Gemini

  He was not required to arrange much in the way of festivities: this was to be a Christmas of pronounced spirituality, involving grand ceremonial, and conveying the Court from the Abbey of Holyroodhouse to the Church of the Holy Trinity, and from the kirk of St Giles back to the Castle. The community, impressed and disappointed at once, began to suspect that the mummers and singers of January were about to be banned, and the Uphaly Day guisers done down. Nicholas carried their objections to what he called the medical diwan, the rule of Tobie and Andreas which presently controlled all he and everyone else did.

  The rivalry between the two doctors was long over, although they still disagreed. Primed by late, companionable sessions in their room, Nicholas had revived what Arab medicine had taught him of uroscopy. From the beginning, a glance at Tobie’s face had been enough.

  ‘Inopos?’

  ‘Pure liver-colour. You are right. The anxiety of the present situation is provoking the illness. The King is not well.’

  He had not been well since Lauder. A strong man, by now, would be feeling the strain. The King’s painful, recurring sickness was tightening its grip. Nicholas said, ‘Would he retire to bed? Or is that undesirable?’

  ‘It is undesirable in that rumour will at once have him dying,’ Andreas said. ‘We are already hearing gossip since Dunkeld became unwell, and now Laing. If it isn’t pestilence, then it’s poison.’

  ‘Could it be either?’ Nicholas said. The answer was no; but that didn’t solve anything. He thought of Craigmillar. He said, ‘I think, all the same, I’ll get Sandy’s food and drink tasted, and the King’s. That should stop any false accusations, or real ones, for that matter. Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘Have your own food tasted,’ said Tobie.

  Nicholas stared at him. ‘Well, of course. If someone wants to kill the King or his brother, then clearly I’m next. Everyone will appreciate that.’

  ‘I didn’t say,’ said Tobie, ‘that it would be for the same reason, or that you should take precautions in public. Your pendulum would tell you. You’ve used it for poison before. You’ve used it for other things that maybe you ought to return to. We need all the help we can get.’

  ‘But not that kind,’ said Andreas. ‘I agree with Nicholas. Let the pendulum rest.’

  He would not say why, and Tobie dropped the subject, annoyed. To begin with, Nicholas too preferred to leave it alone. Then he changed his mind and sought out the astrologer. ‘Will you tell me why?’

  As always, Andreas of Vesalia had no air about him of mystery; no hint of the occult in his large-hewn, positive face or garrulous tongue; nor in his romantic history, about which gossip was rife. But he took the question seriously enough—more seriously indeed than Nicholas expected.

  ‘Why do I think you shouldn’t divine? Because in ordinary hands, the wand or the pendulum are just tools, but sometimes they are more. It seemed to me that you were in danger of becoming the possessed rather than the possessor: the moments of dislocation were increasing. For any good you might do, you might harm yourself more. I should leave it.’

  ‘Of dislocation?’ Nicholas repeated.

  Andreas looked at him. ‘You told me once. Gelis also described it. You see something familiar that cannot be familiar, for you have never been there before. Does that still happen?’

  ‘No. Or hardly ever,’ Nicholas said. He had just realised it.

  ‘No. And you do not want to encourage it,’ said Andreas.

  He said, ‘Why not?’ Bel had talked about fear. He felt fear now. He added, ‘Is it because the events I thought I saw—the fires, the terror, the deaths—were all about to happen to me? None of them has.’

  ‘I have been wondering,’ Andreas said. ‘It seemed to me that what you were seeing was not your own life, but another’s. I was concerned enough to go further. My conclusion so far is the same as your own. The moments of great emotion are not yours, but belong to some other person. You may not even know who it is. They may live in the past or the future. But they must be related. No other bond could be as strong as this one must be.’

  He waited. Andreas was good at waiting, when he thought it worth while. Nicholas drew a long breath. Then he said, ‘Might it be the lady my mother?’

  The astrologer looked at him, not without sympathy. He said, ‘You would like to think so? But do the experiences match? That lady lived most of her life in one place. These happenings indicate many different scenes, some of them violent; or so your friends say. There must be many more that only you know of. Was this the life of Sophie de Fleury?’

  No, it wasn’t. It fitted no one he knew. The mind he had felt behind all these random, formidable pulses was not that of a woman. He saw that now. It was a man’s.

  Then he thought of Umar, and was transformed, until he saw that that was impossible, too. The long, polished library table, the swooping eagle, had no place in the life of a European slave, or an African judge. Whoever it was, the sender was not in his present life. He could not be reached, and the unconscious messages, whatever their source, would now fade.

  Instead of fear, Nicholas felt desolation. He said suddenly, ‘Perhaps I should use the pendulum. It detects poisons. It told us about Robin.’

  Then Andreas stood up and said, ‘Nicholas. This is dangerous. Dangerous for you, and perhaps even for the sender, whoever or whatever he is. Leave the pendulum. Appoint me your surrogate. Let me use what arts I have. When I have the answer, whatever it is, I promise to tell you.’

  Nicholas said, ‘Whatever it is? Good or bad?’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Andreas.

  THEN IT ALL came to an end, because of Leithie Preston.

  THOUGHTLESSLY AGGRESSIVE AS he had always been, Leithie himself would have enjoyed it. No one else did. For all their elaborate preparations, no one expected it. As the Day of the Nativity approached and then dawned, it seemed to all those charged with the safety of the kingdom—the legislators, the controllers, the administrators, the men who had not experienced normal life for six months—that the reverence and joy of the season had brought its own temporary peace, overlaying anger and fear and resentment with its solemn language and slow, familiar rituals. The calm face of the Church moved through the streets and into great chambers; men listened, and prayed. Nowie Sinclair, who had brokered the deal, was not even present when Pate Leitch, Alex Inglis’s successor, crossed to the King as he changed dress in his chambers in David’s Tower, and reminded him that Ruthven and his son required to get back to St Johnstoun of Perth, and there was a charter to sign.

  It was a moment when the three uncles were absent, but Chancellor Laing could be reached with the Great Seal, and there were enough people for witnesses—Constable Erroll, the King’s friend Davie Lindsay, now Household Controller, and three or four others, including a peely-wally James of Dunkeld. Master Whitelaw had a table brought in. Pate Leitch, a Paris-educated man, had been Rector of the University there sixteen years ago and, despite his crisp style, was on good terms with the King, as were most of the men there, including the beneficiary. James knew the laird of Ruthven of old, and his son, and the charter was simple enough, handing back to young Ruthven land that the father had once leased to the late Thomas Preston, known as Leithie.

  It seemed to James, then and now, that both Cochrane and Preston had deserved commendation, not forfeiture. They had been trying to march with the guns and save Berwick. He was not supposed to say so aloud. His limbs were aching; he had just swallowed the latest of several libations to soothe them, and he felt like saying so aloud. It came out with satisfactory vehemence, perhaps because his brother Sandy had just entered the room. James lifted the parchment and waved it at Ruthven. ‘Do you need this land, Will? Do you? I say, let it go to Tom Preston’s widow and son. Cochrane, the best Constable I ever had at Kildrummy. And Preston: brave man, brave man. They didn’t turn on their sovereign lord and put him in prison.’

  Master Whitelaw, pen in hand, gazed at the King over his spectacles. ??
?No, my lord, they didn’t. They did what they thought was for the best. But the rest of us knew that you would have been captured or killed by the English. It was my lord of Albany there who saved us all by crossing back to your side, and hastening the English army out of the realm. The Preston family have had their reward, and will never notice the loss of Middle Pitcairn. Whereas it’s in the middle of the barony of Ruthven and ought rightly to return there, as your grace will remember. Here’s the pen.’

  The grating voice, pitched in the way it had been pitched for the last twenty years, saying, ‘I told you. Remember?’

  He supposed he did remember. If it came to war, the Prestons would fight against England, no matter what. So indeed would the Ruthvens, but, given their strategic connections, a little extra encouragement was being offered. He put down the parchment and stared at it, unwilling to appear to give in. Sandy, leaning over his shoulder, said, ‘Come on, James. Shall I sign it after you?’ He smelled of wine, and spoke in a way that brought back their boyhood. It was Christmas Day, after all. His brother was here, and his sisters not far away. They had all been to the Abbey; it was time for eating and drinking and dancing, not for huddling over a board stinking of ink and vellum and wax.

  He had better sign it. The men standing behind him, in discreet low conversation, were waiting to add their own names. The King dipped the pen he was given, wrote his name and rose, leaving seat and pen to the others. Across the room, his gentleman waited with his hat and great robe. His jewelled collar lay on a chest, with a folded packet lying across it. He picked up the paper and opened it, while they were dressing him.

  At the table, the Chancellor’s clerk dusted the last of the signatures, and the Lord Clerk Register and Master Secretary Whitelaw shared a glance of mild satisfaction. Sandy Albany and the Bishops shook William Ruthven and his son by the hand, and the older Ruthven was slapped on the back by his kinsman by marriage, Earl Davie. They waited, as courtiers must, for the King, whom they could see, standing motionless, now attired in his robe. Then he started to move. He came towards them, his mouth open, his face red, his gown surging behind him, crashing between stools, chests and chairs and oversetting the table in a great swathe of glistening ink. Then, sweeping up to Albany, the King knocked his brother to the ground and, standing over him shouting, kicked his half-dazed body until his toe was red with his blood.

  By the time the doctors were there, Crawford and Erroll and Borthwick had pulled back the King, and Kennedy and Leitch had lifted Albany and prevented him, as he recovered, from rushing in his turn upon his brother. The words the King was shouting were incoherent, but the paper crushed in his hand was quite explicit. The doctors recognised it, because they had privileged information, as had Master Whitelaw, and Nicholas de Fleury, sent for and arriving at speed. Sandy Albany himself knew it better than anybody:

  The Duke of Albany, styling himself Alexander, King of Scotland, promises to do homage to the King of England when he obtains his realm of Scotland, to break the alliance between Scotland and France, and to surrender the town and castle of Berwick within fourteen days after entering Edinburgh.

  It was the first of the treaties signed at Fotheringhay Castle in June, before the army of the Duke of Gloucester marched upon Scotland. Below it was the second, detailing the Scottish lands the King of England would acquire, and offering Albany his daughter Cecilia.

  James, his arms held, had fallen into a chair and was choking with laughter. ‘What did you say? It was my lord of Albany there who saved us all by crossing back to your side. Oh, he saved us all. He crossed back to kill me. He crossed back to take the crown. He crossed back to become a vassal of England, and give England whatever she wanted. Kill him.’

  You could see Sandy, his face bleeding, fighting his rage. He said, ‘They are forgeries.’

  He was looking at Nicholas. And Nicholas, steadily returning the look, said, ‘My lord Duke, forgive me. I know, as you do, that they are not forgeries, but a promise exacted from you, which you did not intend to keep.’

  Albany’s lips opened, but he did not speak. The King said, ‘You knew? De Fleury, you knew and said nothing?’

  James was shivering. Tobie released him, and glanced at Andreas. Someone—Whitelaw—made a movement. Nicholas said, ‘I said nothing because it was only one of many plots and counterplots. To publish them all would have done nothing but cause alarm. In the event, my lord Duke did make it possible for the English army to leave Scotland without greater damage. Nothing could have saved Berwick.’

  ‘So you say,’ said the King. ‘And now he is here, he will be content to be Duke of Albany? Or does he not plan still to become Alexander Rex?’

  ‘Your grace must ask him,’ said Nicholas. He sounded calm and reliable. Tobie, kneeling by the sick King and waiting for the next outburst from the Prince his brother, thought of Johndie Mar, and all that Nicholas, with his patience and self-control, had done and tried to do for this family. If ever a man had made good his mistakes, it was this one. And he was taking the blame. Whatever the King might suspect, he must not have his confidence in his senior ministers destroyed. And, somehow, an illusion about Albany must be maintained, if humanly possible. Anything that would stop civil war. Or nearly anything.

  Sandy Albany didn’t have either patience or self-control. He stared at his brother and turned. ‘You want that madman James for a King? When he killed my brother? When you saw him try to kill me? I beg your pardon, but you must excuse me from serving him. I am going to my own. If you want me, send for me.’

  He waited, breathing quickly, until the King, shouting, had again been restrained, and then turned and limped to the door. The ushers stepped in his way, but Nicholas came between them and took Albany by the arm. ‘Let me come.’

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the Chancellor nodded, the doorway cleared, and the Prince handed himself through, half-supported by Nicholas, and stumbled down to the open air, and his servants. There, he shook himself free and stood, swaying. His lips were tight, as if they wanted to shake. ‘Well, de Fleury? On both sides as usual. What do you want?’

  ‘To serve you both,’ Nicholas said.

  Albany looked at him. ‘No. You must choose. A future King, or a killer.’

  ‘I see neither here,’ Nicholas said. ‘I see a sick King and his brother, who could help him. I see a sick country, with the means of healing at hand.’

  ‘What do you know of us? You are a Burgundian,’ the Duke of Albany said. He mounted and left, with his men, and without looking round.

  Within a matter of days, every trace of the Duke of Albany’s presence had vanished from Edinburgh, as had all his supporters, among whom was Lord Home’s grandson Alexander, bailie of Gordon. By the time December came to an end, the kingdom had two centres of power. One, occupied by the King, was the burgh of Edinburgh and its suburbs. The other, occupied by his brother, was the castle of the Earls of March at Dunbar, massively fortified, and blessed with daily increments to its company, as Albany was joined by Lord Crichton and Douglas of Morton, Lord Grey and Alex Home, Archibald Angus, together with Applegarth and the Tantallon Douglases, and finally by young Jamie Boyd and his great-uncle Hearty James Buchan. In recent days, such men had lingered at home, but now conscience called. Three years ago, aided by witchcraft and abetted by the Burgundians and their doctors, this half-crazed King had killed Johndie Mar. Now it had happened again. Now all the world knew how, desecrating the holiest feast of the year, the King had attempted—had vowed—to murder his one remaining brother, and the hope of the kingdom.

  In reply to which, there was only one really popular solution.

  THE PRIORESS OF Eccles, at present in the convent of North Berwick, wrote to Anselm Adorne’s niece, inviting her to bring her children for a short stay, away from the distress and anxiety of the burgh. The shipmaster Mick Crackbene offered to transport the demoiselle Katelinje and her baggage by sea, provided the January weather allowed. It was a very short distance. Accepting, Kathi decid
ed to bring Margaret and Rankin, leaving four-year-old Hob behind with his nurse and his father, who, after hesitation, had firmly agreed that she should go. To help her, she took two good-hearted maids and—at the suggestion of Gelis—the willing person of young Jordan de Fleury.

  By then, the winter snow had begun, and the country, to those who had time to look at it, became singularly beautiful, rather like the fields around Nancy.

  Chapter 49

  Without iustice quhat is a kinrik than

  Bot thift and reif with foull slauchter of man?

  AFTER JORDAN HAD gone, Gelis closed her residence and moved to the Canongate, where the House of Niccolò and the Floory Land had become one.

  As in the great moments of crisis in the Bank, no one touched or importuned Nicholas for three weeks, as he moved about after Albany’s departure from Adorne’s house to the Castle, and from there to the secret houses in the burgh where the inner Council and burgesses met, unknown to the King. From there, Nicholas always returned to the Canongate for, as statesmen resorted to him, so he made use of the combined experience of the men who had set him this trial and then, by following him, had adjudged him to have passed.

  These days, the connecting door to the Berecrofts house stood permanently open. Robin had brought his remaining family to live there, for the present, with his father. Occasionally Sersanders, Kathi’s brother, visited from Linlithgow. Since Kathi left, Tobie and Clémence had also crossed the road to become part of the group in the Floory Land upon whom Nicholas would descend at untoward hours, rarely sitting; more often ranging round the room, eating, talking, listening. They argued as they had always argued: John and Julius and Tobie, Moriz and Gelis, to whom no one made concessions because of her sex. Sometimes Wodman would join them from Adorne’s house.