Sinclair smiled. ‘You have an adherent, my dear Nicol,’ he said. ‘So why are we wasting time over this? I am to understand that you will be spending time in Albany’s company, so long as his fancy permits it, which may not be as long as any of us would desire. And if Andrew Avandale regards you as trusthworthy, then so surely should I. And, of course, because Betha says so.’
‘And because of the other reason he’s here,’ Betha said.
Sinclair turned his head. For a long moment, he gazed at his sister, and she sustained the gaze without blinking. He said, ‘I think we leave the other reason aside.’
‘I don’t,’ said Betha. ‘She’s waiting. As for Sandy, why not ask her opinion? She may not know the best or the worst of Nicol here, but she kens more than we do.’
Nicholas rose. He said, ‘I will leave if you want me to.’
‘Oh Christ, man,’ said Betha. ‘D’ye think I’d want you to hurt her, or get her to say or do anything but what she wants? She wants to see you.’
Sinclair said, ‘It’s a pity you told her he was here.’ He stood and walked round to Nicholas. ‘We are speaking of Phemie, our cousin. You knew her at Haddington, where Tom Yare has a brother. It was Yare who suggested you call?’
‘Yes. Then may I see her?’ said Nicholas. He looked at Sinclair, but instead was beholding the past: Phemie, and Kathi, and the rest of the brilliant company at the Priory of Haddington. The stalwart Prioress; the gentle nun Alisia Maitland who had helped to control the wild little red-headed princess; the servant Ada feeding her babies, and not yet married to Crackbene. The whole great, unwieldy, teeming Cistercian convent, with its flocks and its herds and its orchards; its hordes of paying guests and their households; the council meetings for prayer; the visits of the dancing-master, the doctors, the courtiers; Will Roger patiently conducting the singing and playing. Jodi stumbling about, chuckling. Tobie. Gelis. And again, quicksilver masterful Kathi with her fearsome small charge; and Phemie. Phemie Dunbar, daughter of the late Earl of March and cousin of Betha; not yet in full holy orders, and so able to travel, to perfect her gift for music and verses; to discover friendship and laughter. Dear Phemie.
Sinclair said, ‘Take him to her.’
The place Betha took him to was warm and bright, a little apartment of several rooms, the first of which had thick paned glass in the windows and a table and prie-dieu, and a leather chair and a stool set before a real fireplace. The fire was laden with peat, the dark sods outlined with vermilion from the cave of heat that shimmered below, and blue flames playing around it. When Betha opened the door the ash blew about, fine as dust from a kiln. Betha said, ‘Here he is,’ and ushered him in without entering herself. The door shut, and he could not speak for the stone in his throat.
Euphemia Dunbar, daughter of a great family, sat by the window, her embroidery at her side. Instead of the coif she had worn for so long, a white cap covered her hair, and the cold daylight on her pure brow and strong cheekbones and solid nose made her skin seem as pale as the linen. Below, she wore a dull-coloured gown with a fringed shawl set on her shoulders; her hair, not having grown, hardly showed under the cap. The light made it grossly apparent that she was perhaps five months with child.
She said nothing, and he saw that it was because she, also, was unable to speak. Then she mastered it and said, ‘Poor Nicholas. Tom Yare should never have told you: this is the last place you must want to be. But thank you for coming.’
She had put his hesitation down to revulsion. He crossed the room at once and, kneeling, took her hand, and then kissed her, his cheek against hers. For a moment she rested against him. Then she set him back and said, ‘There’s wine over there. We both need it.’
He spoke while he was pouring. ‘Tom Yare is a very sensible person, and so is Betha. I wanted to come. Sir Oliver wasn’t so sure.’ He gave her a cup and sat down, regarding her soberly. ‘Are you well? You know that none of us knew about this?’
Phemie said, ‘Nicholas. It’s all right. I know you aren’t here as an agent of Nowie’s. And yes, of course I know how well the secret has been kept. I wanted that, as well as the family.’
He drank his wine and listened to what she was saying and how she was saying it. This wasn’t someone’s frail, frightened daughter surrounded by enemies. This was a cultured, intelligent woman who had had many weeks in which to decide what to do. He said, ‘They think they know, of course, the name of the father. But you haven’t confirmed it?’
She smiled, her eyes bright. ‘Now you have come, perhaps you will shake their convictions. No, I haven’t confirmed it. Everyone has been very kind. I lack nothing. But I do need advice.’
Of course she did. It was why he was here. ‘If you wish, I shall give it,’ he said. ‘But you know, surely, what he would want. Would he want you to ask me at all?’
‘He would want you to help me,’ she said, ‘if he knew this had happened. He doesn’t know. There is to be a child. I wish to rear it. But I am unmarried; I was in holy orders, if only of the minor kind. I cannot ask him to acknowledge this. I had hoped to keep it quite secret; to go perhaps to my sister’s in Moray before it became obvious, but one of the doctors found out. Nowie has been kind: he and Betha brought me here and only a few people know, but already the rumour is growing. I have thought that the best thing might be to have the child fostered, and to return to my family. Scandals come, and are forgotten. I had thought even of saying that I was molested; but it would not ring true. The trouble is—’
‘That as everyone knows, you have only ever been fond of one man,’ Nicholas said. ‘Phemie? Don’t you want his son or his daughter? Don’t you want to keep it all your life?’
Her eyes were stark, but she didn’t give way. She said, ‘Of course I do.’
‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘don’t you think that he would feel the same? Keep the child, that is the first thing. It is yours. And next, let him know.’
‘Nicholas?’ she said. ‘Think. If I tell him, I give him no choice. This is not something he could or would hide. Yet he is a great man. How could I go there, and have him install me in some house, in the same town as his children? How could I force him to consider leaving his home and exiling himself to this place, out of a sense of duty towards me?’
‘He is a widower,’ Nicholas said. ‘There are dispensations; there are procedures which you could follow, I am sure. You could marry.’
‘There, you don’t know him as I do,’ she said. ‘It may sound possible, but more likely it would cut one or both of us off from the Church. I don’t mind, but for him, that would be terrible.’
‘He would have his love for you,’ Nicholas said. ‘And yours for him.’
There was a space. Then she said, ‘Would love not spare him this?’
‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But respect comes into it as well: regard for his beliefs; for his right to decide for himself. I should want that. Everyone would. Phemie … give me a letter to send him. Then it is between him and his conscience. But at least he has the dignity of a man, making a choice. He wouldn’t want to be spared.’
‘No. I see that,’ she said. After a while, she continued, ‘Whatever I sent—he wouldn’t receive it for two weeks … a month. And as long for the reply. Longer, if I go north.’
‘I shall be here,’ Nicholas said. ‘Don’t go away. Talk to me. I shall come whenever you like. But until you hear what he wishes, no one can be sure of a name.’ He smiled. ‘You have not spoken one, even yet; and neither have I.’
She released a long sigh, and looked at him in something gallantly close to her usual manner. She said, ‘That is certainly true. If I … When I … Now that I am writing this letter, how will you know where to send it?’
‘I shall have to guess,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or send it in triplicate to three very surprised men. Phemie: he deserves you, and you deserve him.’
RETURNED TO SIR OLIVER and his sister, Nicholas was formal and brief. ‘I have no more to tell you than your lady cousin ha
s told you herself. There is nothing she wants to add meantime. If and when there is, she will tell you herself. No one could appreciate your present kindness more than she does.’
‘But she told you the name of the father,’ said Sinclair.
‘It was never mentioned,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has, however, asked me to visit her. Would this be allowed?’
‘Allowed?’ Sinclair said. ‘My dear Nicol, how strange you make us sound. Of course, unless I am away, you will always be welcome. Indeed, there are some matters that you and I might well talk of with profit before you go back. You haven’t eaten? Then come along, my dear man, and favour my board.’
Betha was staring at him. He agreed. On the way, she addressed him in an undertone. ‘Are ye as wabbit as ye look?’
‘Worse,’ he said.
‘Aye. So you’re sending to him, is my guess. And nothing’ll happen until he sends back. But meanwhile, you’ve done that lass a rare service, Nicol de Fleury. I’d kiss ye for it, if ye didna have such a sore face.’
He laughed, but all through the meal he found himself thinking of Phemie Dunbar. He had told her not to go north. So long as she stayed fast in Roslin she was safe. But anyone, seeing her now, could guess that the child was conceived in the latter part of the autumn. And would remember that, during that season, Phemie had not been in Scotland at all, but in Bruges.
Then the meal ended at last, and Nicholas left. He was free to make the next call on his stirring agenda: to visit Adorne’s nephew, Sersanders, and tell him how Robin fell. And refrain from telling him anything else.
Oysters, where are you? I want to be kidnapped, tonight.
Chapter 5
Befor the knycht on the left syd suld stand
Ane officer to kepe the tovne, havand
In his richt hand the keyis of the zet …
For to this knycht as capitane of the tovne
Thai suld obeye in absens of the crovne.
ARRIVED IN THE dark, as now seemed habitual, at the great Berecrofts house in the Canongate, Nicholas bestowed suitable drink-silver upon his princely escort from Roslin and watched them depart. Under the lanterns at pend and at porch, the engrailed cross of St Clair had made its own emphatic statement: none of your anonymity here. There were several heads out of windows already.
As a result, he didn’t have to rasp at any doors: one was flung open at once and Archie’s chamberlain came out, followed quickly by Berecrofts the Younger himself. Nicholas relinquished his horse and came forward. ‘No news. I’ve just called to see you.’
‘Oh,’ said Archie, changing colour. Then he swore. ‘God’s bones, I’m turning into a woman. Nicol, I’m sorry. Ye look—’
‘Wabbit. I feel fine. I’ve just come from Roslin. I’ve been talking business with Nowie.’
‘Nowie?’ Archie said.
‘Well, not yet; but I’m working on it,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir Oliver Sinclair at present. And saw Cochrane and Whistle Willie as well. Now I remember why I left Scotland. Is Sersanders in?’ He was so tired he felt queasy, but knew from experience that it would pass. There were two flights of stairs up to the main hall, which was bigger than his had been. When he had had his bureau in Edinburgh, he had built the house next door. Just outside the portals to Edinburgh; just up from Holyroodhouse; just round the corner from the road leading to Leith. A substantial property, which he had sold, like everything else, and which Archie had bought for Kathi and Robin, his son. And which was now occupied, he supposed, by Anselm Sersanders, Kathi’s brother. Or Saunders, as he heard Archie calling him. It was shorter. And two Anselms would be confusing, in trade.
He wondered what name Phemie would give to her child, which none here knew about, and none must suspect, or not yet. Nicholas had Phemie’s note to her lover, slipped him before he left Roslin. It would have to travel by ship. He would ride to Leith at first light tomorrow. This was his third day in Edinburgh, and he was sad, and elated, and exhausted. He hadn’t realised how easy it had been, surviving in Moscow, or Tabriz, or Thorn. He thought, with despair, that what he actually wanted, imperatively, was a woman. No; specifically, it was Gelis, alone.
Sersanders (Saunders) appeared. He said, ‘Nicholas.’
It was not ecstatic. From his point of view, Nicholas had done everything in his power in the past to damage Scots trade, in a successful attempt to harm the St Pol family. Now he was back. The fact that he had been accepted in Bruges; that dowry gold had replenished the Scots treasury; that the St Pols were being slowly re-established, had not wholly reassured Kathi’s brother. He sat on the edge of a table and said, without shaking hands, ‘You’ve no news of Robin. No. Did you ever find out who made an exercise-bag of your face?’
The answer, if he had been willing to give it, was yes. The minions of Henry de St Pol, who was or was not at this moment in his apartment at Holyrood, awaiting him. Or wrecking it. Or standing behind the door with an axe. Nicholas said, ‘I’d forgotten about it. Did you get Kathi’s letter?’
Some of the grimness left Saunders’s face. He had always had a short temper, perhaps because he was smaller than most men. People underrated Adorne’s Scottish agent his nephew, unless they noticed his shoulders and arms, and heard what he could do in a tournament. He was in his early thirties, and ten years older than Kathi. Now he got up and walked to a stool nearer Nicholas, where he sat down. He said, ‘I’m sorry. She said you were badly hurt at Nancy yourself. But you seemed to be interested only in trade, and it was my understanding that you had come back to settle accounts with the St Pols and de Salmeton. Until you do, it seems everyone is in danger.’
Adorne must have written before Christmas. It was natural. Nicholas said, ‘I need a reason to stay, and some pieces to play with. It’s a little early to expect anything else, but I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I’ve made a reasonable start. I’ve muzzled Kilmirren himself, and taken his grandson into my household.’
‘What!’ said Archie. He sat down. ‘He’ll kill you.’
‘That’s what Wodman said. He’ll watch out. I wondered if Saunders would also like to give me a hand.’
‘With Henry de St Pol!’ said Kathi’s brother.
‘He’s going to despise common management and deal-making, but he reveres the chivalric arts. If I set up a few exercises, would you give him some show-fights?’ said Nicholas. ‘Or am I asking something too dangerous?’
‘Against that little braggart?’ said Saunders. ‘Dangerous for him, I can tell you. I couldn’t hold back if he provoked me.’
‘But you could teach him?’ Nicholas said. ‘The Guard won’t. They’re uncomfortable with him: he’s too young, and he shows off. He needs someone to practise with who’s hard, but fair. Someone he can admire. He’ll end up adoring you. And then there’s David Simpson.’
‘I don’t think Simpson will end up adoring anyone,’ said Archie of Berecrofts. ‘Kathi says he will lay plans to kill you, but not yet. Not, ideally, until your family are here and can witness it.’
‘So I have to get rid of him before that,’ Nicholas said. ‘Will you tell me all you know about what he is doing? He seems very rich.’
‘He is, if he has your African gold,’ Saunders said. ‘Kathi says that you think that he has. But he lives genteelly in Edinburgh, at Blackfriars, most of the time, as agent for the Apostolic Collector, Camulio. You know him?’
‘Prosper de Camulio? Yes. He came to Bruges as a Milanese envoy. We did a deal once, in Genoese alum. So they both stay in the guestrooms at the Blackfriars?’
‘Camulio does,’ Archie said. ‘Simpson occasionally lords it at Beltrees. Or he’ll spend some nights at Newbattle Abbey. The Abbot likes him. All those Norman families, and David’s French Archer connections. I’m told he gives his services free.’
‘For what?’ Nicholas said, without emphasis. He was thinking.
‘Don’t the Sinclairs have a lot to do with Newbattle, Nicholas?’ Archie said. ‘One of the founding families, and next door to Roslin. They still leas
e bits of land to the chosen ones—the Cochranes, the Prestons, a doctor or two. God, you want to keep in with the Sinclairs and their tribe of physicians, Nicholas lad, if you’re going to go on the way that you’ve started.’
‘You’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll stick to trade,’ Nicholas said. He went on, in fact, to talk about trade until they had lost their uneasiness. He wanted help, but not until he was ready. Simpson hadn’t publicly threatened him, or done anything against him in Scotland as yet: the reverse, in fact. To kill him now would be murder. And that would be unfair.
WHEN HE EVENTUALLY found his way to his chamber in Holyrood, everyone had gone to bed except Andro Wodman, who was visible, fully dressed, throwing illicit dice in a storeroom with a senior carpenter. Nicholas flung his saddlebags down and went to join him.
Round the bandaging, Wodman’s face was purple and yellow. Archie had been right. They did need the services of a medical team. Nicholas said, ‘I’m sorry. I had to stay last night at Roslin. What’s happening?’
‘I know. One of Tam Cochrane’s cronies came back.’
The carpenter, by which term was understood a highly trained, blue-blooded expert called Lisouris, said, ‘And you’re going into business with Nowie?’
‘Sir Oliver Sinclair to you,’ said Nicholas sourly, in the knowledge that Lisouris certainly did call Nowie ‘Nowie’.
‘And still got your arms and your legs? Watch it,’ said Lisouris, who looked like a dancing-master.
‘So what about Henry?’ said Nicholas. If he sat down, he wouldn’t want to get up. He recalled, with amazement, believing at some point that he wanted a woman.
‘He’s asleep. In the next room to yours. Sweetly sorrowful because, having invited him, you weren’t there.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘Went to Mass, made sexual advances to one of the monks, and was dragged in front of the Abbot. He’s leaving tomorrow.’
‘Oh,’ said Nicholas. He sat down.
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