Gelis said, ‘So Tam was always going to die, so many wanted rid of him. But why Will?’ Nicholas had become rather white but Tobie, in the heat of the argument, had ceased even to sneeze.
Tobie said, ‘He was English, wasn’t he? He had St Leonard’s Hospital once; he was given Traquair, until the King transferred it to Buchan. The King was fond of him: he might have restored him all that. But most of all, Will was blamed for the King’s dream of a great chapel of music, to be financed out of Coldingham Priory, and hence wrecking the sinecures of the Home family. Not every Home is for Albany and England, but none of them want to lose Coldingham.’
‘So he was always going to die, too,’ Nicholas said. ‘Does Kathi know?’
Gelis knew that she did. Tobie had slipped away to break the news to her and to Robin. Kathi had brushed aside Tobie’s sympathy, speaking of Roger. ‘What do I matter? The world has lost him.’ She had asked who would go and tell Nicholas.
Now Tobie said, ‘I have told her, and Jodi, poor lad. Tam Cochrane was a hero of his, with all those wonderful drawings. Which reminds me. Kathi tells me you gave a beating to Julius.’
Nicholas said, ‘He also gave one to me.’
‘But you started it. What got into you?’ Tobie said. ‘You know he’s an inquisitive idiot. Now he’s in the Floory Land, swearing to get his own back. You ought to see him. If you can’t see him, Moriz says he thinks he can calm him.’
Nicholas said, ‘I was upset. I’ll put it right when I get back. I was going to tell Gelis. I am about to be launched into the arena for another public calamity.’
‘Well, that was part of the scheme,’ Tobie said briskly. Behind the briskness, there was worry. ‘I assumed you would go, in due course, if you were in shape for it. A lot of people like Gelis and Robin and Abbot Archie have put in some hard work convincing the town what to do next. We’re lucky we’ve got Tom Yare and Wattie Bertram to deal with. Everyone knows everyone else, and they’ve argued it through with the Council.’ He broke off. ‘But you’re not going at once?’
‘In the morning.’ Nicholas was looking at Gelis. She returned the look with what she hoped was wry acceptance. Anything else would make it unbearable. She saw, with sudden misgiving, that Tobie’s agitation had grown. She tried to send him a message. Please, no. Leave it.
Tobie said, ‘And when will you be back? Nicholas, I don’t want to assail you with it just now, but you have just lost your son. Gelis and I know it, and Moriz. Are you going to leave Henry to be committed without you? Not only committed, but unclaimed?’
Cry mercy, Nicholas had said. But Tobie had rights as well. There was a space. Then Nicholas said, ‘All through last night, he was mine. The old man should have them both now.’
‘And Henry will be buried as Simon’s son?’ The pupils of Tobie’s eyes were sharp, and black, and fierce. ‘You know what else I am saying? Publish the proof that Henry is yours, and you also prove to the world who you are. It can’t harm anyone now. If your son was the image of Simon, then you must be Simon’s legitimate son.’
There was another silence. She could only imagine what answer Nicholas would choose. He said eventually, ‘No. If Henry is at peace, let his mother rest there as well. I am destroying the evidence.’
Tobie had paled. He said. ‘I have a copy. So has Moriz.’
Nicholas said, ‘You are my friend. I am not threatening you. I can only ask if you will do the same.’
Tobie said, ‘Dear God. Nicholas? Let me ask Moriz.’
‘I think you will find,’ Nicholas said, ‘that Moriz will agree. But ask him. I have to go very soon.’
His voice was flat. Tobie said, ‘What doctoring have you had since the river? Let me look.’
Few had the courage to refuse Tobie that kind of demand. Nicholas submitted, and when it was over, Tobie left, taking Gelis. Despite himself, Nicholas held her for a long time, silently, at the door, before he relinquished her finally. When he returned to his chair, he found it beyond him to sit down, whether with studied ease or without. But that passed.
He was to establish himself at the commandeered Priory at Haddington tomorrow, but did not expect to stay long. He had not seen his son Jordan. He had asked Gelis to have him kept safe.
Different men; different sons. He remembered de Lannoy’s wistful prayer (Your praise, my perfect joy) to his son.
Your praise, my perfect joy; and may we go together to Paradise, at the last.
They tried to stick in his mind, but he would not let them.
BY THE DAY following his crass fight with Julius in the High Street, the English command knew that Nicholas de Fleury had not died in the River Till but was alive, and could be assumed to have passed on all that he had found out in York. The Duke of Gloucester, hearing that, turned pale with rage. ‘I cannot believe this. De Fleury is alive, and no one knew? No one told me? We have crossed into a country where all our plans are already known; our strength; our intentions? Send me the man who said this fellow is dead. He will answer for it!’
Two servants limped, hurt, from the room, and Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, had to force himself to be silent, or come to blows. At the same time, Percy had to agree, it was bad news. He was not enjoying this war.
Three days later, encamped in the blazing uplands round Coldingham, the Duke had recovered his temper, but Harry Percy was losing patience with Albany. The southern commanders had had none to begin with, but he had been asked by Dickon Gloucester, in his most winning manner, to do what he could. They needed the man. Only, quartering the March north of Berwick, they had been treated every few miles to a fresh complaint—these farmlands belonged to Jamie’s cousins; that church provided income for Ellem; if they burned that township, they would alienate John, Sander’s father. Albany had destroyed all the joy of destruction. And to cap it, he was shocked to the point of disbelief at the amount of support he wasn’t getting. He had always maintained that, once they saw him on the road, East March lairds—and the Middle March, and the masters of Annandale—would flock to him. Even Dickon had compelled himself to believe it, or he would never have got the money out of the King. But it wasn’t true. There were English sympathisers—there always had been. There were men who thought the King was madder than Albany. But there were more who trusted not just James or his brother but the tight circle of men who were James’s advisers. And it was not clear, yet, whom they favoured.
Or at least that had been the position until recently. Then a message had come, originating in Haddington, and addressed to the right noble and worshipful lord, his grace Richard, Duke of Gloucester. The sender, an accredited herald, asked leave for himself, with a temporary Usher, to join the Duke for an informal parley, under flag of truce, at a place of the Duke’s choice. Coldingham, then two days away, had been suggested. The name of the Usher was not mentioned. It was signed: Marchmont Herald.
The Duke had quizzed Albany. ‘Who is Marchmont Herald?’
Even when told, he was not much the wiser. The man was called William Cumming, and had business in the north-east and Fife, and lodgings in Edinburgh. His alliances were with the rich merchant families: the Prestons, the Napiers, the Bertrams, the Meldrums, the Errols.
So. A royal herald, but not from the King, since the King was immured and this message had not come from the Castle. It could be anything. It was worth taking further. A message was sent back, agreeing, and the men who carried it were followed discreetly to Haddington. Watchers reported that the sender was indeed Marchmont Herald, and that he had immediately set out, with two grooms and an official companion. Someone with good local knowledge and better eyesight reported who the accompanying officer was.
Hearing, the Duke of Gloucester sent for Harry Northumberland. His face was dark. ‘The effrontery! They are proposing to send Nicholas de Fleury to parley!’ His voice sharpened. ‘Let him come. We shall send them our reply with his head.’
The Percies all had reddish-fair hair and tall brows, which wrinkled when they were perplexe
d. Northumberland said, ‘Certainly, my lord, de Fleury deserves to be killed. He has escaped punishment once. His arrival now would be an insult to England.’
‘But?’ the Duke said.
‘But, however tempting an execution might seem, it might be best to forgo it. I would advise that you refuse to receive him. If de Fleury came, Albany would be involved. And we cannot be sure what the Prince would find tolerable.’
The Duke looked at him. ‘We shall never be sure of Albany under any circumstances,’ he said. ‘As for de Fleury, I suspect that he is being sent as a warning. We are being invited to think again, since they know all our plans. This is a cynical message, sent not by the King, but by clever men. We all have options, they are saying. You can pretend to leave. Albany can pretend to stay. As matters develop, you can continue to bluff, or find the money and men to do something quite different. So may we. He fell silent, discontented.
‘You will let him come?’ Percy said.
‘I fear so. We do not have to appear overjoyed. But you are right. We do not harm him, or Albany cannot credibly play Trojan horse, if he has to.’
• • •
ACCUSTOMED AS HE was to the nervous protocol of the field, it did not alarm Marchmont Herald to be waylaid halfway through his journey by a group of silent, hard-riding men bearing a paper, sealed by Richard of Gloucester, which invited the herald and M. de Fleury to accompany them. Artlessly, de Fleury was mentioned by name. It was done discreetly, and they agreed without fuss, continuing south by the steep, broken cliffs in virtual silence. Sometimes, the herald wished de Fleury would speak. Then, eventually, he saw by the black smoke in the distance that they were close to the invading army.
It was obvious that the English wouldn’t spare Coldingham land, that was for sure. The Priory itself was a different matter. Big as a city, it was capable of housing royal retinues of many hundreds, and of defending itself with the contents of a formidable artillery store. Whatever Gloucester’s intentions, he wouldn’t waste effort and time on trying to take Coldingham Priory. He would destroy its assets instead, and place his men in the area, under canvas. Which he had done.
The audience tent, in this instance, was as lavishly equipped as that of James, but with a battered air, as if much on campaign. The Duke of Gloucester occupied a state chair, with Sandy Albany on another beside him. The rest of the captains stood on either side, watching. De Fleury, executing his reverence, made quite an impression. His grace of Albany’s face was a picture, even though (de Fleury had said) they would have been told to expect him. To be honest, it was all a bit heady; but it was up to a member of the Lyon Court to keep calm, and do his duty, and honour his profession, even though he was not representing the King.
They were offered seats. Folding stools. The Duke of Gloucester said that he trusted his magnanimity would be noted, to wit that he was receiving a man—he would not say a gentleman—who had come to York as a supposed friend, and had been exposed as a spy. The Duke of Albany said that he had appealed to his grace to throw out the turncoat, but had been overruled. The Duke of Albany added that he did not see the point of conferring with a dog who would serve any man for a shank.
Marchmont coughed. He remarked that he would not presume to discuss affairs of state with their highnesses, but that he was here, on the contrary, to arrange such a meeting, if their highnesses willed, with his lords.
Who were?
Who were the Primate of Scotland, William Scheves; Colin, Earl of Argyll; Andrew Stewart, first Lord Avandale, and James Livingstone, Bishop of Dunkeld. In other words, the inner council that once served the King, who was now removed from their reach and imprisoned.
Indeed. And these lords were willing to come to this camp? Or were inviting their highnesses, perhaps, to meet them in Edinburgh?
These lords were proposing a meeting, with hostages, at an agreed place of neutrality, with equal forces in attendance on each side. The place was open to discussion. The time was to be in six days or less.
And the matters to be discussed?
Marchmont introduced Nicholas the Burgundian, who spoke.
THEY WERE NOT answered at once. They were escorted out, after an hour, and were brought back after an uncomfortable spell in another tent, being plied with over-rich food in a parody of subservience. The second time, they were asked many more questions, always returning to the same point. Why was the English King’s brother expected to confer with mere ministers? Why was the King still in custody? Once these lords had set to and freed their own King, other Princes would listen. To which Marchmont and de Fleury in turn each gave the same patient answer. The King had been imprisoned by misguided rebels. He was immured in a castle which could withstand a long siege. To obtain a quick resolution, the lords were acting in the King’s name. Thereafter, however long it might take, the lords themselves would set siege to the Castle, and gave their word that the King would be freed.
No one liked this reply. The English command objected for a long time. But in the end, they agreed to the meeting.
RIDING HOME, QUIVERING with emotion, Marchmont rehearsed their triumph over and over. ‘They agreed! Twenty thousand men, unopposed in enemy territory, with the King cut off from his army, his ministers, his Parliament, and the King’s brother and potential successor in their hands! And they agreed to stop attacking and parley!’
‘We were very persuasive,’ de Fleury said. He had always been a very jolly fellow up north, but had been disappointingly quiet on this trip. He was quite right, though, with that sardonic remark. After all, Gloucester had really been bound to agree. He was not in the strong position he seemed. He couldn’t stay long. He couldn’t get the King out. There were few short-term benefits to be had. If he wanted Albany as a puppet, he would be unwise to wreck the lands of his friends. If he was willing to be bribed, he shouldn’t offend the princes, ecclesiastical or mercantile, who might arrange it for him. He was vulnerable. The Scots were anxious. If they wanted a meeting, it was obvious that a bargain of some sort was in the wind. If they followed the mild double-talk of de Fleury, they could now at least guess at its nature. Provided his own safety was assured, and it was, Gloucester had nothing to lose.
Marchmont said, ‘You must have been glad not to be alone in the dark with poor Sandy. I think he’s going the same way as Mar. Anyway, you can present yourself in correct style another time. The Unicorn is a valuable honour. I don’t like not wearing my tabard, myself. I shan’t be happy until the King is out of there, and we can follow proper practice again.’
It was good, then, to find de Fleury smiling suddenly, in the old companionable manner, and saying, ‘It won’t be long. We took the first step towards it today. Are you as thirsty as I am? There’s a tavern.’
Marchmont protested a trifle, for they ought to return as fast as they could. But he found the idea appealing, and he was pleased with what they’d done, and he was cheered, too, to find that he liked the man after all. Nicol. Nicol, he took to calling him. And the title. He should use the title, a clever man like that, bowing in the Burgundian style.
GELIS SAID, ‘I expected you sooner. Drew Avandale received this peculiar message, urgently dispatched from an ale-house in Yester. The brewster who brought it swore he had been told to say just one word: Yes. Or Yesh, I gather it was.’
‘That’s why I was late,’ Nicholas said. ‘I had to tell Drew what Yesh meant.’
They were in their own house, in their own room and nearly in their own bed. It had been rather precipitate. She said, ‘Gloucester agreed? You’ve got what you wanted?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nicholas crossly.
‘From Gloucester.’ She couldn’t breathe. Her anxieties fled.
‘He wouldn’t have been any good,’ Nicholas explained. ‘He doesn’t have those little—’
‘The meeting?’ she said. But she was just teasing now, and was punished for it. At the indisputable end of the tournament, when all the turbulent contestants had left, he roused from a long, waking
dream to ask something. ‘Where is Jordan? When can I see him?’
Jordan, the man of the future; not Jodi.
‘He’s with Robin in Adorne’s house,’ she said. ‘Waiting to see you.’
She had been anxious. When he reached to kiss her damp eyes without words, she knew he understood why. But although she waited, he didn’t bring his losses into the open; either then, or when they moved, later, downstairs.
The great wound, the deaths of Simon and Henry, was beyond touching at present; but she had expected, by now, to hear him speak of the others, about the friends who had been close to them all. Yet, although she was given a detailed account of the political consequences of Lauder, he didn’t mention Big Tam, or Whistle Willie, or Leithie. It was like dealing with the survivors of Nancy again, except that Nicholas was very different from Robin, and the murderers this time had been from his own side. Hence there was not only grief, she suddenly saw, but boiling anger and shame. His friends had died, and he had not been there.
But he was saying nothing about it, as he had dismissed the fact that someone had betrayed him to Simon: it isn’t important. But, of course, it was.
She interrupted him then, without compunction. ‘Nicholas? Are you planning something? Are you planning to run down the men who perpetrated those hangings?’
He looked at her. His hands lay at random and loose, and you had to guess at the effort that kept them so. He said, ‘Why? Do you think they should escape?’
‘They may be dead already,’ she said. ‘The underlings, anyway. Tobie saw fallen men from both factions. As for their masters, they can wait. You’ll spoil everything if you hound them down right away.’
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