Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  And that was too much. Nicholas said something under his breath, which was still all too audible. Then he apologised. His fingers ached, and his guts.

  Crawford said, ‘At least you excused yourself this time. You are too free with your expletives, my son.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ he said.

  Father.

  The Abbot said, ‘No, you are not yourself. You should have gone to the infirmary. I shall send for a potion. Take it once you are safely on board.’ And, turning his head: ‘Here surely is the Conservator, ready to leave.’

  It wasn’t Wodman who entered. It was the Abbot’s servant, reporting a visitor. And the visitor, it being the God-awful day that it was, proved to be Archibald, Master of Berecrofts. That well-liked merchant, father of Robin, who had found out that Nicholas was here, and could tell him about Robin, and Nancy.

  Archie came in very slowly, a neatly made man in his mid-thirties. He and Nicholas had been fellow traders and neighbours through all the nine years during which Nicholas had chosen to inflict himself periodically on Scotland. Nicholas had built his office and home on Berecrofts land in the burgh of the Canongate. When Nicholas left, Berecrofts had bought it back, and taken Sersanders as lodger. Nicholas thought he knew Archie well. He had never seen him so unnaturally pale.

  Nicholas rose and spoke without waiting for niceties. ‘I have no recent news, Archie, but none, either, that’s worse than we know. Robin took a hackbut shot in the battle at Nancy. We were afraid he was dead. Then the message came through that he was safe, but a prisoner. John le Grant, my gunner, is with him. Julius and Tobie have now gone to Lorraine with the ransom. You know them. Julius was my lawyer, and Tobie is one of the best physicians in the world. They will bring him back to Bruges. Kathi is there, with the children. And Adorne. And my own wife, and the whole of the business to call on.’

  ‘I should go to him,’ said Robin’s father. He sat.

  Nicholas dropped to a stool at his knee. ‘Take my ship. But you might miss him, if he’s already on his way home.’ He stopped and said, ‘I have letters for you from Kathi. For you and her brother.’

  ‘It would be better for Robin to come,’ Archie said. ‘To run his business from Scotland. Yare told me the news about Burgundy. I’ve not to repeat it.’

  ‘That the Duke is dead? It’ll be known by tomorrow,’ said Nicholas. ‘But yes, Flemish trade will take time to settle, especially in Bruges. I’d trust Kathi to decide what is best.’ He kept out of his voice everything that he was feeling and thinking. That he would trust Kathi with his life and had trusted her, before and after she had married Robin. That Kathi knew why he was here, and that his enemies were hers and Robin’s as well. David de Salmeton had a score to settle against Robin of Berecrofts and his wife Kathi.

  Despite that, Kathi might—would—bring Robin home, because it was right that he should be home, in the care of his father and grandfather. So Kathi, like Gelis, was trusting him to clear the way for them all. At which he was not doing particularly well. He said, ‘What about the old man, your father?’

  Archie looked vaguely up. ‘He’s frail. He’s mostly at Berecrofts these days, or in the west. I’ve said nothing to Sersanders yet, Kathi’s brother. He’s here, in the Canongate.’

  ‘You’d better tell him,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ll come to see you both anyway.’

  Their voices were flat. They were talking for talking’s sake. It was still a shock when, without warning, Archie cried out.

  ‘Where did it hit him? Could you not have—’

  He broke off. Then he said, ‘Nicol, I’m sorry.’

  The Abbot spoke, his voice kind. ‘Nicholas was struck unconscious himself, as I understand it, by the same men who felled Robin. Two of the Duke’s sons are prisoners—the Grand Bastard and his half-brother. They’ll be well looked after together in Nancy.’

  Nicholas pulled himself together, and added all that he could. ‘Robin is a fine soldier, Archie. I’ve never seen a man so in his element. It was sheer bad luck he was hurt. We surprised some mercenaries hunting for booty. I saw him hit in the thigh.’ He didn’t say any more about it than that, or mention that there had been more than one shot. The boy, Kathi’s husband, was twenty.

  ‘Oh, my laddie,’ said Archie; and brought up his clenched hand, and wept. When the Abbot signed to him, Nicholas left.

  THE KAREL OF VEERE was where they had left her, but the wind had died down, and the grumbling. Most of her modest complement of mariners were asleep.

  Crackbene was gambling against himself in the cabin. ‘Christ!’ he said, starting up, as Nicholas and Wodman came in.

  ‘You use too many expletives,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Council didn’t like us. They punched us and sent us off home.’

  Ignoring that: ‘You were set upon?’ Crackbene said. ‘By the St Pols or de Salmeton? How did they know you were here?’

  He hadn’t thought of that. Wodman had. He said, breaking a journey-long silence, ‘The monks of Newbattle Abbey have gift-land in Leith. Religious men get to hear secrets.’

  ‘But—’ said Crackbene.

  ‘But,’ said Nicholas, ‘David de Salmeton is very religious these days. He’s Procurator, isn’t he, to the Papal Legate? While pursuing his usual business in Scotland?’

  ‘So it was dear Davie behind it?’ said Crackbene. ‘By God, I’ll give him new battle.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Nicholas said. ‘And Andro agrees. And now, since we have a big day tomorrow, we’d both like to get to our beds.’

  Before he lay down, he tossed off the mixture the Abbot had given him. He felt Wodman’s stare on him then, and all the time he was trying to sleep. To hell with Wodman. Expletive.

  BY FIRST LIGHT next morning, as a matter of instinct, everyone in Leith was aware that Nicholas de Fleury had come in with a ship. Whatever they thought of him, no canny Leither would fail to explore this phenomenon. Indeed, the sociability began before dawn, when Crackbene elected to begin unloading the cargo by lantern-light, and the ship shuddered with bumping and shouting.

  By the time the sun rose, Nicholas had greeted three merchants, two tavern-owners, a number of fishermen and a man he had last seen in Danzig. He learned from his former landlord that there might be some rooms with a yard, if he wanted them. There was even a warehouse. He was asked what he had been doing, what he was going to do, and how his wife was. He replied with every appearance of truth, and added a crop of very new serial jokes, which he knew would reach Edinburgh before he did, since instant transmission was of the essence with jokes. If they had worked Duke Charles into a motto, the news of his death would have got here like lightning.

  On the wharf, they took him aside and asked him if he had been in a fight with the Conservator, and the Conservator, overhearing, joined them and said, No, the only fight had been with that rolling tub of a ship and the poor ale they’d had to put up with. People thrust Hamburg beer upon them. They sent a boy for a loaf and two capons and worked their way back to the ship, ducking and veering as heavy articles thumped to the ground. The jetties were much better kept than when he used to come here. Other things had changed. Once he had disembarked here and the King’s brother had been waiting to greet him.

  Things hadn’t changed. Except that this time Nicholas was on the wharf, and Sandy stood at the top of the gangplank. Alexander, Duke of Albany, Lord High Admiral, Earl of March, lord of Annandale and of Man, looking mean and royal and venomous, with all last summer’s freckles yellow as jaundice on his red-head’s fair skin, and Crackbene behind him, transmitting an instant non-joke on the lines of watch out.

  The King’s brother said, ‘Am I to be kept waiting all day? I ordered some goods.’

  ‘Pepper, velvet and a pair of Milanese daggers. They will be brought at once, my lord,’ Nicholas said. He sounded breathless. ‘Your lordship wishes to take them?’

  ‘Of course not. I wish to see if I will accept them,’ Albany said. ‘Do I know you?’ He had dressed rather quickly
. The cloak was superb but, between doublet and riding boots, he wore yesterday’s silk evening hose.

  Nicholas said, ‘Nicholas de Fleury, of the former House of Niccolò, my lord.’ He paused. ‘It is several years since we met.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Sandy. ‘I am sure merchants come and go. Where are my purchases?’ He had flushed. Behind him his factor, Liddell, had come forward, then paused. On the wharf, the crowd about Nicholas had fallen into respectful and attentive silence. Wodman had stood as if frozen, then vanished.

  Nicholas said, ‘I shall fetch them myself. Perhaps the master might have the honour of seating your lordship in his cabin?’

  There was an eddy behind him. A young voice cried, ‘The ship stinks! Don’t do it, Sandy. They’ll give you cheap wine while they’re falsifying the scales. Who’s this?’

  It was John, Earl of Mar, Albany’s brother. Standing offensively close, he peered upwards, examining Nicholas. The youth had a short, Flemish nose, a red-bristled jaw and a rash. He said, ‘Oh, my mistake, brother. It’s the tame ox you used to think charming. Do go. I’ll help burn your clothes after.’

  He turned, grinning, to Albany, whose hand was clenched on the rail of the gangway. To one side, Wodman had reappeared with a sign. Beside him was the Keeper of the King’s own lodgings and arsenal in Leith. Nicholas turned his head back to Albany. ‘My lord of Mar is quite right: the ship is not fit. May I bring the goods to the Wark?’

  ‘No. I don’t want them,’ Albany said. He stepped back, snatching his hand away quickly as his brother unexpectedly sprang up the same gangplank and whirled to bend his bright eyes on all the curious faces below him. The younger man laughed.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said John of Mar fondly. He surveyed the crowd. His manner, blithely adjusted, recalled that of a moneychanger about to announce a new rate. He addressed them all, raising his voice. ‘But don’t you know, men, that this is the first ship out of Bruges since the Duke died? Come and see what it’s brought! You can name your own price, or none! No one’s going to complain—there’s no one to complain to. Come and take what you want!’

  The crowd stared. There began an undertow of movement and comment, developing fast into something like a commotion. From its midst, several voices shouted a query. ‘For certain sure, the Duke of Burgundy’s dead?’ Windows opened. On the river, men hopped from boat to rocking boat to land where they could listen.

  The youth turned. ‘Didn’t you know? You’ll never get rich if you never take chances. What’s that load on the wharf?’ He jumped down and, striding across, thrust his sword through a cluster of bales. Several collapsed, spewing white sparkling powder. ‘Alum! Who wants some cheap alum?’

  ‘Anyone who wants to be excommunicated,’ said Nicholas, using his full speaking voice for the first time. He stepped up beside Albany and turned. ‘All those goods belong to the Pope. Look at the seal. Ask the Papal Legate. And the consignment over there belongs to me.’

  ‘This paltry parcel?’ said Mar and, jabbing, tossed it in the air. Then he coughed.

  He coughed quite a lot, between sneezes, his eyes closing. The circle round him retreated, and someone started to laugh. Mar snatched at his sword, and abandoned it to search with one hand for a house-wall. His head jerked and his upper lip glistened. The contents of the sack, following the wind, pursued and enfolded him, and the ensuing explosions brought to mind a measured attack by good hackbutters. Albany was looking at Nicholas.

  Nicholas said, ‘I’m sorry. Your pepper.’ He was smiling a little. Somewhere, he could hear a distant command, and the sound of trampling feet, coming from the arsenal of the Wark. The crowd, already upwind, began discreetly to melt.

  Albany said, ‘No. It is for me to apologise. That was supposed to be a secret. The Duke of Burgundy’s death.’

  Below, solicitous men had surrounded Mar and were guiding him to the Wark. By the time he had recovered, the cargo would be secure. Nicholas said, ‘Some fool always upsets the market. It will correct itself. Shall I find the rest of your goods?’ He had dropped the extreme formality, but not the courtesy due to a prince.

  Albany said, ‘You can’t be surprised. I meet a thousand people a day.’ He was not talking of Mar.

  Nicholas said, ‘I should have been more surprised had you remembered me. I probably shan’t stay very long. You may have heard, I have no banking interests now. I am free to go where I choose.’ Albany had walked down to the wharf, and he followed, with the factor, James Liddell. He could hear Crackbene issuing orders and see Wodman, far off, doing the same.

  Albany said, ‘I expect you know something of what is happening in Burgundy. The King ought to hear, and as soon as possible. My goods can wait.’

  ‘I don’t have a horse,’ Nicholas said. ‘If my lord will allow a moment to—’

  ‘Take John’s,’ Albany said. ‘He owes me for the pepper.’ He glanced at Liddell, who quietly moved off to manage matters. Albany paused, eyeing Nicholas, his manner still stiff. ‘You are bruised? It was a violent journey?’

  ‘No,’ Nicholas said. ‘That is, yes. But now it is over.’

  Before he left, he told Wodman where and with whom he was going. He had changed his outer dress quickly, and unearthed his unicorn collar. He had nothing to fear this time from thieves. Wodman said, ‘Great God, man, I couldn’t believe it. It’s started already?’

  ‘Why not?’ Nicholas said. ‘You lay a plan, then you follow it.’ Ever since Albany appeared, he had been cheered by Wodman’s expression.

  ‘Oh, surely, surely,’ said Wodman, wiping the bewilderment from his face. ‘Like you laid a plan to get us both half murdered yesterday. They made you sing to the oysters, all right. And what about Mar? That wasn’t your plan.’

  ‘No. That was a stroke of luck,’ Nicholas said.

  IT WAS REPORTED in Flanders, that February, that the Duke of Burgundy had received a solemn church burial in Nancy, close to the ditch where he fell, the ceremony being attended by his recent opponent, the young Duke of Lorraine, respectfully sporting a waist-length beard of gold thread. In the same month, the King of France’s armies occupied Picardy, and began to march into Artois.

  There was no word of the prisoners of Nancy, and Robin of Berecrofts had yet to come home to his wife.

  Awaiting him, Katelijne Sersanders, aged twenty-three, had moved with her children into the Hôtel Jerusalem, the great mansion of that elegant man, her widowed uncle, Anselm Adorne, whose own surviving sons and daughters were now grown, and elsewhere.

  She did not delude herself that he wished his household better run, or to be diverted by the prattle of children. No one could have maintained a great house better than Margriet, who had borne him sixteen infants and, dying, left a régime that ran sweetly still, five years later. Accordingly, lodged out of sight with Mistress Cristen, her nurse, and her family, Kathi devised and maintained a life that was busy, but separate from his. But when France stood to arms, and the fires of dissent and revolt began to flicker through the leaderless Burgundian states, she was glad to be here for her uncle.

  Those were the weeks when the little Duchess was held fast in Ghent and, desperate to raise a fresh army, made lavish undertakings to her towns, while swaying in private between the policies of her late father’s wife and high officers. One of the latter was Louis de Gruuthuse of Bruges. Another was his trusted Chancellor and hers, William Hugonet. In the initial, cautious approaches to France the little Duchess employed the brains and experience of both, as well as those of Wolfaert van Borselen of Veere, who was the brother of Gruuthuse’s wife.

  These were all friends of Anselm Adorne, and the problems of Bruges were both his and theirs. Shuttling between Bruges and Ghent; returning angered and drained by the narrow-mindedness, the greed, the confusion, Adorne found in Kathi the most patient of listeners, and one who had admired him from childhood for his intelligence, and his looks, and his integrity.

  She was glad to be there. And as a further consideration, she was where the first
news from Nancy would come.

  She was not without support or distraction. The children loved Clémence, who came often, and had been nurse to Jodi de Fleury before marrying Master Tobias, now gone to help ransom back Robin. So, while she spent time with the children, Clémence was ready to talk also of Robin, and Tobie, and Julius, whom Tobie had taken with him. But Julius, of course, had no wife now to worry over him.

  Before leaving for Scotland, Nicholas de Fleury had told Robin’s wife all he could remember of the shots which had caused Robin to fall. Tobie, also present, had been alarmed by his frankness, Kathi thought. Nevertheless, after a moment, he had quietly taken Nicholas through his account once again and then, after clearing his throat, had explained the kind of damage such wounds might inflict. He was a military doctor, and could quote lucky and unlucky cases.

  She had wept in the end, but in a way it was over: she had nothing left to imagine. And it meant something to her that Nicholas had thought her strong enough to bear the whole truth, and that Tobie, who had not been so courageous, yet recognised that Nicholas was right, and had treated her with enlightenment in his turn. And if she knew the nature of the unhappiest outcome, she also knew what to expect of the best. She had a son and a daughter, the elder just two. Robin had wanted a house full of sons.

  Kathi had another friend, too, in Gelis van Borselen at the Hof Charetty-Niccolò, home of the Bank and dyeworks which Nicholas de Fleury had formerly owned, and where his wife and son, Jodi, still lived. Kathi went there, on the day she heard that Dijon had fallen to France. Dijon, encompassing Fleury, from which Nicholas took his name, if nothing else. Being in Scotland, he would not even know it had gone.