Gemini

  Gelis, who had been working with ledgers, put the last one away and came to sit down. Viewing herself from the outside, as ever, Kathi was entertained once again by the contrast they made: herself small, brown and sinewy, and indefatigably active, and Gelis fair and supple and shining, and never visibly active at all, while all the time quartering Flanders on behalf of the business. The owner now was Diniz Vasquez, to whom it had fallen three years ago, when Nicholas had divested himself of his holdings. Nicholas had then taken himself to other lands, from which act of understandable but wilful stupidity he had come back, altered, to resume his marriage to Gelis.

  To begin his marriage. Even now, weeks after he had left, you could see the incandescence in Gelis: the fires that had been lit in the short time she and Nicholas had had together. They had burned for Nicholas, too; and for that, Kathi was deeply thankful. She did not wish to imagine the force of will it must have taken to sever himself from that haven; to walk away knowing that, once in Scotland, he might not live to return.

  And yet—she underrated him, to think of him like that. However fierce his longing for home, he would, characteristically, find some zest in what he was doing, create something worth while, because he could not help it. He was there because he owed Scotland something. Driven by personal hurt to extremes, he had used the most sophisticated of his gifts against a community, simply in order to injure a single family—the St Pols of Kilmirren—which had caused hurt to himself and his mother. Once, when he was a boy, Nicholas had hoped, Kathi knew, to have himself proved a St Pol. Later, it did not matter to him whether he had a claim to legitimacy or not. He had wanted, like a child, to become their friend. And the three generations, Jordan, Simon and Henry, had responded with cruelty, and now threatened his life and his family.

  He had gone to Scotland to deal with that, and to make amends for what else he had done. It was something that Gelis understood, as she understood the sacrifice that she was being forced to make also. She must wait, while the way was cleared for her to join him. For he did not only face the St Pols. There was the other enemy, David.

  One did not, then, begin to talk to Gelis of Scotland, but of what was happening here. And, listening, Gelis said at the end, ‘I’m sorry that Dijon has gone, but I think Nicholas had got quite used to the idea of not being the next vicomte de Fleury. It makes life simpler without titles. Just think, Jordan has lost Ribérac too, so he is merely St Pol, lord of Kilmirren.’

  ‘It still sounds quite grand,’ Kathi said. ‘Anyway, I shan’t let you sniff at the Scottish orders of chivalry. My uncle likes being a Knight of the Unicorn, and I suspect Nicholas doesn’t mind all that much. If he thinks about it at all.’

  ‘I don’t know what he thinks about,’ Gelis said. ‘He is so used to being alone.’

  Kathi was silent. Until a few months ago, Gelis too had lived behind ramparts. Then the defences had been broached. And now she talked, with moving honesty, of what she cared about. But the reticence Gelis had shown had been different in origin, surely, from the fierce and solitary silence of Nicholas, which could be dissolved sometimes by awe, but not significantly by physical pain or euphoria. Wherever he was, no one would know, would really know what he was thinking, unless he wished them to. Or, rarely, it would happen by chance, as when one accurate note resonates with another. But then there would be no need of words.

  They talked. Kathi had chopped up and painted something for Jodi: a miniature tabard to wear in the jousting-field. Nicholas had been amused, in the few days he had been at home, at his son’s addiction to military training, and even Gelis tended, laughing, to sigh. But Kathi knew, as Nicholas probably did, that it arose from hero-worship: adoration of his large, fond, magnificent father, who fought against Turks; and love of Robin, the mischievous playmate who invaded his house in the Canongate, and who laughed and fought like a dancer. Jodi had never really taken to Kathi, who had stolen his Robin and married him. When Kathi left gifts for Jodi, they were always in Robin’s name.

  Gelis put down the tabard and held out a kerchief. ‘What brought this on? Don’t tell me. I’m avoiding Jodi just now because he reminds me too much of Nicholas. Would you like to talk about weddings? Paul and Catherine have drawn up a contract, but have to wait for a dispensation from Rome. Weeks, in this kind of weather. Children could be born, if Catherine weren’t so prudish.’

  Kathi laughed, blowing her nose. There was some nominal kinship, for sure. Catherine de Charetty was related by marriage to Nicholas, and Paul was son to Gelis’s cousin. Dispensation would come, but Catherine, who once flouted every convention, would behave until then like a nun.

  ‘Poor Paul,’ Kathi said. Then she remembered that Paul himself was not exactly legitimate, which might very well tend to make him as cautious as Catherine. She thought it all rather a shame.

  SHE WENT HOME soon after that, and saw by the bustle that the baron her uncle was home. She was on her way to her room when he sent for her.

  Anselm Adorne sat at his desk, in the finely wainscoted room splashed with colour from the armorial glass in the windows and pinned benignly with unicorn heads. Just before leaving, Nicholas had attended several meetings here with her uncle and the late Duke’s advisers, debating how to handle this turbulent interim; how to prevent all that was good in the past from being swept away before the grand marriage came, which would throw what was left of Burgundy into the hands of the Duchess’s future husband, whoever he was.

  Nicholas had once served the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick, and carried intelligence of many countries, near and remote; at such meetings, he made his own contribution to the state that had reared him. Furthermore, in what time he had left, he had taken Diniz aside and taught him what he needed to know, so that, whatever happened, the business would survive. It should be safe. The new régime would need merchants. And with Catherine’s marriage, it would have the support of the van Borselen family of Veere, whom no one offended.

  Now Kathi walked in, and sat, and saw the change in her uncle’s eyes. She said, ‘What has happened?’

  And Anselm Adorne rubbed his face and said, ‘I’m sorry, child. Someone will tell you, and you had better hear it first from me. It’s Ghent. Ghent again. Do you remember in Scotland—you were a little maid only—when the news came of the destruction of Liège, and of how the Gantois submitted in fear to the Duke, and were punished? The people secretly blamed their own leaders, but did nothing about it. Not then. Now they feel they have the power to vent their anger, and have done. All those who held office in ’sixty-eight have lost their lives. My son was not touched, but a man of your family, John Sersanders, was among those who died. No one close. I don’t think you ever knew him. But a Sersanders.’

  He stopped. Kathi said, ‘No. I didn’t know him.’ Ghent was where she and her brother had been born. It was where all the Sersanderses lived, that radical family into which Anselm Adorne’s sister had married. Her own parents were dead, and her brother now living in Scotland. But there was a Sersanders house in Ghent. She had lent it to Nicholas once. Before Nancy. She said, ‘But perhaps he was someone you knew? Had you met him?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘He was on the council. Outspoken, of course, like your father, but he didn’t deserve that. I mourn him, but I mourn still more what is happening.’ He looked up and spoke with a vehemence that came close to savagery. ‘I wish you were in Scotland. I wish your husband would come. I have sent again to ask about the delay, but nothing happens.’

  ‘The weather,’ Kathi said. ‘But look. Those were Gantois. This sort of madness doesn’t happen with Brugeois. You served the Duke, all of you, but you fought for the town and its rights.’

  ‘So did the men who ran Ghent,’ her uncle said. ‘No. It will settle, so long as nothing hasty is done. There has to be some central control; it is too large to leave solely to the Estates of the regions, when there are all these competing and disparate states. Brabant, Flanders, Hainault, Namur, Holland, Artois, Zeeland—think how different they are
. At the very least, the countryside mustn’t suffer because of the power of the towns and the guilds. On the other hand, the central authority must work to be accepted; must be seen to be just, and to be able to defend the states from their enemies. It takes time. But we shall manage.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Kathi said. ‘Meanwhile, commonsense suggests that you should leave for Scotland, not me. Have you thought of it?’

  ‘No,’ said Adorne. ‘This is where I am needed. And indeed, I couldn’t go if I wished: there are no safe conducts for burgh officials.’

  ‘You are a prisoner?’ Kathi said.

  ‘Do I look like one?’ said Anselm Adorne. ‘Or Hugonet, or anyone else? No. Our master has gone; there is a vacuum, or what is perceived as one; and we remain, men of another régime, answerable to an inexperienced girl. We must stay till our place is decided.’

  ‘As it was decided for John Sersanders?’ Kathi said. ‘If you won’t leave, I’m going to call Nicholas back.’

  ‘To take which side?’ Adorne said. ‘What he is doing just now is creating a refuge fit for his wife, and for you and your family, eventually. Do you want to condemn Robin to what is happening in Ghent, or in Bruges?’

  ‘Ghent or Bruges may not let Robin leave,’ Kathi said. ‘He is a Sersanders by marriage.’

  There was a pause. ‘That is true,’ Adorne said. ‘But they will surely allow him a Scots convalescence? You will sail as soon as he comes. I will hear no refusal: I will put you on board with the children myself. As for me, this is the house and the church I have built. This is the country where my family has lived and been respected for two hundred years. This is where I will die.’

  Chapter 3

  Suld God haue maid thi cors in quantité

  Lyke to thi will and thi desyr to be,

  So large of persone suthlie suld thow bene

  That all this warld suld nocht thi cors contene.

  IN SCOTLAND, IT pleased Nicholas de Fleury to make his public entry into the King’s town of Edinburgh in a royal cavalcade, passing up the incline of Leith Wynd, and turning his back on the house of Archie of Berecrofts and Anselm Sersanders in order to pass through the portals that led to the High Street. The banner of Scotland flew above him, and at his side rode Alexander of Albany, the King’s brother, curtly conversing. Jamie Liddell, politely silent, rode behind him.

  As they progressed, Nicholas kept seeing faces he knew. A goldsmith. A shipmaster. A chorister from Trinity College. A man who sold fishhooks. A man who made traps for devils. As with a person drowning, he appeared to be compulsorily reviewing his past, while all the time attending to Albany’s disjointed discourse.

  Albany hoped (he said) that de Fleury observed the changes since his last visit—the well-built houses on either side, some of them tiled, and with chimneys. They were better served, too, with royal merchants: Yare and the Prestons and Scheves brought in (he mentioned) all they could want, so that he trusted de Fleury would not rely too much on his favour. They had the dowry arriving, of course, from the young Prince’s marriage contract with England, although that would be offset when—’

  ‘… When?’ prompted Nicholas, a little late.

  ‘… when Meg’s—when the lady Margaret’s future is settled. My brother and I are concerned. There are those who wish to see her married in England.’

  Albany had spent some enforced time in London as a boy. Some royal prisoners hated it; some looked back on it in a delirium of nostalgia and envy. Nicholas said, ‘What does she want?’

  ‘She despises England, as I do,’ said Albany. ‘I want you to speak to James, and to Mary.’

  Christ. A nobleman with two servants glanced up and then stopped, looking surprised. Nicholas couldn’t remember who he was. They had come to the open grassland around St Giles, and would soon reach the West Bow, and the domiciles opposite, which had once housed the family St Pol, and sometimes sheltered an elderly lady of whom he was deeply afraid.

  Nicholas said, ‘My lord, I shall be glad to help, if you think they will listen to me. The King has changed, I am told.’

  ‘You know how to entertain him,’ Albany said. ‘Talk to him. Put on a play. Bring him a fine hat, or a horse. Then tell him not to trust England.’

  He was dreaming. They were riding in public, with their escort about them, and Sandy’s fractious voice rising and falling. To be fair, it was not audible to anyone else, except perhaps Sir James Liddell, his henchman. It was the lack of commonsense that made Nicholas nervous. It continued until they had climbed the long slope to the Castle and had been saluted within, to hand over their horses and scale the steep flight of steps that took them close to the crown of the vast, uneven plateau that contained the fortress and brooded over the loch and the town far below. The King lodged in David’s Tower, the new keep that had been building when Nicholas had promoted the crazy ball game on the walls that had nearly killed that courageous young acrobat who, swarming up the tower, had risked his life to protect Nicholas. An acrobat whose career was to finish by twenty.

  At the top, the buildings were handsome enough. Painted, gilded, with their coats of arms and decorative windows, they outshone anything in the town below, except the Abbey. Only if you knew Rome or Florence, Bruges or Venice would you praise such things carefully, for there were other men here who had travelled, and who were listening out, seething, for patronage. Someone had been sent ahead, and men had gathered, it seemed, in the audience chamber. A page came to seek Sandy and deliver a message, bowing to Nicholas; and Sandy touched Nicholas on the arm. ‘James wants to see you at once. I told you he would.’

  Even then, Nicholas thought it was all going according to plan, and he was partly right. To reach the chamber they had to climb a steep stair, and then pass through a couple of antechambers. He had not heard, until he saw the Archers lining the walls, that the King had reconstituted the Royal Guard, portentously established some years ago. It had lapsed, partly because of expense and partly because younger sons preferred to join the King’s Archers in France, where the wages, the living and the opportunities were all very much plumper. Captains such as Stewart of Aubigny—or Jordan de St Pol—might end up with estates, although they might not always keep them. Others, such as Wodman, or David de Salmeton, now reverted to Simpson, returned with well-filled coffers to sell their training and knowledge in the business world. Behind and below the years of Franco-Scottish pacts and alliances, there had always been a two-way secret underground traffic between the young exiled Archers and the noble families which one day they would rejoin. Well advised of the danger, and the opportunity, Louis of France was lavish with his money and honours. But then he also required the protection of his Guard, which James of Scotland did not.

  The faces, then, beneath the matched feathered bonnets, not quite new, and the livery tunics over the handsome half-armour, were of men largely of middle years, and from families all over Scotland: fair Campbells with their close-set blue eyes; handsome Erskines from Stirling. Stewart kinsmen: men from the Lennox, related to Darnley and Avandale and the King. The captain, Guthrie, whom Nicholas remembered as a noble administrator, and far from being a veteran of the field. Little George Bell, once of the King’s chamber, whom he also remembered. And one member who was more than handsome: whose beauty of feature would have made him remarkable, even had he not broken the rule and turned his eyes as Nicholas walked up with Albany. Turned, for an instant, his long-lashed, magnificent eyes.

  Nicholas slowed, but did not stop. He had thought of nothing else all through the night, but he didn’t stop, and his schooled face remained faintly smiling. He could do nothing now. He had the King to handle, in whatever mood he might find him today.

  THE KING, TO begin with, was upset. He had planned to go hunting, and instead the man he generally obeyed had come to invite him to get up because his kinsman Charles, Duke of Burgundy, was dead, and there were urgent matters to discuss. He had actually risen, and got three of his councillors into the room, because he already knew
how important it was, from all the rumours he had tried to ignore. Also, Master Whitelaw wore his thoughtful face, which, as a boy, the King had ignored at his peril.

  Master Whitelaw, Royal Secretary, had served James’s father and, for long years of dire educational hardship, had been tutor to the young James himself. He was the sort of man who often spoke inadvertently in Latin. Colin Campbell, of course, often spoke inadvertently in Gaelic, but the King’s sisters thought the Master of his Household exotic, with his wild Highland clansmen and his ice-cold legal mind. The third councillor who entered James’s chamber was, of course, his own kinsman Drew Stewart of Avandale, who used the family patois in private, and who had been Chancellor to James’s father as well as to himself. Sometimes it seemed to James that he had been conceived in a masculine womb instead of a feminine one, and that he was still in it. Sometimes he rebelled.

  Now they were telling him of the various possible consequences of the Duke’s death, and how they might affect Scotland’s political relations with France, and her trade relations with Flanders, and the management of the present welcome truce with England. He had his own ideas about all of that, and they listened to them, as they always did (as they ought to do), and praised their acuity, and discussed them. The consensus was that before planning further, more exact detail was needed, and that this might be got from a Burgundian who had just arrived back in Scotland. Did his grace recall Nicholas de Fleury?

  At first he resented being reminded of Nicol de Fleury, who had behaved like a friend, or rather a discerning subject, and then had disappeared. Indeed, to his recollection, his advice had often been faulty.

  Drew said, ‘I am afraid that is true, and he knows it. I should take it as a sign of humility that he has returned at all. I gather he does not intend to stay long.’

  ‘I see,’ the King had said. ‘Then, in that case, we shall see him. Briefly.’