Gemini

  The delegation returned in safety, as predicted. They brought a conditional agreement. The Duke wished to consider his position overnight.

  In the Tolbooth, merchants and noblemen waited in company for whatever was to befall. The windows, set open because of the heat, relayed to them the muted sounds of the High Street, empty of children and treasure, with all its steep, crooked closes blocked by stacked turf and locked gates. The weapons—and there were weapons—were out of sight. If something went wrong—if Gloucester changed his mind; if some contrary order reached his pavilion through the network of relay stations that connected him to the south—some resistance at least would be offered. But against a determined attack, Edinburgh the town could not survive, any more than Berwick had. On the other hand, this was a citadel that would not surrender.

  The officers of the Crown and the town slept in the Tolbooth that night: some in beds; most on mattresses. The following day, a herald arrived from the Duke.

  It was not, of course, capitulation. It was an intimation that, given confirmation of certain assurances, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, proposed to withdraw, having decided to conclude his campaign. Upon reaching the Border, he expected to receive the surrender of Berwick-upon-Tweed.

  IT WAS NECESSARY to receive the news calmly, and to treat the herald and his suite with the ceremony his office required. Clerks were sent for. An official statement was written out, rewritten, agreed, and finally ratified with all the appropriate seals. The herald was feasted, given presents, and finally sent out of town with a guard of honour, a wallet of papers, and a train of packmules laden with precious articles which the Provost and community of Edinburgh wished to bestow on Duke Richard and also, of course, Duke Alexander and their captains.

  Even then, no one hurled his cup into the air, or ran screaming into the streets. It had yet to be proved that the army would leave, and that it would attain the Border without destruction and pillage. And that the reduction of Berwick would take place in a civilised manner, as the Council had promised the men of Berwick, in confidence, long before. Berwick had always been the one, attainable prize in this war. The trick had been to save the rest of Scotland from falling as well.

  Bit by bit, it fell out as designed. The Duke’s pavilions were struck and his host began to move south, briefly escorted by Albany to the limits of his own land, where he stopped. The Duke continued to the frontier, the Tweed, where (reported relays of palpitating riders) he honoured his commitment to disband all his army, save for an extra force which he then took to Berwick. The town was already his. The citadel now prepared to surrender, and, in due course, the Governor and garrison were told that they would be allowed to march out without hindrance. Berwick was about to be English again.

  To the worn men in the prison of the Tolbooth, it was the culmination of the second part of their plan, as the King’s arrest at Lauder had been the desperate end of the first. They did celebrate, for the loss of Berwick was nothing compared with the saving of the kingdom. Colin Campbell, as temporary host, distributed the best of the food and the wine they had left, and speeches were made which were far from trite, for they paid tribute to the efforts of every man there who had risked his life, his honour, his goods, to reach this miraculous point.

  They were still wearily there, in their creased doublets and shirts, in the fumes of the room, when the fresh message arrived: the one which reminded them that the departure of the conquering army had been obtained at a price, and that a different struggle was pending.

  From south in the Lammermuirs, the Duke of Albany wrote to his brother’s lieges in Edinburgh to command a royal escort for himself and his train, now that he returned to his land with open arms, hoping and expecting to embrace his royal brother.

  ‘Nicol?’ Avandale said.

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘The rest of us, of course, will also go: it must be an escort of honour. Fresh clothes, horses, harness, heralds, trumpets. A suitable apartment for the Duke: at Archie Holywood’s, or the friars, or James Dunkeld’s palace of delights in the Cowgate. Or the house of Sir James Liddell, his factor, if the Prince would prefer it. Liddell, of course, will come with us, but I also wish men I can trust to bear-lead this young man. You and Master Julius, as you suggested.’

  ‘That was when I could still walk and talk,’ Nicholas said. ‘You are bearing in mind that, before he parted with Gloucester, Sandy will have reaffirmed all his Fotheringhay vows? Whatever they say, Gloucester expects Sandy to make himself King, and acknowledge Edward as his superior.’

  Avandale said, ‘We all know the situation, I think. Sandy will stay if it suits him, and cross back to England if it doesn’t. Your task is to tell us what he is thinking. For example, you still don’t believe he’ll harm the King?’

  ‘He’ll try to discredit him. I don’t think he would physically harm him, but others might. Anyway, no one’s going to release James or the instruments of power, are they, until we learn a bit more? Whether Gloucester will be made to come back next year and try harder; whether Sandy wants a crown for his Bourbonic son? And in any case, the King shouldn’t be rescued too promptly. If his indignant subjects set siege to the Castle, could it hold out forlornly for a month?’

  ‘Their main affliction,’ said Avandale, ‘would be progressive obesity. But we are in agreement. The King should stay out of reach. The person Albany has to see is the Queen … Nicholas?’

  ‘I heard you,’ said Nicholas.

  • • •

  VISITING THE QUEEN was never a chore for Drew Avandale, who regarded her, sometimes, as his creation. He couldn’t recall whether it was himself or Whitelaw or Argyll who had hit on the idea of presenting that great Scandinavian Queen, another Margaret, as her model. Two generations ago, the other Margaret had ruled Denmark and Norway and eventually Sweden, either herself or by proxy. She had come to power at twenty-two, a clever, ambitious woman, and never relinquished it till she died, aged nearly sixty. Margaret Two was not thus preternaturally endowed, but she would do, and she had been fourteen years on the throne. He trusted her, at twenty-six, to carry off this, the most difficult act of statesmanship in her life. And in his own, very nearly. Bringing Albany to the Queen was a device that could either pull them out of this mire, or sink them for good.

  The Duke of Albany’s Grand Entry had gone off well enough. As demanded, the escort of honour had ridden south to receive him and bring him to Edinburgh. The streets had been unblocked and swept and there was a lot of dutiful cheering: since the English army had recrossed the Tweed, the children had come back to their homes, if not all the money. Albany had wanted to storm up to the Castle and solicit his brother to come out and greet him, but de Fleury had talked him out of it, and they had settled in Holyrood, with Archie Crawford at his most sincere and disarming. There was no one contentious in Albany’s train. The less acceptable supporters had presumably gone straight to Dunbar, now vacated by Murray, the King’s man. And Jamie Boyd, if he had marched north with the army, had discreetly left it before it turned south. A few days ago he had turned up, all innocence, in his mother’s household, and was now with the Princess in Stirling. Both the Princesses were in Stirling, with the Queen. Sandy was to be made to feel at home.

  Using Nicol de Fleury had been a wise move. Sandy’s face, seeing him there at the rendezvous, had been a study: the princely hauteur giving way to something less cool, even through the formalities. De Fleury cleverly had not presumed; but had presently been called out to ride at Sandy’s side. On his other side, of course, was Jamie Liddell, whom Albany had greeted with a wet-eyed embrace. It was the sentimentality in Sandy that made him vulnerable, as de Fleury had certainly counted on.

  Over five continuous years, Drew Avandale and his colleagues had all come to appreciate what they had been given, when Nicol de Fleury chose to turn his back on the turmoil in Flanders, and then extended his stay. They had assumed he was hoping for power, but such power as he had—and it was real enough—was all indirect
. He had not even laid claim to the St Pol inheritance. The family funeral was due to take place this week, just as they were setting out on this visit to Stirling, and de Fleury was here, and not in Paisley. Of course, he and Kilmirren were at loggerheads. It was natural. Two prize bulls in one pen. Guts, and guile, and intelligence; but the one with fewer scruples would win.

  The Queen had chosen to wear her portrait hennin and gown, and the jewels with a name. The rest of the Court, including the King’s sisters Mary and Margaret, were also in heated splendour: it was still August, and warm. From the windows of the audience chamber, looking down and abroad upon the silver links of the Forth, the flowery plain, the hills of the Highlands in the distance, the entering breeze was hardly cooler than the crowded room. The Queen kissed her brother of Albany, and greeted Drew himself, and the Archbishop, in full panoply, and Colin Argyll, who sometimes displayed his independence (if it were ever in doubt) by dressing unsuitably, and would only have been outdone by Archie Whitelaw, had he been here. However. And also, of course (correctly attired), there was Nicol de Fleury, but without Master Julius, who, it was said, had gone to the St Pol interment.

  Albany’s sisters, who had received the privilege of an earlier, more private meeting, cast flushed smiles at their brother and sat. Mary, the oldest, had recently begun to look her age, which was thirty-one, a year older than the King. Meg, the youngest, had become quite alarmingly plump since her unfortunate lapse into motherhood, and seemed unaware, her eager gaze fixed on Sandy, of any reserve in his face. In absentia, perhaps, Sandy had felt closer to the girls and his poor brother Johndie than he found himself now. Yet his siblings had always represented his strength: the four of them impatient of James, whom accident of birth had made their ruler. To them, James and the Queen were now the enemy. To keep to his plan, Sandy had to make the most of it.

  And to keep to their plan, the Queen had to maintain, as she was doing, a calm and friendly manner, enquiring about Sandy’s health, his marriage, and his little son John. She had a child of the same name herself. And here was her oldest son, eager to embrace his loving uncle once more. James?

  Thus the Queen, calling forward the boy. She sounded confident, but you could never quite tell what James, Duke of Rothesay, would do. God knew, he had been well enough brought up, but at nine, he sometimes went his own way. On those occasions, his eyes became round and his hair, thicker and redder than his father’s, seemed to take on a life of its own. Avandale suspected that James didn’t like dear Uncle Albany. Albany’s discarded son Andrew shared a tutor with James. If Andrew was in the castle, he wasn’t on view. Nor was Jamie Boyd, who had been in York, de Fleury said. At this point, Lord Avandale became aware that the Duke of Rothesay, aged nine, had actually smiled, and was now proceeding to say more or less the right things. The person he had been smiling at, of course, was the same person that Jamie Boyd and Princess Mary his mother used to smile at: Nicol de Fleury. For a moment—only a moment—Andrew, Lord Avandale, experienced a childish twinge of annoyance. No, God save us, be truthful: of jealousy.

  The first of the meetings, when it came, was a small one: the Queen, the three lords and Albany, with Master McClery taking notes. The Queen was thankful that the English threat had receded, and was indebted for the part her dear good-brother had played. Her husband, when he knew the facts, would feel the same. Alas, did she not wish, like Sandy, that the King could be freed? But the uncles would not allow it. The uncles—Lord Darnley as well—had imprisoned James for his own good. The uncles—Buchan and Atholl and Andrew—feared the hired assassins of Gloucester. The King himself, she believed, was held back by an entirely unfounded fear of Sandy himself. He feared that Sandy would wish to depose him. He feared that Sandy wished to see her son James on the throne, with Sandy himself as his Governor. And while such a thing, in the long run, was not impossible, there was no chance that the King would place himself in such a position just now. Rather he would die in the Castle.

  The Queen’s eyes, at the height of her earnestness, betrayed a slight cast.

  But, pointed out Sandy (after a moment), was it not necessary for the King to emerge, with the royal seals, if Parliament were to be called? And was it not true that, unless Parliament were called, all the gracious offers to restore his honours and accede to his modest requests would be in vain? In the eyes of the law, until then, he was a criminal.

  In the Queen’s oval, artlessly painted face could be detected nothing but sympathy. She understood the dilemma. So did her lords. Let them seek a solution together. And, of course, there were gifts within her own competence which she might wish to bestow, and which would not require the ratification of anyone else.

  Over the next two or three days they sought a solution, and found one. It was, fortunately, the one already reached, beforehand, by themselves, the Queen and the merchants of Edinburgh. Parliament was to be called. The new situation of Alexander, Duke of Albany, would be placed before it, and his future secured. And in order that Parliament might be properly summoned, with the usual forty days’ notice, the freedom of the King was to be achieved by a kindly deception. They discussed the deception, and Sandy agreed.

  After the Queen had retired, they sat drinking with Sandy that night, while Nicol treated them, by request, to a number of excruciating tales from his repertoire, followed in due course by Colin, who had a barbed, sleek wit of his own, in both Gaelic and English. Heavy with relief and contentment, Sandy seemed willing to stay there till dawn, and when his servant finally took him away, he was calling for Nicol to go with him, but unsuccessfully, for Nicol had fallen asleep.

  When the door shut, he woke up. ‘Well done,’ said Avandale. ‘Well done, everybody.’

  A tolerant man, Will Scheves smiled. ‘Especially the Queen,’ he remarked. Grimly, as the Great Margaret would have done, the Queen had made her personal contribution to the effort of pleasing the siblings. It meant losing some land, and she had required a little persuasion; but they had laid the matter before her, and she had agreed after a number of talks, some of them with de Fleury in private. Henry Arnot and Adorne had been right: she had taken to Nicholas de Fleury, and so had the young prince. Because of the Queen, they had been able to promise Darnley a fee for what he was doing, as well as immunity. Because of Will Scheves, they had an inducement to offer the King’s uncles. To the public, Edinburgh Castle was sealed, with the monarch inside, but of course there had been constant secret communication between those who occupied it and those who were holding the kingdom together outside. As soon as he, Avandale, got back to Edinburgh, he and the King’s uncles would meet, and the King’s freedom would be arranged.

  It would take just over a month. Beginning immediately, the Castle would be placed under siege by the Provost and leading merchants of Edinburgh in the name of Albany, who had spurned England to seek the love of his brother. And during the month, someone had to persuade the King that he was in no danger from Albany. He trusted the merchants. He was already unsure of the motives of his half-uncles and Darnley. When, in due course, the uncles would (tragically) be driven to surrender, James should be reasonably glad to emerge. It might be, by that time, that someone like Darnley could explain what was happening. This is the price of Gloucester’s retreat. Pay it, for now.

  Or possibly, of course, pay it for ever. Albany’s first condition for returning to court had been the prior departure of Argyll, Scheves and Avandale himself, ‘who had so nobly held the breach, but who must now be allowed to return to the peace of their estates’. Albany did not wish the King’s veteran Councillors, the men who had known him as a boy, breathing over his shoulder. They were being permitted to install him, that was all.

  They had agreed. It had been foreseen. It was why they had left Whitelaw behind. They were all leaving for Edinburgh in the quiet of the evening tomorrow. As soon as they had conferred with the uncles, Will and Colin and he would disperse. Not too far, naturally. God knew, they would still require to confer and to meet. But of the old inne
r Council only Archie Whitelaw would remain, and James of Dunkeld to watch out for the Church, and Nicol de Fleury to watch out for everyone. If Albany was Gloucester’s Trojan horse, then de Fleury was theirs.

  Colin’s mind, obviously, had been running along the same lines. Stirring, flushed, in his shirt-sleeves, Argyll said, ‘Niacal, fhir mo chridhe, fhir mo chridhe, do not in any way get yourself killed this day or another, will you then? Your country needs you.’

  The Queen’s friend was still flat on the floor, but not asleep. ‘Which country?’ said Nicholas de Fleury.

  Colin Argyll unfolded, quick as a polecat. He said, ‘The one you are fit for, to be sure. Go where you please. Foghnaidh salann salach air im roineagach.’

  They were glaring at one another. It must have been quite an insult. Avandale sighed, but not audibly. He said, ‘MacChalein has had a few bottles, Nicol.’

  ‘I know,’ said de Fleury. ‘Otherwise he would never have invited me to his bed.’

  ‘Will you accept?’ Avandale said. He was entertained. Colin’s fair face was purple.

  ‘Why yes!’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t mind a bit of roineachd.’ But before he finished the word, Colin was on him, and they fought with some intensity, for a bit, until they fell apart, satisfied.

  Chapter 46

  This king askit at his brother gif he

  Wald tak his stait and as a king to be.

  Plesit he was and held him weile content