‘Sooner than soon,’ said the young woman. ‘Jordan is up on the roof, and I suspect Rankin is trying to join him.’
‘Sooner than soon indeed,’ de Fleury said.
The door burst open upon his son, streaked with peat-soot. His son exclaimed, ‘Father! It’s Master Julius, covered in blood; and Monseigneur de St Pol of Kilmirren is riding beside him!’
‘Ah,’ said de Fleury. The girl looked at him, but he was gazing at Adorne. De Fleury said, ‘It sounds as if they’re in trouble. How fortunate that we are still here to help them.’
• • •
FAMILIAR WITH THE detritus of battle, the nuns were not shocked, but dealt efficiently with the wounds of the handsome man with the slanting eyes and pleased smile, by name Master Julius. He was in better shape in some ways than the lord of Kilmirren who, though unhurt, was not of the age or the build for strenuous skirmishes. He had been on his way to the Priory with a troop led by Lord Home’s own grandson, he said, when they had been attacked by a superior force from Dunbar. Master Julius (a lawyer) had been travelling with the Homes for security, and managed to get himself and the old man away. The rest had been captured.
‘Really?’ said M. de Fleury, who had lain in contented repose in the window-seat ever since the two gentlemen were brought in. ‘Couldn’t you save them, too, Julius? You mean Alex Home is now back in Dunbar, a prisoner of his own former master, and facing all those men he threw over when he crossed to the King? That was unkind.’
‘I felt unkind,’ said the lawyer. He was testing his arm-sling and smiling. ‘I think, like you, that he had a hand in what happened at Lauder. Anyway, it’s over. Reverend Mother, Sisters, how can I thank you?’
The ladies withdrew, with reluctance, leaving the gentlemen to their affairs. Some expected the demoiselle to depart also, but she remained by her uncle, who had seated himself beside the fat lord. The old man, almost recovered, was staring at M. de Fleury, who gazed tranquilly back. M. de Fleury said, ‘I hope you thanked Julius. You threw him out last time you met.’
‘It was a mistake,’ the lord of Kilmirren said.
The door closed. Inside, no one spoke for a moment. Then Anselm Adorne said, ‘We are glad to see you both safe, but perhaps we ought to be quick. My lord, why were the Homes coming here? Do you know?’
Kilmirren stirred. In his mid-seventies, he no longer wore armour. His only protection today had been a jerkin of leather beneath his jacket and cloak, and a helm on his head, which he had taken off, leaving a strapped cap beneath, set into the descending cataract of his jowls. His dress was stained, and his chest rose and fell still with hard breathing. Julius, encountered by chance, was dressed more for hunting than battle, and his sword-cuts were all on his arm.
Kilmirren said, ‘Fortunately, I can tell you all that Home could. Albany is renewing his service to England. Avandale suggests you go to Whitekirk tomorrow, but the chances of an agreement are slighter than they once were.’
He expounded, with concision. It came to Kathi that she had often heard his voice raised in mockery, or provocation, or with some lancing taunt, but never in the mode he must have used all his days as a skilled commander; as a minister whose advice King Louis, of all men, respected. It struck her to wonder whether half the mischief in his life had not sprung from boredom. Then she recalled the days when he controlled his own merchant fleet; when he secretly ran the great company called the Vatachino, which he created to crush and shame Nicholas. He had been just as cruel, then.
She listened, pondering on what he was saying. Liddell, the moderate man, was now absent in London. It confirmed Crackbene’s impression that Liddell had no direct hand in the campaign against Nicholas: he was not managing the affairs here of some unknown and vindictive cousin. Liddell’s absence also helped to explain Sandy’s aggression. The foray against Alex Home, just before Whitekirk, had not been wise. Liddell would have advised Sandy against it.
Absent, too, was Bell-the-Cat Angus; but he had lost political courage after his gesture at Lauder, and his personal backing for Albany might not have been fierce, had he stayed. The same couldn’t be said of his unruly, leaderless Douglases, now filling his fort of Tantallon. And Tantallon was close. The red, cliff-top bulk of Tantallon was here, on the doorstep; three miles from where they were sitting, and closer to Whitekirk than that.
Applegarth. Someone was mentioning the name. Nicholas, in course of pursuing some point with Kilmirren. His voice throughout was neutral. The last time they met, he had just come from Kelso, and the fat man had spurned him. ‘Monseigneur, why were you here with the Homes?’
And the fat man answered. ‘Shall I tell you? Yes. I am here to do what the Crown is afraid to do: to uncover the man who plotted against my son and my grandson, and kill him. I know his name.’ He turned to Adorne. ‘You fear I shall upset the delicate balance tomorrow. I shall not. I shall seek this man out myself, when you have gone. Dunbar is full of informers.’
He hadn’t mentioned a name. Nicholas did. Nicholas said, ‘Applegarth is in Tantallon.’
There was a little silence. The fat man said, ‘How do you know?’
And Nicholas said, ‘North Berwick is also full of informers.’
There was another silence. ‘But you will not touch him,’ the fat man said, speaking distinctly. ‘You will not help him escape me, you will not take him prisoner, you will not kill him. He is mine.’
A third person spoke. ‘I would kill him,’ he said. ‘He lied to Henry. He called my father a traitor.’
Jordan. Jordan, Kathi saw with a pang, standing defiantly before the obese, elderly man as a much younger child had once stood, in scratched silver armour, defending his family. In the window, Nicholas had stiffened. Now he must be thinking as she did. How much had Jordan overheard, guessed, been carelessly told?
The yellowed eyes stared at the grey. Kilmirren said, ‘And how many men have you killed?’
Jordan’s gaze did not move. He said, ‘As many as Monseigneur, perhaps, at the same age.’
‘And,’ said St Pol of Kilmirren, ‘you imagine you could kill a man more successfully than I?’
‘I have your son’s sword,’ Jordan said.
There was another space. She could not look at Nicholas. At length: ‘I remember. Perhaps that was another mistake,’ Kilmirren remarked. ‘Perhaps one day you will challenge me with it. Shall I take it back?’
‘If my lord wishes,’ Jordan said. He had brought it with him, Kathi knew. He slept with it over his bed
‘No. You will have blunted it,’ Kilmirren said. ‘So let us return to men’s affairs. Cortachy, what is your plan for tomorrow?’ She wondered what her uncle would do; but he simply looked at the other man quietly, and spoke.
What he said was not welcome. Kilmirren had been in no doubt that Adorne, abetted by Nicholas, proposed to trap and kill the Duke of Albany by some superb act of Burgundian villainy. He found it beyond all belief that there should be no plan at all, and that Adorne meant to do just as he promised. It was perhaps the presence of Camulio that made the lack of deceit so unlikely.
She registered all of that, but her heart and soul were with Nicholas, who had stretched out his arm and taken his son to sit beside him.
THE ULTIMATE SUPPER (as her uncle wryly named it) was simple but stately, the two inadvertent guests being outshone by the splendour of the Bishop, not to mention the King’s other envoys, attired in the Court dress and chains they would be wearing tomorrow at Whitekirk. The Prioresses, returning the courtesy, were dressed in long, simple robes of double Caspian silk, with some important ecclesiastical jewellery. Kathi just wore her best.
Sitting next to her, Nicholas duly admired it. He added, ‘Are you fasting from fright, or from religious conviction?’
She hadn’t spoken to him since Jordan’s outburst. As soon as the conference finished, the old man had gone off to rest, and Crackbene and Nicholas had been locked in discussion with Julius. Adorne had gone to walk in the cloisters with the Genoe
se bishop. She knew that his faith gave him relief, and was glad. For herself, she had just spent a vociferous two hours in fierce games with Rankin, ending in an attempt to steer him towards bed. Margaret, as ever, was more successful with her winsome sibling than anyone. Vying with her two handsome children, one a Berecrofts, one an Adorne, Kathi refused to admit to cowardice. But certainly she had come to receive comfort from them, rather than give it.
Nicholas guessed as much, of course; hence his present bland question. She was fasting from fright. She suspected that the vast calm of Nicholas also covered something other than lethargy. She said bluntly, ‘I don’t like tonight, and I can’t stand the thought of what is going to happen tomorrow. And now you have St Pol to think about as well.’
‘He could be an asset,’ Nicholas said. ‘If there was an attack after we’d gone, for example. He’ll be here, and the soldiers, and Crackbene. And Jordan isn’t bad, or at least his master-at-arms cost enough. Do you remember the provision cellars, the ones Prospero investigated today?’ Perversely, he was answering as if she were afraid for herself.
She stared at him. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been here? Is there a blade of grass that has escaped me?’
‘Don’t pretend: you’ve enjoyed it. If anything awkward does happen, you should take the children to one of those vaults. They’re locked and barred, and no one could easily see you. And there’s plenty of food. Casks of wine and bags of raisins for weeks.’
‘So Dame Euphemia said. It was one of the first things she suggested,’ Kathi said. She watched his face. ‘That worries you?’
‘Not necessarily. She came here from Eccles because someone thought she was spying,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Bishop her brother lived with the young Sandy in Bruges. But in other ways, as you’ve mentioned, she’s been helpful.’
Kathi gazed at him. ‘She should be. She’s one of Efemie’s godmothers,’ she said. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, and gave a grunt halfway between appreciation and laughter. The Prioress, who had been watching them, sent him a sardonic smile, but no more. Nor did she impose herself on them when, at the end of the meal, her six principal guests resorted to the day-room they had been given to make their final plans before morning. Kathi returned to her children, stopping on the way to reconnoitre the cellars. There were four, and their doors gave on to the garth. The keys, trustingly, were all in the locks. She left them there, but noted the cell she would choose. It was a precaution. She was not afraid of what might happen after Nicholas and her uncle had gone. She was blinded with terror and pain over what Nicholas and her uncle would be facing at Whitekirk, tomorrow.
OUTSIDE, THE SNOW gleamed in the dark. Behind the kirk and cloister of St Mary’s, North Berwick, six hundred feet up on the Law, Crackbene’s lookout saw the stirring of movement beyond the Heugh, but at first put it down to stray sheep. A moment later, he grasped that he was looking at a large force of armed foot-soldiers in white, travelling in the direction of the Priory, and accompanied by some twenty white-shrouded cavalry, their harness muffled and their hooves silenced by snow. He leaped to raise the alarm, but the advance scouts had climbed the hill earlier, and attacked him from behind. A moment later, and he was lifeless. A dog barked, and then stopped. The other animals had already been silenced. The troop, of two hundred foot and eighteen cavalry, was composed of Douglases and other men who called themselves supporters of Albany. It included John Douglas of Morton, David Purves, Gifford of Sheriffhall and the second Lord Boyd, who had been born in Anselm Adorne’s house, and who believed that he was simply preventing tomorrow’s meeting at Whitekirk, which might lure Sandy back to the King. His captain, Alexander Jardine of Applegarth, held the same view precisely, in a slightly different form.
Through the falling snow, at four hours to midnight, St Mary’s lay warm and secure behind its high walls; below a sky ikon-gold from the lamps from its chapel and kitchen and little infirmary; from the dormitory and the rooms of the Prioresses; from the occasional window in the range of guest-chambers and the cabins where the house-servants lived. There was a haze of smoke, and the smells of peat mixed with spiced food and incense.
It looked secure but was not, for the main gates stood unbarred, and the superb inner door had already been opened, from the inside.
Of the two hundred unmounted soldiers, only fifty slipped past the lodge at the gate, which was unguarded. With two exceptions the gentry, with the horse, stayed outside. Of the fifty, most deployed themselves quietly along the inner wall, in what cover they could find; while six of their number, bent low, ran across the outer precincts and followed their leader noiselessly into the Priory.
Upstairs, in the day-room, Mick Crackbene returned to his chair beside Nicholas, having deposited Julius in the infirmary, where he was being re-bandaged by one of the prettier nuns. Adorne looked up, and then returned to the mild conversation he had initiated with the Bishop and St Pol of Kilmirren. Jordan said, ‘It’s snowing!’ Crackbene’s flat cap was wet.
‘Maybe, but you’re not going out,’ Nicholas said. He glanced at Crackbene. ‘Unless there’s anything you’d like me to do?’
‘Such as what?’ Crackbene said.
‘Only a suggestion,’ said Nicholas.
A short time later, the door opened again, on a tap, and Dame Euphemia’s servant stood there, looking round till she found my lord Cortachy and M. de Fleury, both of whom were wanted, she said, in the Prioress Euphemia’s room.
Bishop Prospero, who had not been invited, bent a friendly eye on the woman. ‘Why not ask the lady Prioress to join us all instead? Go and ask her, my dear.’
Adorne rose and stretched. ‘She may have in mind something private. If not, I’ll bring her back. Nicholas?’
‘It is something private,’ said the maid.
Jordan looked at his father, who grinned. ‘I’ll tell you later, if it’s anything interesting. Meanwhile, do as Mick tells you, or else.’
He walked out after Adorne. The servant had vanished. The quiet way to the Prioress’s room was empty as usual. Outside her door, Adorne turned to him, his face shadowed. Nicholas said, ‘I have no regrets,’ and received a resigned grimace, with no bitterness in it. When Adorne knocked, and obtained leave to enter, Nicholas followed. He would have shut the door, but it was wrenched out of his hands by two men who immediately blocked it, unsheathing their blades when he jumped. When he turned, he saw that Adorne had continued steadily forward and stopped, as if before a tribunal, at the place where the Prioress sat, her clasped hands on the table before her, her black eyes trained first on him, and then Nicholas.
Adorne said, ‘You sent for us, Reverend Mother.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. A frightened servant sent for you, induced by a group of silly ruffians. They think you will obey them to save me. You will not. If I see you weaken, I shall take my own life, with the full permission of God. Do you understand me?’
A man had stepped out from the shadows behind her. He had a knife in his hand. Nicholas said, ‘Jardine of Applegarth.’
‘So I deduced,’ Adorne said. ‘The gentleman who sent the unflattering message about you to Lochmaben, and who would prefer to see the Duke of Albany on the throne, with English overlords. I am right?’
‘Well enough put,’ said the man. He sat on the desk. He didn’t look crazed, or evil, or personally vindictive. He just looked like a swarthy, unshaven man with a permanent, puzzled frown. He said, ‘It seems better than a mad King with two Burgundian overlords. Others think so as well. I’ve nothing against the Prioress or the Priory. I’ve just come to make sure that neither of you can interfere in this country again.’
‘Interfere?’ said the Prioress. She sounded amused. ‘How can two foreigners of this kind interfere?’
Applegarth glanced down. ‘By manipulating the King,’ he said. ‘That’s what Adorne does. By killing Johndie Mar with magic and poison. That’s what Master Nicol and your Dr Andreas do. And by enchanting Sandy Albany
away from his duty tomorrow. But you won’t do that now.’
‘Three against two?’ Adorne observed with mild sarcasm. ‘Impossible odds.’
The man smiled. ‘What do you think that I am? A man with a grudge and six cronies? There are ten more men inside these buildings alone. And if anything happens to me, there are five hundred outside, with orders to enter and burn down the Priory.’
‘Two hundred,’ chided Nicholas. The Prioress pursed her lips. Behind, he heard one of the door-keepers shuffle. ‘And none inside, I’m afraid. You didn’t know about our fifty soldiers? It has been quite an exciting few weeks for the nuns.’
‘Nicholas?’ Adorne said.
The Prioress said, ‘Curb your tongue.’
‘No,’ said Applegarth. ‘Let us hear more. Where are these invisible warriors? You have a lookout, I accept. But you can’t have believed we would be able to walk into the convent. If you have any men, which I doubt, mine will have killed them by now.’
‘How did you walk in?’ Adorne said. ‘Someone climbed over the wall?’
Applegarth smiled. ‘Someone let us in. I told you that others think as I do.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Adorne.
‘Would you like to meet him?’ Applegarth said. He raised his voice. ‘Open the door.’
The two guards were still there. One of them brought out his sword, and the other jerked open the door. Mick Crackbene was standing outside it, holding his sword with its point on the floor. The blade was red. He surveyed the room, beginning with Nicholas and Adorne, and ending with Applegarth. He said, ‘I was just coming to tell you. All the bastards are dead but these two.’
Grinning, he lifted his sword. The grin, swinging round, was for Nicholas. The sword was for the first of the doormen, who took it through the chest, just as Nicholas kicked the legs from under the second, and Crackbene dispatched him as well. Adorne made a move to the desk, and then stopped.
‘Very clever,’ said Applegarth from his perch. ‘And do I kill the Prioress now, or will you let me escort her to the gate? I think you should. As I said, unless I appear, my whole force will make themselves very unpleasant. And some of them, I fear, are vigorous men of the land, with primitive urges.’