than that,’ said the old man. His large, firm face with its gleaming chins turned up to Nicholas. ‘Quite a large sum of money, in fact. Really, I think I shall have to take steps to have Henry’s manhood pledged to something more permanent than brewing-women. Do you have any suggestions?’

  He was a devil. His voice carried down the long table where Gelis still sat, and Kathi herself.

  Nicholas said, ‘I doubt if you need any, unless the entire female population is blind. In my experience, a few years of brewster-wives don’t do very much harm, before the nightingale sings. And the Malloch girl is not quite fourteen.’

  The fat man looked gratified. ‘Indeed! I congratulate you. I hadn’t traced the latest conquest myself. Henry, you had better keep to professional engagements for a while. Then we shall consult, you and I.’

  ‘My grandfather indulges in pleasantries,’ Henry said. His voice would have iced a volcano. His gaze had left Nicholas. ‘But there, surely, is my van Borselen cousin. You remember Jordan, Grandfather Jordan? So tall! Nearly eleven! Just the age, surely, for his first professional engagement? What do you think?’

  Jodi de Fleury, in his black Hamilton livery, had just re-entered the room. He paused at the sound of his name, and then glanced at the speaker, and the fat man beside him, and his own father. Then he said, ‘Forgive me, sir,’ and crossing the room, bent to deliver a message to the guests seated there. Then he returned, and stood before Jordan de St Pol. ‘My lord.’

  Surprise and pleasure informed Kilmirren’s face. ‘Eleven! And of such a precocious maturity! Henry is right. The boy should be initiated at once. Why not leave him in Henry’s good hands?’

  At the end of the table, it was Kathi, not Gelis, who made to rise. Gelis’s hand, hard on her arm, prevented her. Jodi, frowning a little, had lifted his eyes to where his father stood, and caught, as Kilmirren did not, the single droop of one eyelid. Jodi’s colour returned. Nicholas said, ‘Monseigneur! Of course, the offer is generous, but should we discuss it new-come from Mass, with Bishop Spens himself in the room? That is, I am sure Henry would be a considerate partner, but the Church is not sympathetic towards—’

  The crash that stopped him came from Kilmirren’s great chair, astoundingly knocked aside by his bulk as he surged up and stood, facing Nicholas. The look on his face was such that Gelis’s nails dug into Kathi’s arm. Henry said, ‘Uncle Nicholas is teasing you, Grandfather. That is not what I meant.’

  It was the voice they had all heard before: dulcet, contemptuous, but rarely if ever used to his grandfather. Sitting there, struck with revulsion and pity, Kathi was reminded of something she had heard about the old man, long ago, when Tilde de Charetty’s first child was lost. Something that she assumed Nicholas knew, but that perhaps he did not. She put her other hand over Gelis’s, and held it close.

  Jordan de St Pol of Kilmirren stood where he had risen, powerful, composed as if Henry had never spoken. He looked at the youth, whose smile faded, and then back at Nicholas. ‘How tedious,’ he said. ‘Salacious, juvenile banter, in the presence of ladies. A misbegotten apprentice might be forgiven, but I feel less benevolent, Henry, towards yourself. What can we do to remedy this mistake?’

  Jodi spoke. ‘I have been sent, Monseigneur, to ask you and your party to do the Princess the honour of joining her.’ If he had not understood the sense, he had grasped the ominous tone of what was developing. He stood, his back straight, his immense grey eyes meeting Kilmirren’s.

  The fat man held the child’s gaze, reflectively. When he spoke, it was slowly. ‘And so, Jordan. Perhaps here is the answer. Many years ago, I am told, my grandson used his seniority to beat you in some ball game. He has been punished for it, but not adequately, or so it would seem. How would you like to be given a better chance now?’

  ‘He is on duty,’ Gelis said. ‘Today we buried the lord of this house.’

  ‘There speaks a dame of her child. I speak to the young man himself. The snow is deep. We are unlikely to travel today. When you are free of your duties, and when suitable privacy can be obtained, would you not like to engage my grandson in some better-matched bout? And if so, what would it be?’

  His eyes held the boy, tight as wire, but Jodi did not try to glance to either side. He said, ‘Perhaps Monseigneur would choose.’ For some things, at least, he now had the language of royalty.

  Kilmirren said, ‘Or your father? You have been practising at Greenside, have you not, Jordan? Perhaps you can excel Henry now at the butts, or in the list. What about shooting? Longbow, or crossbow? What does Nicholas say?’

  Nicholas said, ‘I think my son means that Monseigneur should choose, avoiding those sports which might strain Henry’s injury.’

  Henry moved. Before he could speak, Kilmirren said, ‘Really? I supposed you would have welcomed better odds. There are eight years between them.’

  ‘Then why not a competition in which the chances are even? A sledge race?’ said Nicholas.

  Gelis’s hand slackened and fell from beneath Kathi’s. Nicholas did not look at either of them; nor did Jodi.

  Gelis said, between her teeth, ‘Sometimes I think that if no one else kills him, I shall.’

  ‘I know,’ Kathi said. ‘Sometimes I feel like that about Robin. It’s called a healthy marriage relationship.’

  It’s called love.

  THE RACE WAS held at dusk, out of sight of the keep, at a place where the heavy oak trees of the Hamilton forest clothed the lower slopes of a long, precipitous hill. A crowd of the younger guests came along with them, some as spectators and some as competitors, hauling any old plank or piece of fencing they could find. Three or four had actual sledges. Since the only matched sledges were brought by St Pol and de Fleury, theirs was the only true race, to be run first.

  Henry had assumed that the third matched sledge was for the brat’s father, the Bastard. It would hardly be for his fat grandfather Jordan. His fat grandfather, having blamed Henry for what he had started himself, was now back at the house, waiting at ease by the fire, since no one would expect him to climb up a mountain.

  But the brat’s father, interrogated, had excused himself, surprised, from the race, contenting himself with packing the sledges for weight, which was fair enough. The race didn’t depend, then, on strength, so much as on quickness of eye and agility. Beneath the snow there were rocks. And lower down there were trees. Hit at speed, these could kill. And darkness was falling.

  Getting ready, his cousin didn’t say anything, but he went about things steadily enough, pulling on his red fur hat and thick gloves, and the boots he would steer with. De Fleury talked to him, but showed no special emotion. Perhaps he didn’t care if the brat died. Perhaps in private he made out that he cared, and cuddled Jordan when the brat wept,
and left him a drink late at night. Then, what else, he would stick a knife in his back. This was sticking a knife in his back. In both their backs: Henry’s and Jordan’s. Henry hated him.

  Henry had sledged before, but not very often. It was not an art required of chevaliers of prowess. The sledges, however, were beautiful. He had heard de Fleury say that John le Grant had made them and he believed it: working with John himself, he had seen wood just like this, down at Leith. John wouldn’t have known what the sledges were meant for. John could be an overbearing bastard at times, but he was straightforward.

  By the time they had finished the long climb to the top of the hill it was quite dark, and all the torches were lit, at the top and the bottom, and fixed lower down to the trees. Some of the trees were thirty feet round, planted like black tabernacles on the ghostly white of the slope. The torch-flames beaded the darkness below, each over its pastille of glistening snow. There was a sharp wind at the crest, which cut through hide and wool and fleece. Henry had been in enough jousts to be brazen about some things. While they were arguing over the sledges he said to the brat, ‘I’m going to pee. What about you?’ They went off together, but didn’t speak again, coming back. Presently, they climbed into the sledges and lay down, while men held them. Then someone said, ‘Go!’ and the two of them went.

  It was too fast for fear. It was so fast that he forgot to steer for the first seconds, and only remembered when he saw the first bump coming up. A little later he realised that the roar of the crowd had receded, and what he was hearing was the wind, and the rumble and hiss of the runners, and a squeak from Jordan as he heeled off something and jerked back immediately. He was a little behind. Then there was a lot of rough territory ahead, and they both had to start to navigate round it.

  He lost speed, doing that, and once heeled too abruptly, so that he nearly flipped over, and clods of half-frozen snow slapped his face and his body. His leg muscles were working, and he was panting as if he were running. The brat was still behind, but not by much. He had a crimson hat of dyed coney that reminded Henry of a quintain he had once had, which whirled when you struck it. He had been young at the time, and the master-at-arms had screamed at him when he missed, which was often.