Gemini

  He even got to appreciate Conrad, the formidable doctor who had once looked after Jodi. He respected Scheves, not because he was now an Archbishop, but because of the medicine he had studied at Louvain. As for Andreas, the other Louvain graduate, Tobie had long since identified a common streak of levity which had banished all their old rivalry, although he shied from the other man’s charts and would not let him talk of astrology. Nicholas plumbing the earth had been bad enough. Tobie was thankful, he mentioned to Clémence, that the lad’s divining had stopped.

  Tobie didn’t realise how much Clémence worried, on his behalf, in case anything happened to Nicholas. Or that in Iceland, long ago, Kathi too had been struck by the place Nicholas held in their lives, and had been afraid for them all, and still was. Kathi, active and chattering, often helped Tobie with his visits. Margaret also wanted to come, but was to wait until she was four. Margaret didn’t like being without Jodi.

  Yule came, and they all received presents.

  The King gave his physicians thick scarlet gowns, and caps with lappets.

  The Queen got a new hat from five murders, the King having discovered that he could raise money by pardoning crimes. He had begun (he jested) to pursue some slight misdemeanours for small clothes.

  Tam Cochrane received a gold chain. So did Adorne. Nicholas got a fancy engraved ring from Sandy, and another, elegant in its restraint, from Adorne. He felt embarrassed by Sandy’s and touched by Adorne’s. He wore neither.

  Gelis gave him a drawing, once torn and now lovingly pieced together. It was of himself, young and laughing and nude, and it was signed by Donatello, who had added a certain word under his name. Nicholas showed it to John, who went away and didn’t come back for a while.

  When he did, it was simply to say, ‘It’s all right. I’m not going back. Or not yet.’

  The lure, the enchantment of the world they had left. The enchantment of beauty: of glorious buildings and exquisite gardens, of fabric and carvings; of music and poetry and paintings. The sublime significance of the sea, and the snows, and the deserts.

  Nicholas said, ‘I know. I know. Some day perhaps. But not yet.’

  Sod beauty. The messy significance of sorting out people.

  THE SIRE DE FLEURY and his friends were invited to join the Court, which had settled at Craigmillar Castle for the festive weeks following Epiphany.

  It had been an open winter. Ships sailed into Leith with tall stories. Lowrie brought a messenger to speak to Nicholas. He had ridden straight from the port, and was frightened and breathless.

  ‘The Star of Bethlehem!’

  Sir John Colquhoun’s ships dealt in French wine and salt, and usually returned to the west coast, not Leith. But, of course, any news from the Narrow Sea would speed, skiff by caravel by barge, to these parts. ‘What?’ said Nicholas.

  It was all that he hoped. The news would have reached Simpson by now. Nicholas sent word to all who should know, and presently set off, in grand cavalcade, for royal revelry at Craigmillar Castle. With him went Gelis and Tobie, John le Grant and Andro Wodman, robed and gloved and jewelled as the festival required, but avoiding Venetian extravagance. Arms were not carried. Anselm Adorne was among the many already in residence at the castle, as was his niece Katelinje, lady of Berecrofts. They had already met the Procurator of the Bishop-elect of Caithness, David Simpson.

  • • •

  CROWNING ITS OWN hill to the south-east of Edinburgh, Craigmillar had been built by the Prestons of Gorton, who had come from Roslin more than a century since, and who guarded their doors with the Roslin device of a bridge over rock. Craigmillar was halfway between Roslin and Leith: from Craigmillar, as from Roslin, you could see the Pentland hills and the sea. From Craigmillar, you could also see the crag of Arthur’s Seat and the David’s Tower of Edinburgh Castle, upon which Craigmillar was modelled. The Sinclairs and the Prestons were kinsmen, and had been King’s men since before the first King James and his Sinclair guardian were imprisoned in England together. The Prestons’ heraldic device, repeated all over the castle, was argent three unicorn heads erased sable: hail James Stewart and Anselm Adorne and the late Duchess Eleanor. And, of course, Nicholas de Fleury.

  Both Prestons and Sinclairs had houses in Edinburgh. The defensible keeps were outside, on their baronial land, useful for war and for feasts and as a bolt-hole from the pest. Craigmillar, being healthy and convenient for Edinburgh, was frequently commandeered by the Court, which used its secure rooms for its treasure, and caused to be erected massed ancillary buildings for its household. In return, the Prestons enjoyed well-deserved favours, most of them to do with profit margins on luxury goods, but encompassing such imponderables as forgiveness for outspoken females. They shared the same type of posts as the Sinclairs: Nanse Preston now nursed the Queen’s children. As a family—a prolific family, fruitful in Thomases and Simons and Wills—they were also rich. A generation ago, a Sir William Preston of Craigmillar had brought back the armbone of St Giles for St Giles. Bruges already had an armbone of St Giles in its St Giles. Edinburgh was almost upsides with Bruges. One of these days, Edinburgh would be the equal of Bruges. Only Gibbie Fish, who fashioned the reliquary case, could have told them that both were left arms.

  Tobias Beventini climbed up to the drawbridge and stepped over with the kind of emotion he imagined Nicholas and Willie must have felt long ago, when the curtains swirled back to introduce their famous play. The time had come, and was prepared for. It was a relief and a terror at once. It was a guess, but an informed one, that Simpson would be impelled, at last, to strike against Nicholas. It had been their concern to forestall him.

  There were two public apartments in use, of which the upper was that presided over by the King, with his host and his house-guests and family. Below was the temporary hall filled by local guests like themselves. It was one of the advantages of Craigmillar that none but the favoured required beds.

  Adorne, it transpired, was upstairs with the King and the Queen, and with the King’s brothers and sisters. Bursts of music suggested that Willie Roger was somewhere there also. Periodically, a gentleman of the chamber would appear and invite a group from the lower precincts to ascend to the hall which, although charming, was not very large. Awaiting translation, Tobie mingled with bevies of Prestons, Leithie and Thomas Three among them; and with Sir John Colquhoun and his wife, and Sir Oliver Sinclair and his, and Cristina Dunbar and her husband. He was slapped on the back by Tam Cochrane. It struck Tobie, not for the first time, how many persons of rank were related to Adorne’s much-missed lady Euphemia. Adorne, he had reason to think, had hardly noticed this. Nicholas had, for it happened to matter.

  You noticed, now, when Nicholas was present in a room. Or you did if he wanted you to. Disapproving, Tobie knew how it was done: how Nicholas could alter his walk so that the weight of his open robe took the eye, offering glimpses of velvet and embroidered lawn and hose-silk; of all the sheaved muscle from the round of his thighs to his ankles. He knew how the candelabra were engaged to illumine the broad, dimpled cheek and muscular neck, and the intimate, smiling grey gaze. And how, when Nicholas moved, the unforced, flexible voice would carry with ease, as over the chatter of rattle-mice. When thus, he drew life to wherever he was, eliciting animation and laughter. It might have been disquieting unless you knew, as Tobie did, how different it could be. ‘Stone on one side,’ Mistress Bel had once said of Nicholas, ‘and skitter-raw on the other, like a badly-baked cake.’

  Tobie had seen Gelis, conducting a meeting, employ something like the same arts. But now, pale and golden and shimmering, moving smiling among all her friends, she spoke quietly, her back to the room, a foil for her husband.

  David Simpson said, ‘How we all love him. Zacco’s darling, do you remember? If Nicholas came to my bed, I dare say I would take him tomorrow, lout though he is. It is a dangerous magic. It is a magic? No one could pretend he is handsome.’

  Davie Simpson was handsome. He stood before Tobie now: a short man with
a large-eyed, beautiful face, and loosely waving black hair below the velvet brim of his hat. With swordsman’s shoulders beneath the pleated silk doublet, showing the Holland shirt sewn with white silk at the throat, and archer’s strong fingers playing with the intricate buttons which were jewels.

  Tobie said, ‘I like your dress. Not short of gold, then?’

  ‘Not while I have naïve friends,’ Simpson said. ‘Oh, look! The Princess Mary has sent down her page to summon us all to the Presence. Do you recognise him? The doting small Jordan de Fleury, come to collect his own parents.’

  It was Jodi, in miniature yellow taffeta and kersey hose, gazing up with glowing grey eyes at his smiling father. Tobie felt cold. Yet they had foreseen this. Simpson would be here: that they knew. So would Jodi. So were Nicholas and Gelis and himself, John and Kathi and Wodman. All of them abhorred by Simpson.

  Simpson had been reading his thoughts. He said, with exaggerated relish, ‘You are quite right. I have decided that life is too short for tolerance. If something irks me, I remove it.’ He looked amused.

  Jodi was leading the way to the stairs, which were of the steeply spiral variety that led Gelis to fear for the seams of her skirts. She clutched them, twisting, and climbed. John and Wodman were ready to follow. Nicholas did not at once move. It seemed to Tobie that the other man had been touched by his fancy, and had seen the curtain float back, and had even glimpsed what stood behind.

  Then Nicholas saw Simpson, and smiled.

  Chapter 18

  And confectioun wennomous it suld nocht

  To sempill folk be nother sauld nor bocht.

  UPSTAIRS, HEAT AND noise pulsed from beyond the carved screen that guarded the end of the Great Hall of Craigmillar. The hall, being only thirty-five feet in length, became easily crowded, despite its deep window embrasures; and its low painted ceiling repeated all that it heard. Nevertheless, there was a dance in progress, led by the King partnered by Katelinje Sersanders of Berecrofts, who was small enough to make James look gratifyingly tall. He might, clearly, have been taller, had he not been taught to ride at too early an age. Kathi, chattering to the King, cast an anxious thought in the direction of Rankin’s legs, which had not yet embraced a horse, being as yet almost as wide as they were short. Behind her, the Queen pattered along, talking Danish-Scots to Hearty James, the King’s uncle. The players, led by Whistle Willie, blew and plucked and banged as stylishly as if the whole room were silently listening, which was only politic. Contradicting this was Whistle Willie’s face, which was wearing a hat and a scowl, both unfortunate. The screen door opened, a staff thudded, and Jodi walked in, followed by Nicholas and Gelis.

  The sight of Nicholas and Gelis, these days, tended to make most people smile: something they themselves had not as yet noticed. Kathi beamed, and found her greeting being returned by Tobie, which delighted her further. She wished Robin were here. He attended most events, but not those involving dancing, for which he preferred to leave his wife free. Anyway, Willie always came round a day later and played all the music, while Kathi relayed all the gossip, so that he wasn’t really deprived. The rest of the time, he was in the counting-house, blithely contradicting his father or Saunders, or chivvying youngsters at Greenside, or showing Rankin how to hold a bow, something at which Margaret was still his superior. He hardly had room for a social life.

  Perceiving the newcomers, the King broke off and walked to his chair of state in front of the chimney-piece, causing the dancing to cease, and the music momentarily to straggle, before herding itself gallantly home. His guests presented themselves at the foot of the dais. The King’s nod to Nicholas was reserved, and the royal gaze narrowed as, rising, Nicholas was immediately engulfed by a slightly drunk Sandy. Nicholas appeared nothing but pleased: Kathi felt for him. As the King greeted Gelis, his freckled skin had flushed slightly, as always.

  Kathi turned, and found Johndie Mar swaying beside her.

  ‘How’s the cripple?’ he said. ‘Envious of your new son, with the two legs and the busy wee pintle? The very spit of his dad, so I’m told. Do I know his dad, by the way?’

  Sandy whirled. Nicholas turned, much more slowly. Kathi held his eyes. Then she said, ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Sandy said, and taking his brother viciously by the arm, propelled him staggering out of the room. Liddell joined him. The door slammed. Talk died, and then surged, somewhat aimlessly.

  Jodi’s voice, rather shrill, made a comment. ‘Hob isn’t like Robin at all. Neither is Rankin.’ He was looking at Nicholas. Kathi swallowed.

  Nicholas said, ‘Come on, you’re not supposed to be listening to men’s jokes about pintles. What are they teaching you in this household?’

  The grey eyes slowly relaxed, and the mouth. ‘Mine’s bigger than Jamie Boyd’s,’ said the boy. Colquhoun’s wife, moving up with Cristina Preston, heard him and laughed. Gelis, out of earshot, nevertheless turned, glanced at them all, and came steadily over. Before she arrived, the way opened for the King’s sister Mary who, touching her page on the cheek, laid a kindly arm round Kathi’s shoulders. She began to talk, and so did the others. Kathi turned her gaze calmly from Nicholas, who drifted away, taking his son. Unaccountably, the musicians had begun playing again. Nicholas joined Tobie.

  Tobie said, ‘Christ, what a court.’ He was as red as his gown. He was staring at Mary’s sister, the red-headed Meg, who was being entertained in a corner by a deferential man with elegant shoulders. Once, Kathi had been maid of honour and good friend to Margaret, before Margaret’s betrothal to the late Duke of Clarence. The possessor of the shoulders, Tobie suddenly realised, was Davie Simpson, Procurator to the Apostolic Collector. He drew a harsh breath.

  ‘I blame the doctors,’ said Nicholas. ‘And if you make a scene now, I shall personally cut your throat. Come and talk to Whistle Willie. Jodi, I’m sorry: Manoli is glaring at you. Should you be somewhere else?’

  Jodi reluctantly left. Tobie said, ‘What are you thinking of? Jodi shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’d rather have him under my eye. There are four people doing nothing but watch him. Who is still to come?’

  ‘That was sickening,’ Tobie said. ‘What Mar said to Kathi. Sickening. Sickening.’

  ‘I said, Forget it. Who else is to come? Henry?’

  ‘He’s on duty till later. The Scougals are downstairs, talking horses with Knollys. So is Abbot Archie. And Abbot Henry. Remember Henry Arnot in Rome? He’s back in Cambuskenneth for a bit. But none of the Lords Three; they’ve scattered to do their duty at home. Some of these will go home as well. This room will only hold about fifty in comfort, and the wine’s going round. They expect the Queen to retire.’

  Nicholas had not been near the Queen since his entrance. She was Adorne’s perquisite, as the young were supposed to be the targets of Nicholas. With the exception of Johndie Mar. He said, ‘And Adorne?’

  ‘He’s staying here. You know how well he gets on with them all. He’ll come later. Andreas is also here somewhere, and Conrad, and Scheves.’ He was making a point. The timber guest accommodation outside must be full. All the Court physicians and apothecaries were in attendance, as ever. And Tobie himself.

  ‘Good. Now talk to Willie,’ Nicholas said. ‘I know he’s blowing his trumpet, but that never stopped him from speaking: I’ve heard him perform on a pair of brass urinals and order a marrow tart with the same breath. Agreed, Willie?’

  Whistle Willie gave a virtuoso bray and laid down his instrument. The other players caught his glare and continued. A dance was beginning. Nicholas said, ‘I sent you some verse.’

  ‘I don’t need your putrid verses,’ said Willie. His chin was wet and the brim of his beaver, descending over his brow, was resting on the ferocious grey ridge of his brows. He added, ‘I’ve got my own writer now. John of Stobo. Doesn’t make blots.’

  John of Stobo was a royal clerk. Tobie had once heard one of his poems. Moral tales aimed at the King were generally devoured for thei
r gossipy sub-text. This one hadn’t mentioned Phemie in the same breath as seduction, but had slipped her sister’s husband’s name into the story. Tobie said, ‘Stobo? Willie, it’s tumpety-tump. This officer but dout is callit Deid; Is nane his power agane may repleid; Is nane sa wicht, na wyse, na of sic wit—’

  ‘Agane his summond suithly that may sit. Tobie, stop talking,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Why?’ said Tobie robustly, and then stopped and said it again. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But just stop.’

  THE ARGUMENT BROKE out fairly soon after that, when more fiercely spiced wine had been brought, and the reek in the hall—sweat and ginger and cumin, damp fur and pepper and dogs—lay in the mouth like sour cake, despite all that sweet rushes and kindling could do. Ill-advisedly, someone had attempted to assuage the consequent thirst by serving bowls of black, pungent soup which the King drank earnestly dry, sending Sandy for more. The kitchen was just outside the screen.

  Subject to nasal afflictions himself, Tobie had always suspected some such explanation for the Stewart disregard of the finer principles of savour and smell. Unhappily, what the royal kindred did, all must do. Over the rim of her bowl, the gaze of Katelinje Sersanders, to Tobie’s amusement, appeared perfectly square, while Gelis, occupying a cushion at a distance, came within a fraction of tipping the contents of hers into the extremely large fireplace. The Queen by then had gone, and the King’s two sisters with her, Meg with some reluctance. There was no sign of the Sinclairs. Jodi, returned to the charge of the lady Mary, bowed to each of his parents, and received a kiss in return, his eyes rather bright. Halfway to the screen, he broke protocol and ran back to his father. Head bent, Nicholas received him in a friendly, murmuring way, his big smoothing hands on either side of the child’s burrowing face until Jodi lifted his head and stepped back, smiling shakily, and turning, ran to the chamberlain, neatly side-stepping Jamie Boyd’s kick.