Gemini

  Now, in visiting Bonne, Adorne was minded to perform a service for Nicholas de Fleury if he could. They had been at odds in the past, with good reason; but now, all that was done. He braced himself a little.

  Bonne, the subject of dutiful visits from M. de Fleury, but few from her stepfather Julius, was flatteringly grateful to have the company of a well-born, worldly-wise man who could speak of Flanders and Germany. ‘Would you prefer to go back?’ Adorne asked.

  Encountered outside the cloister, Bonne von Hanseyck was a handsome girl, solidly built, with well-brushed brown hair and a sharp blue gaze which might disconcert weaker mortals. She said, ‘I think not. As someone pointed out, my presumed father’s family have shown no eagerness to accept me. I begin to fear I am unclaimed goods, like M. de Fleury.’

  ‘He has managed well enough,’ said Anselm Adorne. ‘Enough at least to have time and money to set aside for someone carrying his mother’s name. But it would spare him, of course, if you knew who your real father might be. You are less sure that it might be the Graf? Is there nothing you can remember?’

  He listened. It had never been easy to piece together Bonne’s past. Once, her self-proclaimed mother Adelina had professed that Bonne was the daughter of Marian, Nicholas’s first wife, born in secret and adopted and brought up by Adelina. Adorne was willing to believe that Adelina was not the mother of Bonne, but not the rest of it. All the proof, all the probability was that Marian had borne a dead child, and concealed it from Nicholas to spare him unnecessary grief. Whoever Bonne was, she had been gallantly claimed by the Graf before he married Adelina. And nothing Bonne could remember had ever explained where Adelina had found her.

  Nothing she said now added to what Adorne had already heard. Adelina had introduced Bonne as a love-child of the Graf’s when she and Julius first met. It had been in Germany, in Cologne, and Gelis, who had been there at the time, had the same impression exactly. So had Father Moriz, who had made later enquiries. After so long, no one was going to remember events in quite the same way, but in one particular they agreed: Bonne’s parents were unknown, and likely to remain so. But Nicholas, none the less, was taking the responsibility for her.

  It made Anselm Adorne think of his Efemie, who was five, and old enough now to live with her nurse in one of his houses in Linlithgow, with her cousin Saunders to entertain her. Adorne, also, came almost every day to visit his daughter, as he had omitted to do with the children who were now grown up in Bruges, and who sent him admonishing letters from convents. It was not their fault. He had been negligent. But there was the humbling example of Nicholas—Nicol—who had grown up fatherless and virtually motherless, and yet could open his heart to care for Phemie, and for everyone’s children, not just his own. When in Edinburgh, Lord Cortachy made a point of talking to young Jordan, when calling on Gelis; and spending some time in the Canongate with six-year-old Rankin, Robin’s newest trainee and heart’s joy. Rankin was never relinquished to accompany his mother’s uncle, but occasionally Adorne would borrow Margaret, the boy’s older sister, and take her to stay with Euphemia.

  His heart went out to them both: his little deaf daughter and his great-niece, just two years her senior, with her long lashes and quick smile and tapering fingers, so like his own. When, one day, he would no longer be there, he trusted his nephew Sersanders to look after them; setting aside any other entanglements he might have. But he liked to think of the two girls growing to womanhood with the infinite blessing of Nicholas’s care, and that of Katelinje. It was too late for Jan and Antoon and Arnaud and the rest, but with these children, he could make a fresh start.

  He spent some time with Bonne, and then left, having achieved, he thought, very little. But his expectations had been low. He became immersed in certain preoccupations of his own and was not necessarily delighted to hear that Prosper de Camulio of Genoa was coming to Scotland to take up his bishopric in this, the non-fighting season of winter. Adorne’s connection with Genoa was past. He had begun to think that Bruges might be behind him as well. Lodged in an alien country, itself on the edge of rebellion, he had found a place where his experience could make a difference; a kingdom he could help make effective. He had concluded, quite recently, that this was the way he wished to finish his life.

  He had also realised that he owed much of this decision to his regard for Nicol de Fleury. It was important to him that de Fleury should equally make this commitment to stay, and that he should not be impeded by any faceless threat to his safety. Adorne wished to trace the perpetrator of the slaughter at Heaton. Mistress Bel had concurred—had indeed felt uneasy enough to approach him. Kathi, when told, had been less eager to revive what had happened. Adorne had mentioned his interest to no one else. As a magistrate, he had tracked down lawless men often enough. These investigations took time and patience and dedication, but he had all of those. It was a wry atonement to Nicholas for all those well-deserved beatings, long ago.

  Nicholas himself, who would have stopped him, was at Holyrood all through October, shut off from his wife and his family; locked into the sequence of events, deadly, farcical, that he had helped set in motion. Even had he desired to leave, Albany would not have allowed it. Albany had received certain promises, and was waiting, critically, to see them carried out. Only then—when restored to all his former lands and offices, when the King had bestowed upon him his dead brother’s earldom of Mar, with more honours to come—only then did Sandy’s face lose its starkness, and his daily bouts of camaraderie with the King begin to sound natural. The King, by contrast, was losing whatever ability or willingness he once had to respond. Filled with fear and bewilderment, surrounded by men he did not trust, James did what was asked of him, quite simply, lest he be killed.

  A simulacrum of majesty was provided. The nationwide call to a December Parliament was sent out; but for lesser matters, where James lacked the Privy Seal or the Signet, he had recourse to his ring of the Unicorn which, it had to be noticed, was singularly similar to that often used by Adorne. By letters sealed with the unicorn, John, Lord Darnley, was thanked for his care of the King, at a time when His Majesty feared for his life, and he and all of his followers were exonerated from any suspicion of improper conduct. Lord Darnley was invited to depart, confiding the Castle to Governor Atholl, or his representative. Thus, with skill, the various factions of the garrison were exculpated, and could prepare to move out with impunity.

  The besiegers received separate thanks. For the faith, loyalty, love, goodwill and cordial service which the office-bearers of the burgh of Edinburgh had, with his brother Alexander, Duke of Albany, rendered His Majesty, at the peril of their lives, by freeing him from prison in the Castle of Edinburgh, His Majesty gave, granted and perpetually confirmed to them the office of sheriff within the burgh for ever, and equally their enjoyment of the customs and moneys arising from the Port of Leith. Special prizes for good behaviour seemed to appear every day: Wattie Bertram alone got a forty-pound pension for losses sustained in the King’s name, and Dod Robieson had had his lost treasure made good, and Alex Lauder, who had removed it (to order) commanded to make restitution.

  The King, it was implied, was among friends. While some had bravely detained him for his own safety, others had tried to create a climate into which the King might safely step. He was now reassuring his well-meaning captors that they would suffer no harm.

  Grindingly, all the other promises were realised. On the fourteenth day of October, the Princess Mary was given life-rent of the barony of Kilmarnock, the barony of Dalry, and other Ayrshire lands which had belonged to the Boyd family of her first husband, the same to descend in feu to her son James, second Lord Boyd. No mention was made of the fact that these belonged of right to the eldest son of the King, and were presently held by the Queen as part of her dower; or that the lands of Tealing and Polgavy, which she also received, had once belonged to Anselm Adorne.

  By the twenty-seventh of October, the King of England had made it known that he proposed to cancel the
marriage arranged between his daughter and the Prince of Scotland, and advised the town of Edinburgh that he awaited the return, as arranged, of the dowry money. The town pledged itself, in the vestibule of the church of St Giles, to fulfil its promise. At about the same time, it constituted Procurators to appear in the banks of Rome, Venice, Florence, Bruges and others following the Court of Rome, there to speak for the sum of six thousand gold ducats, on the security of Edinburgh’s income and property, in case of the promotion of Andrew Stewart, the King’s youngest half-uncle, to the Archbishopric of St Andrews. At a meeting attended by the three half-uncles and Jock Ross of Hawkhead, the future Archbishop, having at present no money or credit, promised to reimburse the town in due course.

  So the merchants, the producers, the shipmasters, the agents with their foreign credit, their kinsmen, their acumen became the kingdom’s bank and its bulwark in time of disaster.

  Plunged into the feverish company of Albany, Nicholas negotiated each day with all the skill at his command. To help him, he had his own servants and Julius, but not Sir James Liddell, who had disappeared. Newcomers from Glasgow filled Avandale’s post and that of the Clerk Register Inglis, but there were also familiar faces: those of Bishop Livingstone of Dunkeld, under whom both Inglis and Scheves had held office; and the two Archibalds, the Abbot-Treasurer and Master Secretary Whitelaw, who kept him advised about the temper and mood of the King.

  Nicholas’s first audience with James was not pleasant. Until Whitelaw intervened, in a rattle of waspish humility, Nicholas found himself regarded as a renegade who had courted Gloucester in York, who had given away Berwick, and who was in the process of wrapping up the rest of the kingdom as a present for Albany. In the end the King professed to accept that it was all done in the nation’s best interests, but he clearly still entertained doubts.

  Had he been a better actor, they could have been frank. They had hoped to be. As it was, no one dared hint that the Duke of Albany’s present ascendancy might be temporary, given certain felicitous conditions. For the moment, Sandy must be coaxed into thinking that everything he wished was now in his grasp. And, of course, he might be right. There might be no alternative. The King might end as a figurehead, while Sandy held all the power.

  Just before Nicholas left, that first time, the King had thrown him a question. ‘We are told you have seen the Queen’s grace?’

  The royal chambers at Holyrood were not large. Standing in front of the dais, Nicholas looked directly into the gaze of the King. He said, ‘I had that honour, my lord. Her highness was in the greatest anxiety. It was through her kind offices that the arrangement was made which allowed your grace to leave the Castle. I am sure others have praised her devotion.’

  ‘But you left her in Stirling?’

  Nicholas said, ‘She remains in Stirling, my lord, because it is the safest place for herself and the Prince in these changeable times.’ He tried to convey what he meant (Be thankful: she, not Albany, is the guardian of your children). He tried to conceal what had happened (Albany wants you to abdicate, but your Queen found a way to prevaricate).

  ‘You have leave,’ said the King. (Go away.)

  THE SHORT ENGLISH truce, created to cover the Duke of Gloucester’s retreat, expired at the beginning of November, and was not renewed. The King of England was not pleased with his brother, who had spent a great deal of money and achieved Berwick, which might be nice for Harry Percy, but Harry Percy didn’t have to pay for its upkeep. Edward, booming, was even less enchanted when the King of France, with whom he had had a secret truce for over a year, forgot himself and referred to it openly. Even when bed-ridden, Louis could make himself felt.

  It indicated, to the wise, that the said truce was about to come to an end. It confirmed, in Scotland, why France had let Albany go to England in the first place. It opened several possibilities for the future.

  The sweetness and light within the Abbey of Holyroodhouse became further obscured, and a messenger arrived for the Abbot, who sent for Nicholas. Surveying him, he said, ‘Are you as harassed as you look?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve been hunting all morning and trying to lose at a board game. What has happened?’ He was beyond being worried. He knew, in any case, that nothing was wrong with his friends. With an abbot as collaborator, there was little to stop a man of ingenuity from infiltrating from the Canongate into Edinburgh now and then. Otherwise he would be looking rather more harassed.

  The Abbot said, ‘Sir Oliver Sinclair has sent to ask you to visit. Sandy would allow it. It’s Roslin, not the Edinburgh house.’

  ‘Freedom!’ said Nicholas.

  ‘No. Just a day away from James and Sandy. Well, freedom,’ the Abbot agreed.

  Chapter 47

  This brother seid: I am in sic a dreid

  Off zone scharpe swerd that hingis be zone threid,

  That all blythnes in erd is reft fra me.

  I will na mair of sic a dignité!

  THE MASONS’ PART of the hamlet at Roslin was empty, but the rest of the cabins were full and busy. The Sinclairs created plenty of work, and they had just finished the fair of SS Simon and Jude, which did well, despite Jude’s being a hopeless-cause man, without much to say, you would think, to a Sinclair. Nicholas returned a few amiable greetings but continued down to the castle, passing on his left the memorable collegiate kirk, dedicated much more suitably to St Matthew, farmer of taxes.

  So the Sinclairs were rich and cheese-paring. But they also fought at the battle of Bannockburn, and signed the Declaration of Independence, and one of them had been chosen to carry the heart of Robert the Bruce to the Holy Land. The first Sinclair to cross to England from St Clairsur-Epte had fought at the Battle of Hastings under William the Conqueror, who was his cousin, and descended from the same Orkney Jarl.

  The selfsame blood had run in Phemie. You could understand why the Sinclairs had had no objection to Phemie’s courtship by the well-born knight and judge and councillor from Burgundy. To aid the king they served, they were prepared to plunder men from any culture and any country: gunners and doctors, teachers and churchmen, builders and miners and carpenters, moneyers and metal-casters. Clever agents and administrators like Sersanders and, he supposed, himself. And if they married and settled down, so much the better. Nicholas crossed the bridge and was cordially received by the chamberlain and taken to Sir Oliver Sinclair’s big chamber. Nowie rose. So did the three men sitting with him. One was Anselm Adorne. One was the young nephew Henry, whom Nicholas had last met in Orkney. And the last was Prosper Schiaffino de Camulio de’ Medici of Genoa, the newly made Bishop of Caithness, the part of north Scotland that stretched from the Pentland Firth to the Dornoch Firth, and from the west sea to the east. Caithness, of which Nowie’s younger brother was Earl, Justiciar, chamberlain and sheriff. Naturally.

  They had last met when Camulio was Papal Legate, here in Edinburgh at Blackfriars five years ago. Since then, the Legate had been in prison, had lost his Procurator David Simpson (who had probably helped to put him there), and had been ranging Europe on curial business on a route which had just failed to cross that of Nicholas three years ago in Bruges. He had, however, met the former Franciscan friar, Ludovico da Bologna. So had Nicholas, Camulio understood. What a character!

  He looked just the same, with over-rich clothes and over-smooth skin, and a sly, busy look to him that always made Nicholas feel cheerful. Adorne, behind him, looked suspiciously grave. Nicholas said, ‘Where is the Patriarch now?’ He had heard nothing since he had seen him in Cologne with Moriz.

  The Bishop sat, and so did everyone else. His robe was pure silk and his crucifix was quite glorious. He said, ‘I wish I knew. The Emperor and His Holiness had each prepared urgent tasks for him, but he failed to appear.’

  ‘He was ill?’ Nicholas said, a little sharply

  ‘Not so far as anyone knows. Unless it is a sickness—perhaps it is—to send word that you may no longer fulfil the demands of your masters, for God has called you to
do something else.’

  ‘And had he?’ said Adorne. He turned to the Sinclairs. ‘We speak of a singular priest, who has travelled the world for his faith. If the Deity deigned to address anyone, I should think Ser Ludovico da Bologna would be the man.’

  The Bishop remarked, ‘I am prepared to believe that He did, although I trust that, if so, Our Lord used the vernacular rather than Latin. The Patriarch mentioned Ethiopia.’

  ‘Ethiopia?’ Nicholas said. The young nephew—Henry—looked at him.

  The Bishop said, ‘You went there with his encouragement once? Or part of the way?’

  ‘Part of the way,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘I thought I was right. He spoke of taking another route, and doing better this time than you and the priest. I am sorry. He did not mean to be harsh. Indeed, he had set aside a memento he wished me to give you.’

  It was a stout battered rosary, clipped and mended and caulked with what appeared to be fragments of food. You could almost imagine it smelled.

  Nicholas suddenly laughed, moved by that affection which can sometimes alleviate grief. He said, ‘Oh, he meant to be harsh.’

  • • •

  WITH NOWIE FOR master, no meeting ever wasted too much time on the personal. The first time Nicholas had ever met Camulio, over an alum deal, had been in Bruges, long before Africa, and had taken place during the last days Nicholas had been vouchsafed with Marian, his first wife. Camulio had known Adorne and Julius then, and had brought messages for them both from Genoa and Bologna, and news of Gregorio in Venice, and Tommaso Portinari and Maria and the six children, struggling to survive without their Medici credit; and, of course, from Diniz and Tilde and their family in Bruges, whence he had just come. These he was allowed to deliver, and some account of his journey. Then Nowie stepped in, with an interrogation which found an equally ready response.