‘Really?’ said Henry Sinclair. ‘Then perhaps we should see this gentleman safely bestowed, while we find out what our newest friends want.’
The wine skipper’s face, as he was taken out, was sour as bog butter.
For the newcomers, Henry changed into velvet, which was intended to give him a certain ascendancy over the five unkempt persons who were presently brought in to see him. One of them was a boy. One, in a wheeled chair, was a disabled merchant he knew of. One was Nicol de Fleury. One was Leithie Preston. And the leader was his uncle Oliver, last seen in Roslin at his grandfather’s funeral, and just before the consequent division of spoils which had proved so very satisfactory.
His uncle Oliver said, ‘We were not at all sure that you would be in residence. How very fortunate this all is, and how kind of you to welcome us. Your father, I take it, is not with you?’
Henry’s father, an idiot wastrel in youth, had turned out to be a genuine idiot in age. He was now the second Lord Sinclair. His father’s sister had married, and been divorced by, the Duke of Albany. Henry said, ‘No. Father is in Newburgh, and Uncle David is in Shetland. All I have on the premises at the moment are prisoners. May I offer you a refreshment, or would you care to retire first?’
‘Dear Henry,’ said his uncle. ‘Insalubrious as we are, we should like to sit and talk to you first. We passed a ship at anchor.’
‘The English wine-ship,’ said the Master helpfully. ‘With its master from Hull. Captured by three Ronaldsay boats.’
‘Splendid fellows. I know them,’ said his uncle, sitting down with a generous measure of wine. ‘And fully deserving of the reward they will win. But the ship and its contents, of course, are the King’s, and will have to be taken back south. They tell me that three-quarters at least of the wine has survived. The rest was lost to the ships in the Forth, as Nicol here can attest. Indeed, I was sure that I heard that the skipper was killed then as well. The man you have will be a minor seaman, elevated to master? He deserves his freedom, I should have thought.’
‘There speaks a humane man,’ said Henry. ‘But appearances, we all know, can be misleading. A ship, to be three-quarters full, would ride lower.’
Sir Oliver Sinclair rose and stood at the window. ‘My boy,’ he said. ‘I think you are right. If that cargo is two-thirds what it was, it would be nearer the truth.’
‘And the mariner?’ Henry said. ‘Would you care to speak to him, before I turn him free?’
‘No, no,’ his uncle said. ‘Let him take the next ferry south, with anyone else you don’t want to feed. Preston here will sail both ships back, won’t you, Thomas? Nicol and I have to leave him at Moray. Salmon business—so important, isn’t it, and so vulnerable, in the wrong hands. And I want to see Cochrane, if he’s there. Am I right, Nicol? The kingdom can do without you for another week? You have performed enough feats of valour for the moment.’
‘You flatter me, sir,’ the Burgundian said. His face throughout had been gravely attentive. The boy could not quite hide his puzzlement, but had the sense not to speak.
They were to stay two days, to rest the crews and themselves, and pick up fresh linen and such change of dress as they could find. Henry allowed his uncle the run of his wardrobe, for although they were related only by the half blood, they were much of a size. That is, Uncle Oliver, on his mother’s side, was descended from King Robert the Bruce (hence the mighty air), and Henry was the son of a man known as William the Waster. But since his grandfather died, and his favouritism with him, it was William of Ravenscraig, the first-born, who was the second Lord Sinclair, and not Oliver Sinclair of Roslin, a son of the second wife. People forgot that.
Henry Sinclair made a point, during those days, of spending time with the Burgundian de Fleury, whom he had met occasionally since he grew up, and remembered from the scandal four years ago over Aunt Betha’s cousin and her bastard by Cortachy. At Roslin, de Fleury had always seemed reticent, but in fact he had more of a sense of humour than you would credit him with, and had travelled quite widely. De Fleury knew Caterino Zeno, and his wife, and the gossip about his little bastard daughter, contracted to a rich merchant at Zakynthos. He knew about the Sinclair voyages, and that Henry’s namesake had fought for Duke John of Burgundy. De Fleury had been to the tomb of St Catherine in Sinai, and brought back some of the oil. He had been in Timbuktu. The stay, which could have been tedious, really passed very quickly, and Henry was quite sorry to wave his uncle goodbye.
On board, Nowie said, ‘Thank you. You were very forbearing. He will make a success of the barony, once his father is out of the way. And as the husband of Pat Hepburn’s girl Margaret, the Princess’s granddaughter, he will consolidate Sinclair possessions, think of it, from Orkney to Berwick. Meanwhile, I think we have preserved Alec? Did anyone see him?’
‘I sneaked in,’ said Leithie. ‘He was right sorry for himself, I can tell you; and sorrier still when I’d done with him. I told him if he didna stop making money out of the English, I’d hang him next time myself.’
‘That should keep him quiet for five minutes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why are we going to Moray?’
‘My dear fellow, I told you,’ said Nowie. ‘You deserve a rest. And Will Scheves and Drew are cooking up a small scheme which they really can manage best on their own. Or if they can’t, you will be there, all fresh and unsullied, to sympathise with the King.’
‘Sympathise with him over what?’ said Nicholas, jettisoning court manners. The reticence he had once exhibited at Roslin had long since expired.
‘Oh, nothing definite,’ Nowie said, redoubling the charm. ‘A rumour. You wouldn’t hear it, in Berwick. The King swore, if Howard attacked, that he’d muster the army and march into England.’
Jordan sat, his eyes huge. Leithie Preston went on with what he was doing, intermittently yelling at his crew.
‘But?’ said Nicholas, with a certain patience.
‘But the Pope has sent to tell both Kings to refrain. And they really don’t want to anyway. Drew and the Archbishop have it in hand. Truly, there is nothing to worry about,’ Sinclair said. ‘Have you ever fished off Darnaway Castle? I assure you, it is an experience fit for angels. The lad would enjoy it as well. And I do think that Tam Cochrane would have information worth hearing. I might even take him with me up north. The good Bishop Prospero has not yet come into his temporalities, and my brother is not only Earl of Caithness, dear Will, but Camulio’s Justiciar, chamberlain and sheriff. It is only wise to have a look at Scrabster and Skibo, and have a word with the Constable. Don’t you think?’ His large, fair brow wrinkled in anxious enquiry.
Nicholas said, ‘You think Bishop Camulio will actually come?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nowie. ‘I really don’t know. The Pope is grateful. It would have been interesting, wouldn’t it, for a while. I don’t think he would be spared to us as Bishop of Caithness for long.’
‘And afterwards?’ Nicholas said.
‘Oh, afterwards, I have no shortage of brothers who could provide a successor. What a pity it is,’ said Sir Oliver, ‘that Phemie’s child was a daughter. But no doubt, if she conquers her deafness, we shall find a good husband for her one day.’
Somewhere in the suave voice there was a thread of real discontent. Nicholas looked at him. It had never occurred to him before. It had never entered his mind, as he witnessed the brave desperation of Phemie’s pregnancy, that the coupling was not, for the Sinclairs, the utter surprise it had seemed.
Sinclair hadn’t noticed his silence. Sinclair was remarking, ‘In any case, whatever action develops, the north and north-east are bound to play some part. As Bishop Spens and the Knights knew, and your Anselm Adorne assuredly does.’
‘Mine?’ said Nicholas.
‘Ours, if you prefer,’ Sinclair said. ‘Without you, he would not be here. Without him, I doubt if you would. And we need you both.’
‘We?’ said Nicholas in the same tone. It was short.
‘Oh, yes; I am Scottish,’ sa
id Nowie. ‘But you are not. You are nothing yet, are you? You have been offered some land?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.
‘But you have not accepted it? Why?’
‘Because I didn’t want it,’ said Nicholas.
‘You see?’ said Sir Oliver fretfully. ‘That is what I meant. You will have to make up your mind, my dear Nicol. Adorne will not make it up for you.’
Chapter 33
In gret lawté thir men of craft suld stand
That baith has cur apon the seye and land.
DURING THAT TRIP to the north, Jordan de Fleury stepped from childhood and became the son of his father.
It was Gelis, daughter of maritime Veere, who had him taught to swim as a child, but his father and the cool lord of Roslin who took him to fish in the wild spate of the Findhorn and taught him how to use it for sport, following these two mighty men, bare to the sun, plunging through the ravine; swirling in the swift, rock-strewn waters like the lean, agile salmon which a man got to love, and to prefer to the fat lazy fish of the estuaries.
It was his father who allowed him to come to the meetings he had with the Priors, the landowners, the royal servants who leased the fishings, at which they talked not only of salmon, but of general trade and all that might affect it, which seemed to include everything in the world. Beforehand, his father now would outline for him, simply and briefly, what was going to happen, and what he wanted, and what to watch for, and Jordan would sit through the subsequent meeting, giving nothing away, but convulsed with private glee at each point scored and object achieved. He learned to watch people’s hands, and their feet, and their eyes. He learned never to despise a man because he wanted something different, and never to underrate him either.
They met Tam Cochrane, after Sir Oliver Sinclair had left them at Speyside, and scrambled all over Auchindoun while he explained its defensive points and its weaknesses; and then rode south to Kildrummy. Master Cochrane was Constable of Kildrummy Castle, which meant that he had to make and keep it defensible. The masons were working there, and the yard was the kind of place Jordan had liked to play in when he was small, with buckets of mortar, and heaps of squared stones and timber, and scaffolding, and barrows, and scratched drawings everywhere. The money for it came from the earldom of Mar, which belonged to the King since the last Earl had died. As a servant in a royal household, Jordan had become quite familiar with earldoms and baronies, and had already attended a baron court, and seen taxes being collected and local men trained to fight, and even to raise their beasts and plant properly. You had to do that, if you had land. Or even if you didn’t, his father said, you should know about it.
They climbed over the Buck of the Cabroch while they were travelling, and he was taken into forests, where he saw trees being sawn and made ready for floating. Master Lisouris showed him how to tell good wood from bad, and he helped manage the oxen. Last thing of all, he helped fell a tree. Then he travelled to Aberdeen with his father, and got a place on a boat going to Leith.
His mother was at the Leith house, and came out by skiff to where they were waiting over the bar for the tide. They went back with her. She didn’t kiss him or anything, although she held him at arm’s length, smiling, and then gave him a quick squeeze on both shoulders. She kissed his father. She said, ‘It was a long two-day battle for some people. Even the St Pols got back from Tobermory before you did.’
It was as well she mentioned it, for Jordan had forgotten about the St Pols, and Henry was the first person he saw on the wharf when they came ashore. His father threw him a smile, but Henry turned his back, and his father and mother walked on towards the house. He could hear his father mentioning oysters, and his mother starting to laugh. Jordan smiled. Henry came over.
Henry said, ‘He isn’t much of a fighter, is he, your father? Ran away from the Forth. Stayed away from the muster. What was he doing? Visiting all his other wives?’
He had been told what was safe and unsafe to mention. Jordan said, ‘We were chasing a wine-ship.’
‘How exciting,’ said Henry. ‘Did you catch it?’
‘No. But our ship brought it back. My father had business to see to. Anyway, there wasn’t any fighting on the Forth,’ Jordan said. ‘And I thought the army disbanded.’
‘It might not have. And someone certainly burned Blackness without you helping to stop it,’ Henry said. ‘But I suppose you just have to follow your father. You ought to try some real fighting some day.’
‘What was it like with the Earl of Argyll and Angus Og?’ Jordan asked. He sat on some rope and Henry perched on a bollard and told him. It was quite interesting, and terrifically gruesome: the place where they fought, even, was called Bloody Bay. It was also very serious, unlike John le Grant’s tales of Jordan’s father fighting the Turks, which were all full of the jokey things that they did, like pretending they were there to cure camels. In the end, the Bloody Bay story ran to a halt, and although Jordan asked some things he wanted to know, and said, quite honestly, that he wished he could do something like that, Henry jumped to his feet and said he really couldn’t waste any more time, and just went. He glanced at their house as he passed.
Nicholas saw him, from where he and Gelis stood, half embraced in the depths of the parlour, but didn’t say anything. Gelis’s eyes were on Jodi, coming slowly along from the wharf. She said, ‘What have you done? You have brought back a man.’
‘The start of one. It was a longish time for a boy, and he was very good. But now he needs to get back to his friends, and become thoroughly silly and childish. Don’t scold him too much,’ Nicholas said. His fingers moved to her ear.
As so often before, the mystery of it overwhelmed her. She burst out. ‘How do you know what to do? How do you know exactly what to do?’ And when he looked down at her, startled, she said, answering herself, ‘It is Umar, isn’t it? The teacher, the professor, the judge, who passed on all he knew. That, and instinct.’
‘He taught you as well,’ Nicholas said. ‘But you manage reasonably well on instinct alone. Or you used to.’
She felt herself melt as he said it, for she recognised both the mock complaint and the frustration behind it: Jodi was coming; they could not be alone. She also understood, without resentment, that she had reached a small boundary, and had been stopped. There were not many now, and she did not test them for her own sake but for his; reminding him, as best she could, that she was there, if he wanted to cross. If he never did, she still had more than she deserved. She had him safe. He was back, safe, again.
THE NEXT ATTACK came in July.
It had always been possible, in spite of the Church’s injunction which had persuaded her Scottish son in Christ James to disband his army, and her English son in Christ Edward to cease having to pretend that he meant to come north with any promptitude. Obedience to the Holy Father certainly entered into both decisions, but did not last long on King Edward’s side.
Personally, he was not immediately coming north, or releasing an army. Nevertheless, he lent an encouraging ear when Jack Howard, queasily back after his upsetting and unexplained illness, proposed (in a calm, measured way his men found admirable) a return with his fleet, better armed, better provisioned, and with the capability of establishing a base in the Forth which could act as a supply centre for the land invasion, when it came.
The beacons flared, and King James, cheated, betrayed, torn from his assurance of pious security, fell into a rage that even de Fleury could not pacify. The King was left with his priests and a doctor, and his fleet took to the water.
This time, it was a different fleet, with different tactics. ‘Your bloody fault, Nicol,’ had said John le Grant, when they planned it. ‘If you hadn’t had your small fishy joke, there would be no need to cater for Howard: there’d be no sense in his coming back. As it is, he’ll probably come for revenge.’
‘It would be an extravagant form of revenge,’ Argyll had said. ‘If he comes, it will be because it suits Edward’s strategy. A second attack
like the last would be worthless. Howard would either come along with a land force, or to prepare for it.’ Colin, Earl of Argyll, had come back from the fighting, having quelled the rebellion and arranged to abstract and imprison his own grandson Donald, aged three. One of his daughters was wife to Angus Og, son of the rebel Lord of the Isles.
Much though he esteemed MacChalein Mor, Nicholas understood that it would not matter to Argyll whether his daughter wept for her small son or not: if necessary for the greater good, the boy would spend all his life in captivity, until he was grey. It was not the same as stealing your son from your wife. It was the same, in some ways.
Nicholas had said, ‘So this time we confront Howard, if he comes.’
‘Dìreach air a shùil, just so,’ Argyll had said. ‘Andrew Wood will draw up the plans. You and Crackbene and the men of Leith will help him. And it is sorry I am, but trade stops from this moment. We accept incoming ships, but none may leave during the season. We may need them all.’
He had been right. Of all the threats they had discussed, Jack Howard’s fleet was the one to materialise. They sailed into the Water of Forth, and there found Sir Andrew Wood, with the full Scottish squadron around him.
It was a short fight. The hope of the English, it seemed, had been to establish themselves on Inchkeith, the mid-estuary island which lay between Leith and Kinghorn. Balked of that, they tried nothing further, but turned picturesquely and left, sustaining a brisk rear engagement until well down the coast. After a while, the Scots let them go. No ships had been lost. They had been evenly matched, and Howard’s personal animus had not altered the odds. By mid-August, he and his fleet were back in Sandwich.
At the ensuing council in Avandale’s house, the Chancellor had an announcement to make. ‘Word has just come. The army which threatened Rhodes has withdrawn. The Sultan of Turkey, its leader, has died.’
His voice was grave, rather than triumphant, and it was a moment before anyone spoke. Struck down before fifty, Mehmet the poet, the drinker, the visionary, the amalgam of cruelty and tolerance: the man who, aged twenty-one, had won the legendary Constantinople from Byzantium, and had developed the fleets which had made him the most intimidating magnate of his time.
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