Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He and the girl gazed at one another. Her diffidence had disappeared. For a moment, Simon thought that he saw a softening: an inclination perhaps towards tears.

  Then she either conquered or thought better of it. Uncloaked, she had a good, compact body, he noticed. More expressive, in a way, than her face. Almost generous, you could imagine. She said, ‘My mother died in disgrace. I remind him of her. He avoids me. It is understandable. But I do not think I could ask for shelter in the same house. There is a Cistercian convent. Sister Monika will find it.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Fat Father Jordan. ‘But not today. These things take time to arrange. Meanwhile, I must ask you to accept the hospitality of my poor house. You will be safe, with the Sister. I am an honourable man, as anyone will tell you. And when those gentlemen return who are responsible for you, I shall ask them to call on you here, where you may have support should they seem importunate, and help if they offer you none. Would you give me the happiness of agreeing? If the Sister does not object?’

  The bastard. The bastard. The bastard.

  They agreed. They rose to be shown to their rooms. The lord of Kilmirren, walking after, plucked a warm little feather from his son’s silken crotch.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Has that cooked your goose?’

  Chapter 30

  The mor that fortoune giffis thé of grace

  The war thow art.

  RETURNING HOME AT the end of the season, Nicholas brought with him all his men, including Julius, as predicted. He expected to be home for the winter. No one could afford to keep troops in the field for very long, and it made even less sense, if the weather made action impossible. As it was, no integrated northern invasion had happened, but the cross-Border fighting had been serious. He was not sorry it was over, and yet in a terrible way he had enjoyed it. It was the first time, this summer and autumn, that he had ever fought side by side with Adorne, who had ridden south several times with Sersanders and Dr Andreas, and men of less eminence who owed him service. They had made a good team. Adorne was an international jouster, a leader, a man of wide experience whom Nicholas willingly followed; and Adorne in his turn willingly gave him his head when some novel idea entered it. Among other things, they created their own style of banter. Tobie noticed it. It occurred to him (but not, he thought, to Nicholas) that none of Adorne’s sons ever talked to him in that way. The other who did was, of course, Kathi.

  Adorne’s was now a voice of authority in the cabinet of men who were handling this war. Rumours had reached them of the scale of the English fleet which Edward was amassing. Scotland was not unprepared. Since Nicholas had returned, funded by Gelis, he had invested all he could in the charter and purchase of ships. These served in peace-time as merchant vessels, sailing from Berwick and Leith and Dundee. They were leased for long-distance fishing. They were there, if the kingdom needed them, for the transport of troops, or for fighting. There were others who were doing the same—the Fife captain cheekily known as the Great Andrew, for one. Discovered by Gelis and Crackbene, he had become a good friend of them all, as had all the skippers of Leith, although some ran closer to the wind than Nicholas thought wise. When you knew both sides in a war, it was tempting to earn money by serving both sides. Master traders such as Alec Brown kept it even, in a rough way, but some day, someone would find out and object. Gelis kept lecturing him.

  Now, of course, she wasn’t lecturing anybody as, unshaven, unwashed, and straight from the Borders, they all tumbled into the Floory Land, and broke open the kegs, and regaled the counting-house with their tales while the cooks got out all the food they had been saving and started to prepare it. Robin was coming, and Kathi, and Crackbene, and all the company from next door.

  The food had had to be saved because the bad weather had caused a poor harvest, and grain was scarce and high-priced. In some places, there had been real suffering, but in its way it had also cut down the killing: without meal, you couldn’t provision long campaigns. It was one of the reasons why Adorne had burned his own mill. All its stores had been transported to the far bigger mill at Kirkhill, and the small one at Abercorn had been left meantime. But Adorne’s had been next to Blackness: an invitation to under-provisioned English shipping.

  Nicholas had asked about Adorne, after disentangling from Gelis and Jodi, and was told that he was next door, and wouldn’t mind a quiet word before coming to join them.

  He tried to read her face. ‘What about?’

  There were too many people. She shook her head. ‘He’ll tell you. Why not take Father Moriz?’

  His mind made several connections, all of them unpleasing. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. ‘The Peloponnesian War?’

  She smiled, but there was ruefulness in it. He could guess why. Simon was here. And, of course, so was Julius.

  NEXT DOOR, ADORNE had some very good wine and a lavish hand for those who appreciated it. Father Moriz, still smelling of gunpowder, closed his eyes as he sat back and drank. Nicholas nursed his, and thought as he listened. Not only Simon, there in the High Street, but Bonne. It was his fault. He had left the Abbess with money, in case of an emergency. Bonne had created the emergency. And because Sluys was blocked, she had joined the other travellers waiting for one of the rare ships to Scotland. That Simon had been among them was not an unreasonable coincidence, but it was an unlucky one. He said, ‘Just think. Julius will be able to ask them all about my mother, and tell them all about Bonne’s. And if they also think that I’ve appointed Julius to prove me legitimate, they’re not going to do nothing.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ Adorne said. ‘Julius must be told to drop this campaign. And I have already been to Kilmirren House and talked to St Pol.’

  Father Moriz sat up. ‘The old one?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Jordan, yes. Speaking, I said, for the Council, he ought to know that his son Simon was here on sufferance, and at the slightest sign of animosity against a man such as yourself, serving the King at a time of great danger, he and his father would both be returned to Madeira. I said nothing of Julius.’

  ‘But you discussed it with the Council,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘My lord of St Pol believed so,’ said Adorne. He smiled. ‘But it is for you now to be persuasive with Julius. What do you suggest, Father?’

  The big head had sunk on its chest. ‘Deportation,’ Moriz said. ‘Opiates. Paralysis of the jaw.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Adorne, ‘remembering Thorn, that my young Kathi, Nicholas, might be as persuasive as anyone? Then, of course, you and Father Moriz must go and see Bonne and settle her future. It may not be easy. She is not a compliant child, it would seem.’

  Thorn was in Poland. Nicholas had lost his temper with Julius, and Kathi had, in her impartial way, been a help to them both. ‘I shall talk to Bonne,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Adorne. ‘I am afraid you will have to travel to do it. It seemed to me unsuitable that the girl, even chaperoned, should remain in a household such as Kilmirren’s. You had not yet returned. I therefore took the liberty of asking the Prioress of Haddington to take both ladies temporarily under her care. It is a Cistercian foundation, although not the one which Sister Monika evidently had in mind. It will serve, though, until you have seen the young lady.’

  ‘She is there now?’ Nicholas said. He sat and tried to visualise the scene in Kilmirren House: Adorne’s bland proposal to remove Bonne; the Prioress arriving with her cohorts. The old man had let the girl go; he couldn’t have stopped her. And, of course, Simon had been out, Adorne said.

  ‘You approve?’ Adorne said. He was smiling at Moriz.

  ‘More than I can say,’ Nicholas said. ‘I owe you a great deal, sir.’

  ‘But for Gelis, I might not be here,’ Adorne said.

  These days, there was a passage between the Berecrofts house and its neighbour. Crossing back to their own side, Moriz stopped just before the connecting door, and drew Nicholas to a halt. ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘From the sound of it, probabl
y not. What?’ Nicholas said.

  The mountainous face glared up at his. ‘You tried to claim legitimacy once, I am told, and then retracted. Now Julius thinks he can try for you again. Do you in fact believe—Do you know that you are Simon de St Pol’s son?’

  He didn’t want to reply. He had said more of his family in the last half-hour than he ever normally did. But this was Father Moriz, who wore the mantle of Godscalc.

  Nicholas said, ‘Yes. Yes, I believe it. Yes, I am sure it is true, but I don’t have proof, and don’t want any.’

  ‘Even for the sake of your mother?’

  ‘I have thought of that,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘But other things are even more important. I see. But it has occurred to you, while thinking so deeply, that if you are Simon’s son, then Bonne may be his granddaughter?’

  ‘She is not mine,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘You think not. But are you sufficiently sure to risk a relationship forming between Bonne and Henry?’ Moriz asked. ‘For Henry, beyond doubt, is your son, and Simon does not know it.’

  ‘There is no risk,’ Nicholas said. ‘Bonne is penniless, fatherless; her mother impugned. Henry’s wife will be a rich, landed heiress, personally handpicked by Simon.’

  ‘Did I mention marriage?’ said Moriz.

  He opened the door. Since they left, the convivial clamour from the other side had become louder and, it suddenly appeared, less convivial. Wavering above the uproar was a single thickened voice: that of Julius. Shouting it down was another, far more furious, rather less inebriated and also unmistakable, although it had not been heard by anyone there for seven years or more.

  ‘Simon,’ said Nicholas. He turned. ‘Tell Adorne—’

  ‘—not to come,’ Moriz finished. He had already spun round.

  ‘And tell Wodman,’ Nicholas called after him. It was necessary. This wasn’t the lord of St Pol, executing a bold plan of revenge. This was a man in his cups, come to wreak against someone the hatred and fear he could not indulge in at home. This was … Simon.

  Nicholas walked through the door and slammed it shut with a report that made the walls shudder. The shouting sharpened, diminished and stopped. The voice of Julius was the last to fade, as he belatedly turned. But before that, blue and white and gold, incandescent with anger, Simon de St Pol had dropped his arms and focused his gaze on the door, and then, with increasing satisfaction, on the man standing before it.

  Julius hiccoughed.

  Katelinje Sersanders said something under her breath, and Tobie closed a hand on her arm. John le Grant sent a swift glance to Crackbene, and Gelis remained where she was, between Robin’s chair and the motionless figure of Clémence. Only Jordan de Fleury, aged nearly twelve, quietly set down the mugs he had been filling and, crossing the floor, went to stand by his father. Nicholas smiled at him.

  Simon said, ‘What a big bang, my poor Claes. Was it to bring your other men running? Well, there is young Jordan, at least, to protect you. You didn’t dare come to me.’

  ‘I could come tomorrow,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or now, when we have eaten. Will you join us?’

  It sounded almost normal, even to Kathi. In fact, he was raising a screen; picking words that would guide them all, not just himself, through the dangerous, secret-filled ground.

  Simon laughed a little. He was dressed for the field, and still armed. He had probably been called out on duty, as they had. He said, ‘Eat with you? Hardly. I want a word with your sad henchman here, and one with you, and then I propose a fair fight between you and me. The King couldn’t object, could he, to a fair fight to wipe out an insult? Jordan, did you know that your mother’s a whore, and your father fornicates with the cripple’s wife?’

  Everyone but Nicholas moved. But before the first flash of steel, Jodi had shot from his father’s side and flung himself over the room to the speaker. He had snatched a mug as he raced. Now he hurled the contents full over Simon’s smiling face.

  Simon’s arms locked about him, a man’s powerful arms, impervious to the struggles and kicks of a boy. Simon licked his lips, in exaggerated appreciation of the ale. Simon said, ‘At least Henry would know not to do that. Heigh-ho. So clear the room, please. I want the boy, Claes and Julius to remain. Nobody else.’

  Robin said, ‘I am not going. He has insulted my wife.’

  Gelis drew in her breath. Simon de St Pol said, ‘As you please. I’m only one man. I’ll kill the boy first, and then as many of you as I can. You decide.’

  Robin’s eyes turned to Nicholas. The same uncertainty held them all silent. Nicholas answered them all, but looked only at Robin. ‘It’s best if you go. Robin, no one believes that for a moment. It was one of Simpson’s lies. Will you leave your honour in my hands? If you please?’

  Tobie stiffened. Kathi said, ‘Yes. We go.’ Gelis had already begun to move to the door. For a single moment, her gaze had met that of Nicholas, but neither spoke. Robin turned his head aside and Clémence, taking hold of his chair, began to push. Simon spoke, and the door to the next house was locked. The shutters were already closed. Looking back as she left the room, Kathi saw a sudden movement close to the door, as if the boy had tried to grasp Simon’s sword. As she watched, Simon struck the lad to the ground and, kneeling, unbuckled his belt and began to shackle him with it. Julius exclaimed, and then subsided at the look Nicholas threw him. When the door closed, and then locked, she was left with a picture of Nicholas and Julius standing together, facing Simon, at whose feet the boy lay. Julius was swaying. Like Nicholas, he carried no arms. They were at Simon’s mercy. That is, any axeman could chop down the doors. But before they got very far, Nicholas’s son at the very least could be dead.

  She wondered if Simon was really prepared to be killed if that happened; or if he thought that none of these men would dare. She knew that if Nicholas had not allowed Jodi to run, Simon de St Pol would be dead, not to mention the inebriated Julius. She wondered by what law of retribution Nicholas was being brought, over and over, to weigh one life, one responsibility against another. She wished she were a man.

  INSIDE THE DOOR, Simon de St Pol stood with the boy at his feet, his hair an aureole of gold, and his sword resting point-down next the boy’s face, like that of a crusader in effigy. The candles burned, and the thickened air carried the odours of the uneaten food on the trestles and the ale in the litter of mugs.

  Without excitement, Nicholas spoke. ‘All right. That’s enough.

  ‘Julius, sit down. St Pol, I am not as unarmed as I appear, and if you touch that boy again, I shall kill you. Now say what you want to say, and let’s get it over. Is it about Julius’s step-daughter?’

  He sounded different. He sounded like Whitelaw, or Avandale, or Nowie Sinclair. Julius blinked. Jodi’s eyes became very bright. Simon de St Pol said, ‘I think you should speak when you are spoken to. I will ask the questions.’

  ‘Then ask them quickly,’ Nicholas said. ‘Wodman will have got to your father by now.’

  Simon went red. He lifted the sword.

  ‘And if you do anything, you and he will be sent back to Portugal. At the very least,’ Nicholas said.

  Julius, although bleary, had heard Nicholas mention his step-daughter. He gazed at him. ‘Bonne? Do you know about Bonne? He was trying to make out that she’s here.’

  ‘It’s a long story. She arrived at Kilmirren House while you and I were away. Adorne heard about it, and had her taken to Haddington Priory. I didn’t know about any of this until just now. St Pol thinks I did.’ He wasn’t really speaking to Julius.

  ‘I know you did,’ said Simon de St Pol. ‘Or why force her away from my house? It wasn’t her idea to go. She says you pay for her clothes and her keep. She doesn’t know why, but one may speculate. Is she to be your next wife, or your next bedfellow, Nicholas? The Prioress ought to be warned of your character. I could give her a list of your mistresses.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Nicholas said. He was becoming tired of it all, or he wouldn’t have said it. It
referred to a piece of history about which Julius was ignorant. To him, therefore, it was quite amazing that a simple remark should goad Simon into swinging his sword and, abandoning all his point of vantage, launching himself over the room against Nicholas.

  Unfortunately for Nicholas, he was exactly as unarmed as he appeared. He escaped the first swipe by vaulting over a trestle and keeping it between himself and the swordsman. He said, ‘Julius. Untie Jodi,’ and ducked. There was a crash and a splintering of dishes above him. A gelatine slid down his shoulder and he could smell sauce in his hair. Simon tugged his sword free of the wood of the table and was lifting the blade when Nicholas rose, picked up a ham and rammed it on the point of the steel. Then, as Simon lunged, he slid to the end of the table where the pewter cups were, and began to throw them. Simon fended them off with an arm, shook his sword free and advanced.

  Further off, there was another crash. Either on his way to or from Jodi, Julius had slipped on the tiles and now lay groaning where he had fallen. The groans sounded more liquid than painful. Simon’s sword, glittering, drew Nicholas’s attention suddenly back to the matter in hand, and he jumped aside just in time. A chair back exploded in splinters as he wheeled round it and snatched up a stool. Simon’s swordpoint drove straight through it, and Nicholas dropped it just in time, backing. The second trestle, which he had feared to find barring his way, turned out instead to be close to one side, with a selection of puddings. He missed with the first one, but the second joined the dried ale on Simon’s face and blinded him just long enough for Nicholas to snatch up a tray and another stool and get out of the way as Simon cleared his eyes and thrust forward. He stumbled over a chest.