Gemini

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be very effective,’ Gelis said.

  ‘It isn’t. That’s the whole idea. Then he launches a really big scheme to display his infinite superiority.’

  ‘Like Fat Father Jordan. He created the Vatachino expecting to crush you before he got rid of you.’

  ‘That’s right. He doesn’t have many original ideas, David. It’s no good.’

  ‘I know it’s no good. It’s too soon to try. But at least, whatever you did, it’s made Robin happy. Tobie says he’s transformed.’

  ‘Well, I bloody wish I hadn’t done it,’ Nicholas said.

  • • •

  TOWARDS THE END of that year, free at last from restraint, Nicholas recognised this period of incoherence for what it was: a bridge that led from the catastrophe of the Duke’s death to a new and as yet dimly realised future. He had come to Scotland with clear objectives but had not yet attained them, partly because he had been side-tracked by circumstances. And now he seemed committed to something much more challenging and protracted, with responsibility not only to his own family, but to the men who had left Bruges to join him. He was not short of plans. He faced the future in a state not far short of euphoria. But, imperatively, he must talk to Adorne.

  Gelis would have had him do this at once, but instead, Nicholas had waited. He had made his reconnaissance. Adorne must do the same. Only then could there be any profit in talking.

  In the end, it was Adorne himself who approached him, by means of a gift—a high-tempered, light-footed horse of the kind Nicholas had watched die in the lists at the Vespers rehearsal. It was brought, with an invitation, by a groom in Cortachy livery whom Nicholas sent back, rewarded, with an answer. Presently, he made his way down the High Street to the substantial house to which Adorne had now moved, together with Dr Andreas and Andro Wodman. There was enough space, in its several storeys, to house a young child and its nurse, as well as public rooms and offices and service quarters. It seemed to Nicholas, met and escorted upstairs by a chamberlain, that Adorne was preparing for a stay of some time, at least. It was what he expected.

  Adorne received him alone before the fireplace in the most private reception room in the house, his own bedchamber. In all the years Nicholas had known him, he had changed very little. The wry, fine-boned face was perhaps leaner, the hair curling between his feathered cap and strong neck was paler than flax. But his shoulders had not lost their set of authority; his doublet, of pleated black cloth, was fresh and well-ordered; and his rings and shoulder-chain showed that he had just come from Court. Only his voice had altered, as he came forward, hand outstretched. ‘Nicholas.’

  ‘Sir.’ Nicholas inclined his head and took the hand, which closed on his and then held it.

  Adorne said, ‘I hope this means that you accept what I sent you. You will have been told what your wife did for Robin, and what she and the van Borselen family did for me. I probably owe her my life.’

  ‘She was glad to do it,’ Nicholas said.

  His hand was freed. ‘And I know now what you did for Mistress … for Phemie.’ He cleared his throat.

  Nicholas said, ‘It was its own reward. But since the gift marks what it does, I am glad, sir, to accept it. And I hear the small demoiselle flourishes.’

  ‘Some good has come of it,’ said Adorne. ‘Perhaps there are other things to be redeemed. Come, if you will.’ There were two fine chairs by the fire, and wine, which he handed himself, while he regained his composure. It shocked Nicholas that he had lost it. Then they were both seated and he felt himself under that level, magisterial scrutiny, so often experienced.

  Adorne said, ‘I have watched you grow, with such pleasure. I have enjoyed crossing swords with you, as you mastered and entered my particular empire. I did not always appreciate it when you bettered me.’ He paused to smile.

  ‘Or when I stupidly injured you,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or when I made a fool of myself in this country.’

  ‘Shall I tell you my mistakes?’ Adorne said. His eyes were clear and fine drawn, set between heavy lids in his narrow face. He said, ‘You have been here for most of a year, for half of it without supervision. You had no need to return. You did not do so to exploit the country, or you would have had to do so at once, before you could be detected and stopped. I am satisfied that you wished to make amends for what you had done. So far, you have devoted your skills to founding a future for Kathi’s husband, and having care for my lady. I merely wish to say that whatever else you wish to do, you can depend on my help.’

  Nicholas lifted his eyes. ‘I am grateful. My understanding also has been limited.’

  The clear gaze still rested on him. ‘But now we are two men,’ Adorne said ‘And you are a person who has experienced what is good and what is bad in many parts of the world. I am going to describe to you what I make, this time, of this country of Scotland, and its future. And if you will trust me with it, I should like you to do the same for me, as if it were an assessment of the court of Uzum Hasan, or of the Doge of Venice, or of Louis of France. Then, if you are willing, we might share our conclusions.’

  Nicholas looked at him. Adorne said, ‘But, of course, you may have decided to make your future in one of these countries. Flanders is my home. I will repay Scotland’s hospitality to the last drop of my blood, but when the doors are open for me again, be it one year or two, I shall go back.’

  Nicholas said, ‘My plans are less clear. But it seems likely that I shall be here at least as long as yourself. And yes. I should like above anything to compare notes.’

  Then they talked until it was dark.

  Adorne had the advantage, which Nicholas lacked, of years of dispatches from Sersanders and Wodman, and of the kind of overview of mercantile business that his former Conservatorship conferred. Also, he was a nobleman. It made a difference, at Court and in Council, and in the great homes of those families from France and from Flanders who had poured into England four hundred years ago, and then, a hundred years later or less, had followed King David north. Some had dwindled, or produced only daughters. But the rest of that rich, virile stock was still in Scotland, often at war with itself, but still with a sense, running below, of the bond of blood they all shared. Adorne, son of Genoa, was of the same kind.

  Nicholas was not. Nicholas was endowed with the intense experiences of his previous visits; a practical acquaintance with individuals of every station; and an intuitive understanding of the young, including the young of the Castle. By now, also, he had matched himself against many men, and knew the extent of his ability. This was, however, the first time he had used it in partnership with someone of similar intellect, instead of in opposition. It was like getting drunk, to hear Adorne’s exposition, so like his own, and to then add his own, and realise that Adorne had been silenced.

  Then Adorne said, ‘I have, of course, been fatally stupid. Why didn’t I ask you to come and work with me for the Duke?’

  ‘Because, quite rightly, you didn’t trust me,’ Nicholas said. ‘Anyway, as it happens, I did work for the Duke. I was fighting for him when he died.’

  ‘You despised him?’ Adorne’s enquiry was soft and a little blurred. He had discarded his chain and doublet and was resting, as Nicholas was, in shirt and hose. His hair was damp.

  Nicholas pulled a face. ‘There’s little point in despising what you can’t alter. You try to cushion the consequences, that’s all.’

  Adorne said, ‘And here?’

  Nicholas said, ‘Here there is everything to fight for. You’ve just said it all. Thorough, hard-working people. Growing trade. Growing towns. A structure of law and of education and of government ready to build on. And a decent team of veteran councillors to keep the throne steady.’ He made a deliberate space. ‘The single threat is the one thing no one mentions.’

  When Adorne spoke, his voice sounded flat. ‘You have heard the rumours.’

  ‘I have used my eyes,’ Nicholas said. ‘But no one will trust me yet with the truth. You have been to the Ca
stle. You have had a chance to compare what you found when you last came, and now. There has been a change in the King and his family. I think Mar is sick. I think the others share in the affliction, and that it is not a disease, but something hereditary. Their father stabbed a nobleman to death in a quarrel—a king, a man at other times perfectly sane. Your friend and their relative the Archbishop Patrick is said to be mad. All of them are volatile beyond reason. If we are to make any design for the future, I need to know what is wrong. Do you, sir?’

  Adorne rose and walked to the window. The panes were dark but outside, Nicholas knew, the stair-lanterns would be glimmering now on either side of the causeway that led up to the Castle, and there would be men and women passing up and down and pausing to chat and call to one another, while children who should be in bed were leaping the common gutter and playing hopping games on the flags. Adorne turned. ‘They haven’t trusted me either, but Saunders has seen what you have, and I was concerned enough to ask Dr Andreas.’

  ‘And?’ Nicholas said.

  Adorne came back and sat down. ‘There is a certain hereditary ailment. The symptoms—a red flush, some unexplained pains, other signs—could be those of this condition, which affects the mind and the temper. It is sometimes mild, and sometimes intermittent. Sometimes it simply becomes worse. And it cannot be cured.’

  ‘There are five of them,’ Nicholas said. He could hear the horror in his own voice. ‘Two sisters, three brothers. And if these were debarred from the throne, the children might also be unfit to follow?’

  Adorne said, ‘Nicholas. There is a fractiousness in the Stewart family, but it is not certain that this is the cause. It is feared, certainly, which is why it is not spoken about. But even if John of Mar is afflicted, your Sandy may be luckier. And if the lady Margaret is wild, her sister Mary is not.’

  ‘And the King?’ Nicholas said.

  ‘He is wilful,’ Adorne said. ‘But, I think, manageable. Perhaps too manageable. I don’t care for David Simpson’s prominence at Court. Nor, I suppose, do you. I plan to counter it. I think, between us, we may even ease the Councillors’ burden with these young people, as you are already doing with Albany. But it must be done carefully. And we should plan it together. Such activities are easily confused with high treason.’

  He was smiling a little. Nicholas said, ‘Surely not. But leave David Simpson to me.’

  Adorne had ceased to smile. ‘I am sorry. This is dangerous for you, as well as for Kathi and Robin. What has happened so far? The St Pols at least are not troubling you?’

  ‘Neither is Simpson,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or only in minor ways. I thought I might attract a stray arrow at first, but that would have brought in the law before he had disposed of the rest of us. And now we have met, and he is enjoying life at Court, and seems in no hurry to plan a grand quietus. It may not happen. Discontent sometimes fades.’

  ‘Discontent!’ Adorne repeated.

  ‘Why, what else would you call it?’ said Nicholas. ‘It is not rooted in conviction, like hatred.’

  ‘But you have experienced hatred,’ Adorne said.

  ‘Very seldom,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s usually discontent. I don’t work on a grand scale.’

  ‘I think you underrate yourself,’ said Anselm Adorne.

  They talked for an hour more, then Nicholas left, walking carefully. He felt apprehension. He also felt very happy. As much as anything, it pleased him that, within minor as well as major ways, Adorne had placed their new and different relationship on a basis which would take them unembarrassed into the future. His name, to Anselm Adorne, had undergone no spurious change, and remained formally Nicholas. Equally, it had been established that Anselm Adorne was to be addressed, as he always had been, as ‘sir’.

  The requirement was the reverse of what it seemed, and was taken by Nicholas as a compliment. It affirmed that the world was a place of order, which he found reassuring.

  The whole encounter did more.

  It confirmed to Nicholas de Fleury that he had arrived where, and when, he was needed. It indicated that he had been given something to do for which he was qualified; for which indeed he had been prepared, by all that had happened to him so far.

  Chapter 15

  No man of craft suld haue inwy at vther,

  Bot luf his fallow as he war his brother.

  TIME PASSED; AND the Master Melter, you would say, had stooped to the furnace, and cast all the world into gold. Or so it seemed to the temporary exiles in Scotland, to whom life became fair.

  It was a measure, very likely, of past wretchedness that, despite the frustrations and dangers, despite the threat from one vain, silly man, the crowded vennels of Edinburgh became the proving-ground of a new group of companions very close to that once created, out of adventure, out of love, out of pride, in the name of Marian de Charetty in Bruges.

  Witnessing concordance arriving at last, Tobias Beventini found himself thinking of the missing members of the Banco di Niccolò—Julius and Father Moriz in Germany; Gregorio in Venice; Diniz in Bruges. But in their place were Robin and Kathi and Dr Andreas, Robin’s father and Wodman, Kathi’s brother and her uncle Adorne. Except that, in the delicate strategy Nicholas had settled upon with Adorne, the bond between all of them was not obvious. Adorne and his family continued to trade as they had done in the past, and to make themselves welcome at Court. Nicholas, with John as his sailing-master and gunner, and partnered by Gelis, spent as much time at Leith as in Edinburgh, and more time than he probably wished riding the Marches or hunting with Sandy Albany. Yet even that was less than true. Nicholas was as ungrudging with Sandy as he was with Kathi’s children, or Jodi, or Robin. His business was managing people.

  He came to see Robin often; but was as likely to meet him at the Castle, where the Master of Artillery found it congenial to spend an evening with John and Nicholas and anyone else who liked war, drinking ale and discussing strategems and scratching out scale drawings and maps. Sometimes the gathering was down by the Tron, and you would find a hard-drinking bunch of masons and hammermen, a Merlioun and a Lisouris and a Bonar perhaps in their midst, bursting with talk about pattrens and deal boards and cornishes, but equally ready to listen. The chair they’d made for Robin had wheels on it, and his own man pushed him about wherever he wanted, often with Margaret or Rankin riding with him, or running screeching with joy at his side. They saw nothing out of the way in it all: they didn’t remember him walking. When he had mastered that, he had bigger wheels made, so that it could bounce really fast down the High Street, and John fashioned another, identical chair, so that they could have races.

  By then, Robin had recovered his interest in business, and spent some time across the road, if not quite as much as before, and without the same over-intensity. Adorne had given some money towards equipping a set of butts and a practice-ground at Greenside, beyond the hill on the way down to Leith, and a small club had formed, which called itself the Society of the Unicorn. Youngsters went there—Jodi and Jamie Boyd often among them—and the masters-at-arms gave their time. It was encouraged. These were the leaders of the future. Even the Royal Guard sent someone down now and then to instruct and encourage. Henry de St Pol went once or twice. But by then he had already come face to face with his cousin Jodi.

  It happened at Leith, on a day full of wind-gusts and rain, when Gelis was enjoying herself supervising goods lumbering in and out of the warehouse: a task at which, like Marian de Charetty, she was rather good. Nicholas and Jodi had temporarily boarded the Marie, which had come in with Tom Yare and a cargo, and was about to leave, loaded, for Berwick. Hindering Gelis were a number of friends, such as Leithie Preston and Tam Cochrane and Alec Brown and Mick Crackbene’s jolly wife Ada, in whom the constant attentions of Mick and the birth of eight children, five of them Mick’s, had engendered a voluptuous increase in bulk, all of it bountifully inviting. Gazing, periodically, at Mick Crackbene and his springing step and solid, satisfied vigour, Gelis was gratified to be reminded, quite often
, of Nicholas.

  The dulcet voice of Henry de St Pol, insinuating itself through the hubbub, was therefore something of a shock. Gelis abandoned the sledge she was supervising, broke off a raging argument with Tam and Leithie and swung round to locate the speaker, who stood in the doorway. As ever, a small silence fell, in tribute to Henry’s hair, his eyes, his smile and his stance of heart-breaking, insolent grace. ‘Lang Bessie?’ he said. ‘My darling aunt, did I hear you speak in defence of Lang Bessie?’

  ‘You did,’ said Gelis, recovering. ‘Someone put out the fire under her malt, and she’s raised all her prices.’

  ‘For beer?’ Henry said. He was looking about.

  ‘Well, that too,’ Gelis said. ‘Did you want Nicholas?’ It was called taking the bull by the horns. Nicholas had always convinced himself that since Henry, as a boy, had been murderously jealous of Jodi, his two sons were better apart. Cornered, he had agreed that, since they were both in one town, Jodi should at least be prepared for an encounter. Further cornered, he had agreed to speak to him, and had done so. After all, the boys were supposed to be cousins. They were cousins, born to Gelis and her sister. They didn’t know that Henry’s father was not Simon but Nicholas.

  Henry said, ‘I’ve just put some fells on the James. I wondered what you were loading for Berecrofts. Won’t Bruges refuse to take goods from Adorne? I thought he was nearly hanged for misappropriating ducal funds.’

  Big Tam Cochrane had finished her job on the sledge and was now planted, hands on hips, gazing at Henry. ‘Weel, man, ye maun tell the Duchess of Burgundy. She’s made Lord Cortachy her personal envoy. But then, no one’s free of mistakes. I heard you were thrown out of Veere, but I dare say you’re still hoping to trade there.’

  Henry reddened. Gelis said, ‘If you want to see what we’ve got, Nicholas is on the Marie just now, and could show you. Master Brown here will take you. He’s sailing it.’ She ignored Alec Brown’s stare. The Browns were related to the Berecroftses, and protective.