There was no point in going into all that. Nicholas said, ‘Well, you’re on your own if you do. I’m not going to Eccles by the east coast. And they won’t have any altos there anyway: they’ll have moved them somewhere safe with their gold cups and their charters.’ Crackbene’s wife had once worked at Coldingham, in between being a wet nurse. She was the best contralto Willie had ever had: he used to say her neck resonated down to her navel; a statement with which Crackbene took serious issue, the first time he heard it.
After some persuasion, Willie agreed that Coldingham was too far, but still insisted on coming to Eccles. So be it.
It was a cheerful enough ride: south through Dalkeith and up the steep hill of Soutra, from which all the world could be seen, from the distant smoke of the town to the far hills of Fife, with the flat grey Forth lying between; from the expanse of the wide Eastern Sea to the Bass Rock close to its shore, thumbing its nose at the cone of North Berwick Law. Then they entered the hills. Every track over the Lammermuirs was busy with traffic both ways: troops like their own, going south with their arms and their provisions, and some coming the opposite way, with their service over. There were also elderly people, and younger women with children, of the kind who regularly moved out during raids. Others took shelter in the nearest stone keep of their lord.
Townspeople did much the same. You could defend your town for a while, but it was liable to fall, or be encouraged to surrender. Before that moment came, the provident took to the hills, or got themselves and their goods into the castle. And a long, successful siege of a castle was a different matter.
Genoa was the supreme example of that: the citadel could hold out for weeks, while the town was in quite different hands. Trebizond had done it while Nicholas was there: he had laid the plans that let the Turks overrun the town, while the army stayed safe in the fortress. Edinburgh had employed the strategy over and over, emerging to rebuild its houses once the besieger had gone. And, of course, Berwick-upon-Tweed, like Famagusta, had provided the theatre for most types of assault: the decision by single combat, the pitched battle, the siege, the contingency pact, the dialogue with hostages. It changed with people, and circumstances. It didn’t change.
Jodi was looking at him. For a boy, it ought to be a great day: Nicholas emerged from his thoughts and proceeded to make it so. Julius capped all his stories. Willie had unpacked his whistles and drums and was frightening the horses. They rode through the small township of Lauder, or meant to, but were persuaded to stop and eat by some of the farmers he knew, all of them spilling out of the tavern into the yard that sloped down to the merry, chuckling Leader, on its way through its broad vale. Willie took out his whistle and played, sweet as a lark, until he had them singing and clapping at the sheer exuberance of it, and then dancing with each other, lumbering men, while he tripped out a tune, stopping to swill his free ale.
They all knew Willie Roger. Once, before the Chapel Royal filled his life, Willie had been Master of the Hospital of St Leonard, and received his income from the lands of Traquair, both close at hand to the west. Hearty James had Traquair now, but all over Ettrick Forest and Yarrow there lived baritones and basses and even people who were completely tone-deaf who thought they were his family. Their friendship had left Willie himself with a sentimental kind of affection for the neighbourhood, and an expressed desire to return and live there one day, presumably with a full choir and his trumpets, since nothing less was likely to suit a man who earned his income by presenting expensive musical performances in rich urban areas.
Thinking of it, Nicholas jogged along singing with the rest, until told off for taking flamboyant liberties with the beat. Nicholas mimed tragic remorse, and saw Jordan grinning. Recently, Jordan had become a good mimic. Nicholas was quite sorry when the hills gave way to the wide rolling plains of the Merse and, bypassing the castle of Home, they prepared to arrive, spruced up and sober, at the modest Cistercian Priory of Eccles.
Two miles north of the river Tweed, less than six from the Abbey of Kelso and altogether too close to the frontier of England, Eccles protected its nuns with stout walls and anxious local landowners. Two of these came riding out to meet Nicholas. ‘My lord? You mean to call on the Prioress?’
Nicholas knew, but did not trust, either of them. He said, ‘We come merely to bring away one of her guests, the lady of Hanseyck. Master Julius here is her guardian.’ Julius, rather tardily, rode forward.
‘The young lady? The young lady Bonne?’ said one of the men. ‘But she has already left. All those remaining have left, except for the Prioress and her servants. There have been several raids. It was thought best.’
‘Where has she gone?’ Julius said.
‘To a friend of the Prioress. To a neighbouring laird. You know Constantine Malloch?’ said the man.
Julius stared. Nicholas said, ‘Yes, very well. How very thoughtful of him to offer her shelter. And Sister Monika, I trust?’
Sister Monika, happily, was with the young lady as well. The Malloch property, as my lord of Fleury would know, was not far away. Indeed, one might think it too close to the frontier for the safety of a widower, however hearty, with a son and daughter still at home. In the opinion of some, the young persons should be persuaded to move. At the time, agreeing, thanking and taking his leave, Nicholas did not notice the glow on Jordan’s twelve-year-old face.
They called on the Prioress, and confirmed what they had heard. The Prioress had a hooked nose like her late half-brother, which had presumably come straight down via their mother from King Robert the Third. Her manner also was regal. She was dryly courteous to Julius but a little more forthcoming in private with Nicholas. ‘You were a friend to poor, silly Phemie Dunbar. The paramour was not an uncaring man: the outcome was a pity, I felt. So, I believe, did Dr Andreas. My brother studied at Louvain with his father. You seemed surprised that I had sent off the Sisters?’
‘I thought your cloth would have protected you,’ Nicholas said. ‘But I can see, if you fear the English so much, that no one can accuse you of collaborating with them.’
The black eyes narrowed, cross as an owl’s. The Prioress said, ‘Do people say so?’
‘Not at all,’ Nicholas said. ‘That is why I considered your dispatch of the Sisters so wise. I thought perhaps you might have kept the girl, since she is a foreigner.’
‘I might. But the lady Bonne is not a nun, and her chastity must be my care. Is she the daughter of the Graf Wenzel von Hanseyck?’
‘You doubt it?’ said Nicholas.
‘It is not for me to doubt it,’ the Prioress said. ‘She may be his daughter, but if so, she has not been reared to her station.’
‘Her manners seemed good,’ Nicholas said. He was entertained.
‘Her manners are too good,’ said the Prioress. He knew what she meant. He thought, then, that her only interest was Bonne, and that it was going to be all right.
It was later, when Julius came back, that the Prioress asked after Dr Tobias. Such a learned gentleman, from such an eminent Milanese family.
Nicholas welcomed her interest, and began to expatiate on Tobie’s wonderful family, whom Tobie happened to loathe. Julius’s mind was already otherwise employed. ‘Tobie here? When was this?’
‘Well, surely’ the Prioress said. ‘Six or seven years ago, when he came to talk to poor Sister Ysabeau about the de Fleury family?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Julius,’ Nicholas said. ‘She was remotely related to your Adelina, and Tobie had begun to ask questions. I’m sorry. Look, we ought perhaps to go.’ Adelina had been Julius’s wife, and a subject he did not like to discuss. With any luck, he would leave it.
‘She knew about Adelina?’ Julius said. ‘What else did she know? Did she know about the St Pols?’ The old woman was looking at each of them, dwelling a little on Julius. Julius had the kind of classical face that everyone dwelled on. It went with a diploma in obstinacy.
Nicholas said, ‘She was deaf. She was a sister of Thibault de Fleury’s f
irst wife, and that was all Tobie asked her about. She wouldn’t know the St Pols.’
‘Well, of course she would,’ said the Prioress, surprised. ‘If she didn’t come across them in recent years, she certainly knew them during her first stay. Elizabeth Semple was a nun here, after serving her noviciate in North Berwick. They used the Scottish form of the name. A French affectation, to change it back to St Pol.’
‘Sister Ysabeau stayed here twice?’ Nicholas said. It was against his better judgement. He immediately wished that he hadn’t.
‘As a young woman, and then again to end her days here. She had been fond of Elizabeth. I had no sympathy for the young person myself. She had taken her final vows, unlike poor Phemie, of whom we were speaking, but was of a light disposition: small wonder her brothers came to repudiate her. Her death, to be strict, was not undeserved. And of course, it had, had it not, an unforeseen consequence? Sister Ysabeau made the acquaintance of Elizabeth’s brothers, and continued the friendship in France. Hence Elizabeth’s nephew Simon came to meet Sophie de Fleury.’
Damn.
The Prioress said, ‘But I have been indiscreet. Please forgive me. That marriage, I know, must be most painful for you, Monseigneur de Fleury. It is not as if I could add to what is already public knowledge. Let me merely say that bastardy is no stigma in a noble career such as yours.’
There was a gleam in her eye, recalling suddenly an earlier dialogue. Mention collaboration, will you? Not to me.
Julius clearly wished to interrogate further, but Nicholas excused himself. It was obvious, and Julius later confirmed, that there was no more to learn of that marriage. And the rest of it, so deftly touched on, he didn’t want to dig up.
She had all the guile, the old bitch, of her forebears. Riding off, Julius was as gloomy as he was. Then they joined Willie Roger and Jordan, and cheered up.
MALLOCH’S ESTATE, AS had been reported, was not far away. Nicholas had never been there, but Willie Roger’s infallible instinct for stout lungs and cavernous sinuses had led him ten years ago to discover the exceptional voices of Conn and his two motherless children, and recruit them for the religious play he and Nicholas had created in Edinburgh. For a short time, the children and Jordan had all stayed at the Priory at Haddington, but Nicholas had seen John and Muriella only intermittently since, and never at home. Muriella was three or four years older than Jordan, but younger than her brother. The girl might prefer to come north, but the boy was of an age to want to stay with his father and fight.
It was none of his business, or that of Julius. They were here only to remove Bonne and her chaperone to a place of greater safety. Nicholas stood, with Julius, at the gate of the modest keep which bore the same name as its owner, and watched Willie Roger slap the porter on the shoulder and in due course stride forward when Malloch appeared, large and smiling and fair as the Angel of the Annunciation he had played. He showed genuine pleasure at seeing them all, arranged immediately for the comfort of the soldiers, and ushered Willie indoors, with Nicholas, Julius and young Jordan, talking with gusto. The young lady was indeed here, with Sister Monika, and would be charmed to see them, although Muriella would not be so pleased at the prospect of losing her new, kindly friend. The lady Bonne was down by the river, and would be sent for. Meanwhile, would his friends do him the honour of stepping into his hall? ‘Muriella! Muriella!’
His daughter came, skipping in her long skirts, pretty as a picture with her fair hair and dark eyes and sparkling tease of a smile as she curtseyed to all the men, with a special glimmer for Willie. When she came to Jordan she smiled and, instead of curtseying, kissed his smooth cheek, which turned scarlet. Then she took his fingers and said, ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, that we’ve met before? I haven’t.’
‘I haven’t, either,’ Jordan said. He was still scarlet.
Muriella said, ‘Then we shall have to see much more of each other. Are you going to stay overnight?’
‘Of course they are,’ her father said, before anyone could protest. ‘Provided, sweetheart, that you let everyone know to prepare beds for them, and a meal for us all. Off you go. You will see more of Jordan presently.’ And she laughed and ran off, while her father shepherded the newcomers into his parlour.
Another guest sat there already and rose slowly, changing colour, as they entered. With a little weariness, Nicholas saw who it was.
‘Uncle!’ said Henry de St Pol. ‘I thought you were defending the Borders from your table in Edinburgh. And Jordan?’ He ignored Julius and barely glanced at Willie, whom he had met often enough at the Castle.
‘They let us out sometimes,’ Nicholas said. ‘Julius, you haven’t met Henry since he went to stay with his grandfather at Kilmirren. I didn’t expect to see him here myself.’
‘They let me out sometimes, too,’ Henry said. ‘I act as messenger for the Lord Warden of the West March. When the scouts tell us that Dickon Gloucester is moving, then I help spread the word.’ He was recovering.
‘Is Gloucester moving?’ asked Nicholas. He had heard as much, but he was interested in what Henry believed. The Duke of Gloucester, much admired by his men, was a ferocious leader of skirmishes, but lacked the broader military vision, they said. Certainly he had failed to provide a counter-invasion to balance the attack of his brother’s fleet. They were seating themselves. Malloch was speaking to someone outside the door.
‘He’s moving,’ Henry said. ‘And Percy of Northumberland. It looks like a gathering at Tweedmouth.’
Tweedmouth was a small English base with a keep and village on the southern bank of the Tweed opposite Berwick. Nicholas wondered whom Henry was quoting so masterfully. John Stewart of Darnley, very likely.
‘Just against Berwick?’ said Julius. ‘Or something bigger?’ With all these men-at-arms, he was longing to use them.
‘Nothing bigger, not now; but it looks like a gesture at least against Berwick. You’ve come to fight?’ Henry said. ‘And Jordan, too?’
‘Tell them to let me,’ Jordan said. His voice betrayed that he more than half meant it. Nicholas looked at him. Jordan and Henry had talked together at Leith. He wondered what had been said.
Henry said, ‘Would it do any good? At your age?’ It sounded disparaging, but there was something not unfriendly about it.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jordan, with gloom. He sat down, not far from Henry, and then got up again as the door opened upon the self-possessed figure of Bonne von Hanseyck, followed by Muriella, still smiling.
Muriella crossed to stand between Henry and Jordan and when they sat, sat between them, taking Jordan by the hand. Henry looked at them both. Bonne gave her hand to the three men and sat between Nicholas and Julius, remarking, ‘Forgive me for not being present to welcome you. I had no idea you were coming. How gallant!’
‘Your stepfather was anxious,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has some suggestions to make. Then I shall take you north with me tomorrow.’
‘It seems a little sudden,’ said Bonne, after brief thought. ‘In fact, I have been invited to stay for a month, and have accepted. No. I am most grateful, but tomorrow is out of the question.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Unless, of course, you wish to use coercion. I have no rights of my own. I know that.’
If she had shown a trace of passion, Nicholas would have applauded. She merely looked firm. Against her vivid maturity, her strong brows, her self-possession, Jordan seemed like a child. Henry, closer to her own age, was viewing her with stony intolerance. Muriella, who still held Jordan’s hand, looked both eager and shocked. Her lips had parted.
‘War is sudden,’ said Julius. ‘Tomorrow.’ It could be seen that his nostrils were white.
Bonne said, ‘M. de Fleury? I am really not sure which of you has the casting vote.’
‘He does,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is, he will hold the necessary conversations with Master Malloch and Sister Monika, and I shall supply any coercion required to detach you tomorrow. Or my groom will. He is a married man, and will n
ot be at all rough.’
Suddenly, Henry had caught a note in Nicholas’s voice, and a light entered his own eye. He said darkly, ‘She’ll go. She just likes her own way. You should try living in the same house for two days.’
‘That,’ said Nicholas, ‘is ungallant. It is also discourteous to your host. Bonne, I know you appreciate Master Malloch’s kindness, and don’t wish to disappoint him, but I think you have no alternative. May I take it that you will come?’
‘Yes,’ said Bonne, frowning a little. ‘But to where?’
TO WHERE was, at intervals, the question of the evening: through and after the meal, shared by Sister Monika, and in between the pleasant music they made afterwards, with Nicholas and Malloch in harmony, and Muriella’s sweet voice entwined with her brother’s. John Malloch, entering late, was an elongated, dust-coloured version of the golden child he had once been, serene in manner and grey-blue of eye. Willie sweated and played, Julius looked bored, Bonne and her chaperone embroidered, and Henry sat sulkily watching Muriella. When she asked Jordan to sing, and then, laughing, began to sing with him, Henry lay back, a little drunk, and kept interrupting. John, smiling, tried to divert his attention, but Henry got up and walked out.
Soon after that, they reached agreement with Bonne over her future. First, a Cistercian convent within reach of Edinburgh, at which Sister Monika might, if she approved, eventually remain. Next, as soon as might be arranged, an appointment in some gentle household, as a preliminary to an arranged marriage. The household and the marriage to be selected, from a short leet, by Bonne.
Nicholas, who had not expected to manage the business in public, was thankful to have it over and to be able to think of something else. He had not actually cursed Julius aloud. None of it, of course, bothered Willie, and Jordan had sat absorbed through it all, when he wasn’t being commandeered, in that enchanting lisp, by Muriella. Eventually, she was sent off by her father to do something, and Jordan came back and beat drums for Willie. Nicholas, vaguely uneasy, made an excuse and left the room himself.
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