The Earl of Mar came in, his eyes lack-lustre, and was contemptuously filled with soup by his brother Albany, who then let him slip to the floor with a thump and walked off. The Abbots by then had disappeared, but Will Scheves, liberated tonight from Metropolitan trappings, stepped thoughtfully forward and stooped over the youth. Tobie made a move towards him, and then refrained. Scheves was trained in medicine. The door opened and Dr Andreas came in, saw Johndie Mar and, after a moment, appeared to reach the same conclusions as Tobie. He crossed to Tobie, made to sit down, and then remained standing. ‘Soup!’
‘It’s magnificent,’ Tobie said. ‘Ask John or Andro. The pot’s over there. Is Adorne with you?’
‘He thought the King would be going to bed,’ Andreas said. ‘I was to come and investigate. It looks very black.’
‘It tastes quite remarkable,’ Tobie said. ‘Especially with the spiced wine. Get some and come and sit down.’ He watched Andreas go. He found it quite stimulating until the King’s voice broke through, a little slurred, a little peremptory. ‘Sir doctor! Dr Andreas? We have a command for you, Master David and I. We have a command for all of you.’
Andreas stood where he was; then, bowing, walked to where the King had sunk into a chair not his own and was fanning himself. Nicholas also had risen. David Simpson, at the King’s side, smiled and said, ‘And you, Nicol. The King wants some magic; and who better to supply it than you, with your divining, and the particular powers of my lord Archbishop and Dr Andreas, disciples of the great astrologer Spierinck? Did he not follow Dr Andreas’s father as Rector of the University of Louvain? Were you not there yourself, Nicol, with your young master?’
‘You have heard me boast about it,’ said Nicholas, a little shame-faced. ‘As who would not, when the King’s own kinsman the late Bishop Kennedy studied there, and Dr Andreas’s father was the Duchess’s trusted physician? As for magic’—he flung out an arm—‘none can surpass us. Only bring me a rabbit.’
There was a ripple of companionable laughter, abruptly cut off. The King said, crossly, ‘We do not speak of common pursuits, fit for children. We speak of magic.’
As he said the word, half the candles went out. The King looked surprised, and then vaguely pleased. Simpson looked merely pleased. The snuffers bowed and retired. Nicholas said, ‘My lord King, forgive us. You desire us to leave.’
‘We desire you to stay,’ said the King. ‘And to utilise your pendulum. And tell us when Christ is returning, and when the Pope is expected to die, and how many heron we shall raise in Bathgate bog on the morrow.’
Profound silence fell. Dimly seen, the King smiled. Albany grinned, and everyone present broke into laughter, with the exception of Nicholas, Andreas, Scheves, and some of the Preston family. Nicholas said, ‘My lord?’
‘Yes?’ said the King. ‘You mean you wish to be excused? Indeed, we seem to remember that you had little success with your tricks in the past. We expect better things now.’ He had shed his furred gown, as most of them had, but although his skin sparkled with sweat, he lay back in the gloom, his lids heavy, his mood one of confused, slightly malicious enquiry. Albany sat at the top of the dais, and Mar sprawled on a step under the thoughtful gaze of Will Scheves.
Nicholas said, ‘I am afraid, sire, that my divining was as poor as you say: I have long given it up. Of course, there was no connection with prophecy, only with underground minerals. Even so, my clerical friends were uneasy and, certainly, the Papal Collector would not approve.’
‘That,’ said David Simpson quickly, ‘is precisely why, with the King’s leave, I should like to put it to the test, and on rather more serious matters. Dr Andreas predicted the Duke of Burgundy’s death, and it came about. He may have means of telling, even more important to us than the death of the Pope, whether our own lord is in danger. Or can you assure us, Nicol, with your pendulum, that his grace the King will have a long life?’
The candles flickered. Time passed. The King shook his head, as if trying to clear it. He sat up a trifle and frowned, peering at Nicholas. He said, ‘We wish you to do this.’ John of Mar started to snore and, when touched gently by Scheves, twitched and rolled down a step.
‘Then I shall do it,’ Nicholas said. He had not given either Scheves or Andreas a chance to speak. ‘I shall need a pendulum.’
‘Here is a pendulum,’ Tobie said. His mouth was dry. He felt as he had at the foot of a mountain in Cyprus, waiting for disaster to strike. What was hoped for was not always what happened. He held out what he had, which was a small silken cord with a crystal, such as he used to test the turn of an eye. Questioned by a practising diviner, a pendulum conveyed yes or no, by its swing. The process took a long time. A voice spoke: Andro Wodman’s. ‘Nicholas? Here is a bowl.’
The soup bowls had been mainly of pewter, but Wodman’s was of bronze. He had rinsed it with wine. Nicholas took it and stopped: the first unpremeditated move that Tobie had seen him make that whole evening. Then he said, ‘There are letters on it already.’
‘Then you won’t have to paint them,’ said Wodman. There were letters; Tobie could see them: an alphabet embossed inside the rim. The pendulum, swinging, could spell out its answers.
The fire crackled. The stench hung in the air. Overcome by the heat, some of those further back were comfortably asleep in the dark on their cushions. Two of the musicians were dozing, and Willie Roger kicked them vaguely, his hands slack. Tobie could see Kathi’s bright eyes, and the bulk of Tam Cochrane beside her. Gelis had leaned her head on her hand, her eyes closed, and Liddell was blinking. David Simpson said, ‘I know it is customary for necromancers to serve up a potion, but you appear to have anticipated us, Nicol. What did you have them put in the wine, or the soup?’
‘Wine and soup,’ Nicholas said. ‘My lord King? Shall I go on?’
‘Or doctored wine, as you did once at Linlithgow?’ Simpson said. ‘Or so I am told.’ Albany turned, one hand on the back of the throne. He looked as he usually did, except that he was frowning. Scheves stood up.
The King said, ‘Go on!’ in a thick, angry voice. Nicholas was looking at Wodman. Then he bent to set the bowl on a stool at the King’s feet and, kneeling, looped the silk on one finger.
He had spoken the truth, Tobie knew. Nicholas de Fleury had ceased to divine, not because when he did, nothing happened, but because he didn’t know what would happen. He had not chosen the pendulum: for good or ill, the pendulum had chosen him, and had given him its own mindless answers, ever since that day in the Tyrol when, before Moriz and John, the Duchess Eleanor had made him aware of his power. Tobie had seen his hand scored and bleeding where the scything cord and its bland missile had flayed it.
Now the crystal hung, shivering, so that light danced like honey-bees inside the bowl and glimmered in the grey, intent eyes of the diviner, fixed on the King’s face. Nicholas had stripped to hose and shirt, like the King, and his throat glittered inside the white, open cambric. He said nothing aloud, but watched the King, and the pendulum. And the pendulum gradually steadied.
Someone groaned. Someone else—Buchan, the King’s half-uncle—belched, coughed, and made in a lumbering way to the garde-robe door by the fire. The King said, ‘Ask it! Ask it, damn you! When and how will we die?’
It was not a joke any longer. Nicholas lowered his eyes to the pendulum. Gelis, smiling, had fallen asleep on her cushion. As she slipped, Leithie Preston and Cochrane caught her between them, and gave her into the ready arms of Kathi, who settled her with her head on her lap. Tobie saw her glance at Nicholas, but Nicholas had not seen. He was sallow under the sweat, and his mouth was set along its full, curling length, with no puckering dimples. His nostrils looked pinched. There was a small chime, then another; and David Simpson said, ‘Ah!’ Beneath the theatricality, there was a hint of genuine puzzlement. He had expected nothing to happen, Tobie deduced. There was another small musical sound, and two more: inside the bowl, the suspended crystal was making a peregrination. It suddenly stopped, swooped upon and c
rumpled up hard in Nicholas’s hand.
The King said, ‘No! It moved! It spelled! Put it down!’ Then he said, ‘What did it say?’ His pale eyes were open.
Nicholas removed his eyes from Andro Wodman’s. His fist was so tight round the weight that his knuckles were white. He said, ‘Nothing, sire. I hadn’t even asked it a question. It spelled out nonsense, as it does for me now. I can try again.’
‘You will,’ said the King. ‘Here, close to me. And with more light. Sir Simon, we wish fresh candles here, by the stool.’
If his host heard, he didn’t answer. It was Big Tam who came forward with his powerful hands and thrust fresh wax into the holders, while Leithie and the Third Thomas brought more. Surrounded by shadows, the King’s chair stood alone, pooled with light, and canopied by flickering light on the rafters. Tobie wondered if the Prestons had all done this before. Rumour said that they had. But not with a rod or a pendulum, and with women taking part. They were a hearty, rumbustuous family, the Prestons, with powerful friends.
There were no women here now, except the sleeping Gelis and Kathi. Nicholas looked round, and Kathi touched Gelis’s flushed cheek with her fingers and smiled. Behind the smile was something else. Tobie felt it as well, looking at Nicholas’s face. Nicholas said, ‘My lord. It is late. If I have any power, it is gone. Might I try for you tomorrow?’
The King said, ‘I require it now. I wish to know my fate. Do it.’
Now John had moved and settled by Wodman and Tobie. Whatever was wrong, Nicholas had no means of letting them know. The pendulum should give him no trouble: a small exertion of pressure would produce any message he wanted. In this room, they were safe. All those out of the room were protected. They had gone over these plans again and again. Nicholas had been putting off time, as David was. And now he wanted to leave.
Wodman said, ‘Perhaps the reading was wrong. Let me hold one of the candles myself.’
Nicholas returned his finger over the bowl, and let the weight down, steadying it with his other hand. It was no sooner free than it began swaying. Andro bent, his blue jowl and misshapen nose and dripping black hair stark in the light. Within the bowl, they all heard the first of the chimes. The King said, ‘I cannot see. Sit back, you.’
Nicholas said, ‘It is just the same. The same bowl. It’s an echo.’ He was looking at Andro, his face haunted.
Wodman said, ‘I’m going. Stay. Tobie, stay with him.’ He scrambled up, leaving the light where it was.
David Simpson said sharply, ‘Stop him!’
John le Grant said, ‘It’s all right. He felt sick. I’ll hold the light for you.’
‘You don’t need to,’ said David Simpson. ‘I know what it says. It says that the King is meant to die now, at the hands of his kindred.’ He had moved forward and now knelt, swiftly, at the King’s feet. ‘My lord, protect me. You have been given poison to drink. You and your friends and your brother of Mar. But for me, you would be dead.’
‘Poison!’ exclaimed James. He swallowed. ‘By whom?’
Simpson looked round, gilded with light. ‘By the Burgundian Nicholas de Fleury, the man who holds that unholy wand, and who dare not let you see the true, the evil thing that it tells. By his fellow wizards, Andreas and the Italian Tobias and even this counterfeit man of the Church, who still brings you your drugs. And by the man who has befriended them all, and instructed the poisoner to kill you; the man whose name I dare not speak. Look about you, my lord. Those who are sick are your friends. The rest wish you dead.’
The King said, ‘Who is their master, and the poisoner? My kinsmen, you said?’
David Simpson rose, his face full of pain. ‘The poisoner is Anselm Adorne, the other Burgundian. His niece sits there, sharing his triumph. The man who paid them is your brother Albany. I am sorry, my lord.’
The screen door had opened. The men who filed in from the turnpike were armed, and healthy, and wore the Preston of Craigmillar livery. Nicholas rose. The bowl fell with a clang. Simpson said, ‘I asked our host, Sir Simon, to help me. The poison was deadly. It came to Lord Cortachy in a bale, supposedly from the Medici, but in fact chopped and dried by his family in Genoa. It is a mushroom used by so-called religious. It mortifies the body and brings the illusion of ecstasy. If you doubt me, look at your brother. I found a way to dilute the poison, but John had already taken too much.’
The King stood. He staggered once, and then mastered his balance, a young, long-nosed, auburn-haired man of medium height, gazing across at the only brother that mattered: the wayward, sulky, athletic brother who possessed the freedom a king did not have, and used it in ways a king often envied. The King said, ‘Sandy?’
Albany had fended himself off the high chair. ‘You don’t believe it?’ he said. ‘My God, I never thought you’d believe it.’ He looked amazed. On the steps, Scheves hadn’t moved. Near the bottom, Johndie Mar suddenly shouted. Tobie looked at Scheves, and away.
The King stood, breathing fast. Then he swept his arm round. ‘Don’t I have to believe it? Look! Who else could have done this? They said you would poison me. They said you would poison me, Sandy.’
‘Who?’ said Albany. The amazement was giving way to slow rage. He said, ‘You fool, you’ve been duped. This man Simpson has duped you. But for Nicol, I would never have known. We let him carry out his plan, just to show you what he could do.’ He laid his fists on the chair back and shot his face forward between them. ‘He hasn’t succeeded in poisoning you, has he? By God, if I wanted to kill you, James, I’d have done it.’
‘Seize him!’ said the King. He was white. Preston’s men looked at one another. The King raised his voice. ‘Send for my Guard. Bind the Duke, and de Fleury, and throw them both into prison. And the rest. Anyone who hasn’t taken the draught. Cochrane is awake. Thomas Preston. The lady, Cortachy’s niece. Who else?’
Davie Simpson looked dazed and happy at once. He looked about, his fine skin bright, his lashes dark on his cheek. ‘Dr Beventini?’ he suggested. ‘I cannot guide your grace in the matter of the Archbishop. But Master Roger did not partake.’
‘I did,’ said Will Roger. ‘I’ve just been sick. Look.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Kathi said. Gelis opened her eyes.
The King returned curtly to Simpson. ‘Where is Cortachy?’
‘Here, my lord,’ said Anselm Adorne from the door. Moved by the wicked precision of timing, Tobie quelled an unnatural impulse to laugh. Alone of them all, the Baron Cortachy was coolly and properly dressed, his hair brushed under his cap, his fine-boned features serene. There was a page behind him, carrying something. At a sign, he placed it at the feet of the King. Adorne said, ‘The bale from Milan. It came unsolicited, with a false seal and note from Messer Portinari. Its opening was witnessed, and the contents certified to be alum, and not agaric. The drug was not imported by me, but by someone else. It is unusual, and can no doubt be traced. Some of it has certainly been cooked and served in some form tonight, although the ill-effects that you see are largely due to the measures taken to counteract it. I am sorry that my lord of Mar has been unfortunate.’
The Papal Collector’s handsome agent turned to the King. Then he knelt. ‘Kill me,’ said David Simpson. ‘Burgundy has always been powerful here. You cannot risk offending her. You will believe these two foreigners and their friends, but you will not believe me, who wished to protect you.’
He looked up, his magnificent eyes full of anguish. ‘Can you think I would harm you, my lord? Can you believe a tale such as this? That your own brother truly means you no harm, but would allow the whole Court to be poisoned, simply to entrap one supposed murderer?’
‘But we weren’t poisoned,’ said Will Roger’s reasonable voice. ‘At least, I didn’t get any mushrooms. There’s my kerchief. You can look.’
‘Willie,’ said Nicholas. ‘Put it into the fire.’
‘It’s evidence!’
Albany said, ‘We have plenty of evidence in the kitchen. The doctored soup was identified, and other
means found to produce an effect of discomfort. Master Simpson thought his plan had worked, and implicated himself, as we hoped. Only some of the soup got to Johndie, although he got rid of most of it.’
‘You gave it him?’ the King said. A great flush had spread over his face.
‘Master Simpson gave it to him,’ said Adorne. He looked at the kneeling man, who slowly rose. ‘He hoped to remove both my lord’s brothers and their friends, as well as myself, the King’s servant. There would remain David Simpson, spokesman for a Bishop, and the King’s sole close adviser.’
There was a silence. John of Mar had stepped to the floor and rolled over. He then attempted to walk. Adorne continued in the same civilised voice. ‘His sight is blurred and his senses distorted: he does not know what is real. It is dangerous. He should be watched until he recovers.’
The King said, ‘This drug is known in your family?’ His voice was strained.
‘It is found in convents, your grace. A member of my Genoese kindred so used it, when she resorted to perpetual fasts and became a religious visionary, in response to her husband’s philandering. It has no bearing on this, except that it suggested a drug and a trick that would implicate me. I must say again: my lord of Albany is quite innocent of plotting against you, and so are de Fleury and myself. The plot is Simpson’s alone.’