The Prioress said, ‘And the Duke of Albany is employing men like yourself? It saddens me.’ The knife laid at her throat unflatteringly reflected the wart on her chin. Her expression, of faint distaste, didn’t change, but her eyes had moved from Nicholas to the door, and back again.
Nicholas stirred, in an unthreatening way. He said, ‘I don’t suppose Albany knows that he’s here.’
He had barely got out of the way, when the door swung open quietly. ‘Oh there you are,’ Julius said and, walking forward, cast the knife in his hand straight at Sander Jardine of Applegarth. It sank into his chest. Jardine’s eyes and mouth opened. For a moment, his knife continued to stand against the Prioress’s neck, then it slackened, and Applegarth fell.
Nicholas sprang round the desk. Adorne was already there, between the Prioress and the body. After a moment he rose and turned to care for the Prioress. The anonymous note-sender of Lochmaben was dead.
Nicholas stood gazing at Julius, whose face, after a number of false starts, could be seen as conveying nervous pleasure. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ Nicholas said.
‘I know. Kilmirren wanted the privilege. I’ll confess that I did it, not you. But that solves it, doesn’t it?’ Julius said. ‘Once they know Applegarth’s dead, that mob will go home.’
‘Will they?’ said Adorne. Below his eyes, Dame Euphemia was kneeling, gravely, her hand on the brow of the dead man.
Crackbene said, ‘They might. We took one hostage. Jamie Boyd is here, Nicholas. Jordan is keeping an eye on him, with Bishop Prospero and Kilmirren. Applegarth’s men wouldn’t want to face Albany without him.’
Jamie Boyd was younger than Jordan. Jamie Boyd was the second Lord Boyd, the King’s nephew, who admired his uncle Albany, and had been persuaded to join this grandiloquent foray.
Adorne said, ‘Very well. Then I think we have an announcement to make to Applegarth’s troops. Their captain is dead, after breaking into the Priory and threatening to kill the Prioress Euphemia. The law and the Church will hold all his companions equally accountable, if they remain. They are therefore ordered to leave. If they do so immediately, no further steps will be taken, and no harm will come to Lord Boyd, who is at present here, in our custody.’ He looked from Nicholas to the Prioress, and to Julius. ‘Does that seem suitable?’
‘It sounds convincing,’ Nicholas said.
‘Then we do it. Returned by all the black beans. Who would best act as our orator? I think Prospero. Don’t you think, Nicholas? The Bishop will speak for us.’
Chapter 51
His procuratour he was and maid him trew reknyng
And gud payment of all this forsaid thing.
ONLY PROSPER DE CAMULIO, man of diverse experience, would have taken so calmly a request to walk into the dark and order two hundred armed men to depart without protest. Adorne went with him to the door, and he was preceded by a Priory servant with a flag. Nicholas was not there, having been told to go and speak to Jamie Boyd.
The lad was in a room, under guard with his own son, and Fat Father Jordan was installed with them both. The boys, when Nicholas entered, were not speaking, but both were flushed. St Pol of Kilmirren, on the other hand, looked merely bored. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The expert with children. Hale in hide and hue, despite everything. And who gave you the right to kill the man Applegarth?’
‘Julius killed him,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Prioress was quite pleased, although she might have preferred her throat cut, had she known how annoyed you would be. Jamie? Are you all right?’ The boy, his mouth shut, was glaring.
‘You won’t get a reply out of him,’ Kilmirren said. ‘He thinks the Whitekirk meeting is nothing but a trick to kill Albany. In other words, the good Lord Cortachy is a rascal, which, of course, my young Lord Boyd and his mother ought to be able to judge better than anyone.’
‘He’s the King’s man,’ said the boy. He spoke with contempt. Young Jordan looked at him, then at his father.
Nicholas sat down with a thump. ‘Well, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t mean Lord Cortachy hasn’t come in good faith. If you think of it, why in God’s name should he choose this elaborate way to kill Albany? And what would it gain him, other than coalesce all the opposition against the King? And if that doesn’t make sense, look about you. There is a small band of trained soldiers here, and a number of holy persons, and six fairly experienced men, like Adorne. At Whitekirk tomorrow there will be three. But even if we cheat and smuggle in everyone, including the nuns, they’re going to be outnumbered by his grace of Albany’s men, armed to the teeth, to any degree that he wishes. Does that sound like a trap?’
No one spoke. The boy’s face was bloodless. He was a nice enough lad, but had yet to come into the virile attraction that went with the heavy Boyd build. There was red in his hair from the Stewart side. Then he blurted, ‘You’ll bring in reinforcements.’
Nicholas said, ‘Do you see them? Don’t you think they would be here by now? No, we shan’t. That would endanger the nuns—and my own family if you like. Jordan is here, and the demoiselle Katelinje, did they tell you? And the children. Struggling a little, as we all are, to do the right thing. I’d like her to be safe.’
‘Shall I fetch them?’ said Jordan. ‘She’s in … She went somewhere safe with the children, but I expect it’s all right now.’
So she had gone to the cellars. Nicholas said, ‘Let’s be sure first. We have to await Bishop Prospero’s triumph.’ And, to the boy, ‘I’m sorry it happened like this. But if it’s any consolation, you may have saved some very wretched things happening in a holy place, which really wouldn’t help the Duke’s case. Without a leader, men sometimes get out of hand.’
‘David will lead,’ the boy said. ‘Master Purves. He was Sander’s friend. He’ll be angry.’ Then he broke off, for he heard, as they all did, the shouting below.
‘I am afraid,’ the fat man said, ‘dear Nicholas, I am afraid that my lord Boyd is right.’
Then the door burst open on Crackbene and Adorne, escorting a flushed Bishop Prospero.
His exhortation had been thrown in his face. Far from accepting the chance to escape, far from bargaining for the release of Lord Boyd, Master David Purves had produced a demand of his own. He asked for the persons of Cortachy and de Fleury. Unless he got them at once, he would attack. And should he be forced to attack, Purves had added, the Bishop would have to answer for the nuns’ fate. Two Sisters had already strayed into their hands. He could not speak for their safety.
‘Is that true?’ said Kilmirren. ‘Of the nuns?’
‘Yes,’ said Adorne. ‘One went to get her dog, and the other to find her.’
Kilmirren said, still to Adorne, ‘You must make up your mind. But if you go, they will kill you.’
The Princess’s son raised his voice. Since the Tolbooth, it had started to break. He said, ‘This expedition was to take and imprison my lord of Cortachy and M. de Fleury. That was all.’
‘I am glad that you thought that was all,’ Nicholas said. He was conscious of his son’s eyes.
Adorne said, equally gently, ‘The Prioress will tell you that Master Jardine’s plan was more radical. His friend may share his view.’
The boy said, ‘So you told Master Purves to go away, or I would suffer.’
And Adorne said, ‘Yes, we did. It was less than honest, for I, for one, would see that you came to no harm. Perhaps Master Purves has realised as much. As you heard, he has said that he will still attack, despite your presence, unless I give myself up.’
His voice was deprecating, for it was not a pleasant thing to convey to a young man, a Princess’s son, that he appeared to have been jettisoned by his own side. He waited, and then said, ‘I am sorry. The captain is obsessed by a single idea, and can think of nothing else. Also, as I said, he probably saw through the deceit. That being so, we have no need now to keep you. If you wish, you may walk out and join him.’
The Bishop looked startled, and Nicholas looked sharply at Adorne.
Then he saw that he was right. Released, Jamie could report on their defences, for what that was worth. But, more to the point, he could repeat something of what had been said to him. If he had been half convinced, he might find his doubts shared.
It was a gamble. Everything had been a gamble, from the moment they had refrained from closing the traitorous gates, and so tempted Applegarth to try and abstract his victims. Applegarth’s effort had failed. With luck and some guile, this new threat might have been countered. Then, in theory, the troop would march off rather than attack a Cistercian priory. An assault, whether it succeeded or not, would be political madness.
But there had been little luck, and perhaps not enough guile, and, sadly, Sander Jardine and David Purves were political madmen. Furthermore, the gates were still open, and two hundred men could be deployed round the outer precinct with longbows and crossbows and swords; with maces and axes and battering-rams. And inside were women. And outside, it seemed.
Adorne was speaking quietly ‘Nicol? Mick? As we planned. We haven’t long. We should start.’
‘And I, if you please,’ said the fat man.
They were agreeing, without words, to fight.
IT WAS THE last gamble, of course. They were in a strong place, which was also a church. There was a chance that among the attackers, there were those who would waver. It was worth trying. It was perhaps not worth more than that. Fortunately, there was not much time to think.
Most of them had been in battles like this, where there were few choices, and all of them harsh. Nicholas and Crackbene and Adorne had all seen action together in the past, and they worked well together. Crackbene had charge of the soldiers, deployed high in the attics and within the penthouses attached to the walls. Julius helped him, with his one active arm. Kilmirren, rendered static by age and obesity, could still command; and however little he made himself liked, his advice was worth listening to. For the rest, young Jordan stayed with his father, and the Bishop, stripped for action, displayed an alacrity that endeared him to Crackbene at once.
During all the swift preparations, Nicholas ran downstairs, once, to visit the cellars where Kathi, wrapped in three blankets, was playing cards with her two children, similarly cocooned. Her nose was blue. Nicholas said, ‘I’m sorry. It is safest, if you can stand it. They’ve turned down our offer, so we’re preparing to fight.’
With Kathi, he never had to spell anything out. They were here, in the cold shuttered dark with a candle, because they might be overlooked if the Priory fell. Then, men would make for the chapel, where the treasure was, and the brewery, and the warm kitchen and refectory and dormitory where the nuns and servants would be gathered. You might say that she ought to be there too, sharing the risk, helping the others. She had not done so because of her children, and because of Robin, and because of Nicholas.
She said, ‘You don’t think you can hold out.’
No one had put that into words. In battle, one never did know. He said, ‘Your uncle will decide.’
Rankin was trying to get his attention, and Margaret was reproving him, with all the authority of eight over seven. Their mother said, ‘Adorne is the person they want.’
Nicholas said, ‘If something is worth buying, it is worth the fullest extent of its price.’
‘I see,’ she said. Then she said, ‘And what about Jordan? Young Jordan?’
Always straight to the core. He said, ‘Crackbene will look after him.’
‘Against whom?’ Kathi said. ‘Have you told Crackbene who it is, Nicholas? You have to tell someone now. Who is more important than Jordan?’
He was silent. She said, ‘Nicholas. You’ve seen obsession in others. Now, at last, you are being forced out of yours. You have done all you can; all you should; all that anyone could ever expect of you. Now you tell someone, or you let my uncle walk out alone. They will take Lord Cortachy. They will allow Nicholas de Fleury to stay. They may even suspect that if you stay, someone will kill you for them.’ She waited. She said, ‘Who is Elizabeth’s son?’
Rankin was showing him something: a tile with a bird on it. He made a comment and gave it back with a smile. Then he looked up at Kathi. He said, ‘I have left a sealed note with the Prioress, and asked her to give it to Crackbene when we have gone. He will decide what to do.’
She drew in her breath. She didn’t comment. What he was doing, without words, was passing to Crackbene the task he could not do himself. If that was the end of an obsession, then so be it.
She said, ‘So you and my uncle will go out together.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ he said.
Of course.
She said, ‘Tell him I love him, and always shall.’
‘He knows,’ Nicholas said.
THEY WERE NOT going to be able to hold out. It was the nature of the assault that finally determined it. For a while, the attackers fought by the rules, hoping to achieve a quick, tidy success that would escape public censure. Unfortunately, success proved elusive, and too many men were being picked off from high vantage points by extremely talented professional archers. The enemy command, its temper frayed, decided to descend to rough tactics and finish it. The accessible penthouses were sent up in flames; fires were built under walls; and the two nuns were brought out into the light and subjected to the humiliating first stages of something increasingly brutal.
Anselm Adorne, seeing that, laid down his bow and said, ‘No.’
Nicholas was within earshot, as he had been for the last ten minutes. He also laid down his weapon, and turned to look at the other. Then, because it was such an obvious decision, he gave a large smile that came of its own accord, from sweet relief, and said, ‘Shall I get Prospero? He’s good with announcements.’
He was good with that announcement: it stopped the trouble at once. By then, everyone knew that Adorne had resolved to surrender. Nicholas had not seen St Pol, but knew that he had consented. Naturally. He himself had discussed it briefly with Crackbene, who had been remarkably taciturn, and would be even more so, he supposed, when the Prioress gave him his note. Then Nicholas had gone to his son. There wasn’t much time, but he had seated himself on the floor, by the window at which Jordan had been kneeling, and said, ‘They are going to injure the nuns and perhaps burn down the Priory, so Lord Cortachy and I are going to do as they ask, and let them take us away. They don’t want us to go to Whitekirk tomorrow, and they think we are plotting against the Duke of Albany’s life. Once they find that we are not really a threat, they’ll let us go free. In the meantime, you will behave as you usually do, obeying your mother except on the occasions when you have to tell her she’s wrong. You’ll have plenty of help; you aren’t being burdened for life; and if you ever want to go somewhere else, then do that: no one is indispensable.’
‘You are,’ said Jordan. ‘And you’re going somewhere else.’
Nicholas said, ‘My mother went somewhere once, without telling me, and didn’t come back. I understood later that it wasn’t because she didn’t want me, or like me. She didn’t want to go, but thought it was better for me if she did.’
‘Is this better for me?’ Jordan said.
‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas said. ‘If I don’t go, everyone here could be hurt. If I survived, I would feel I had killed them. You might come to feel the same. Anyway, it’s only prison. Parrots don’t mind them at all. Come and teach me a new word now and then.’
THEY WALKED OUT in procession, he and Adorne; with the Bishop, robed, striding before them. They paced over the snow, shoulder to shoulder, and the torchlight illumined the velvets and furs they would have worn as the King’s envoys at Whitekirk, and roused the gems flashing in their gauntlets and hats, and the golden links of the Order they both wore, with the white and gold Unicorn himself, trapped and chained, swaying below. Adorne was smiling a little, but Nicholas was wearing the mask that obliterated all else, and beneath it could have been either remote or most violently aware.
Now, the precinct was less full, as most of the att
ackers were assembling outside the walls. At the gates stood the party awaiting the prisoners: a small band of horse led by Purves, and flanked by foot-soldiers with torches. To one side stood a groom between two riderless horses. No, not a groom, but a youth: James, second Lord Boyd, regarding the approaching procession with a stern—indeed, a proprietorial—air.
Far behind, standing with the rest at the door of the Priory, Crackbene let his breath go. Young Boyd had been right. Purves had settled for taking the King’s envoys prisoner, to prevent the meeting, and protect the future of Albany.
It might, up to that point, have been true. Adorne thought that it was, and smiled at Jamie, who almost smiled back. Nicholas, attuned to every change in the flickering darkness, was the first to sense the heads turn on the other side of the gate, and then to hear the rumour of sound they had heard—the faint percussion of a very large body of cavalry travelling fast from the west; from the direction of Edinburgh. A force much too large to be casual. The kind of force a foreign trickster would need if, having proposed a rendezvous without arms, he was secretly introducing his men for a killing.
The soldiers round the Priory of St Mary’s realised that, very quickly.
The cavalry might be approaching at speed, but there was still time for betrayed men to retaliate. Jamie Boyd started forward, his face blanched, and then, with a look of bitter hatred, flung himself off with the riderless horses. The men already inside the compound, now shouting, had begun to hurry, some drawing their swords. One of the nuns started to run and was killed outright by a vicious slash from a rider; the other was hurled to the ground. Some of the foot-soldiers snatched up the torches and began to fling them against whatever would burn, or took their bows and shot randomly as they made for the gates. In the upper floors of the Priory, the few bowmen still left snatched up their weapons and began to shoot downwards. Below, the Prioresses stood rigid, until pulled back, with a curse, by Kilmirren. Crackbene thrust his way out and started to run towards Nicholas, but was immediately set upon by two men. St Pol drew his sword and proceeded, calmly, to help him. Jordan, who had been standing transfixed in the doorway, disappeared and returned, panting, with Simon de St Pol’s sword on his shoulder. Then he looked for his father.
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