Gemini (105 page)

‘No. Wait! Wait! What are they thinking of? England won’t agree to a truce. The bloody wedding’s dismembered already. I ought to know. I had Wattie Bertram’s corns in my lap for a month, getting picked out for free while he thought about raising the money.’

‘Lucky you. Tobie, be quiet. It’s a device. Go on, Nicholas,’ Gelis said.

‘That’s the highest power in the land,’ Robin said eventually. ‘And the money to go with it, added to everything the King’s allowed him already. Did we promise Albany that? Did you promise him, Nicholas?’

‘I expect so. Also a new set of buttons, and a bag of ginger at Christmas. Of course he wanted the post, and Gloucester had to believe he was getting it. He might. It’s up to the King. Parliament can advise, but only the King can appoint him.’

‘So he has to be careful with the King. Was that all?’

‘I’ve left out the bit about rallying the nation for war, just in case England gets silly ideas, and the licence to kill people who import corrupt wine. There were some sensible measures as well. Wattie Bertram is going to Paris. You must have fixed his feet.’

‘Why? Ostensibly why?’

‘Ostensibly to demand justice for ill-treated merchants. Actually to find out if the English alliance has died, and if the King is going to die too, and what they all think about Sandy. Wattie voted himself for the trip, and I think he deserves it. It won’t make much difference to Sandy. It takes a King’s man out of the way, and he’ll have his own agents in France.’

‘So Sandy is happy?’

‘My God, I hope so,’ said Nicholas.

T
WO WEEKS
—
FOURTEEN
days—fourteen tense days to Christmas.

T
HE
C
OURT OFFICIALLY
moved to the Castle, swept, scoured and garnished so that nothing brought to mind its recent custodial function. As Yule approached, the higher nobility—Huntly, Seton, Arbuthnott, Sinclair and Angus and Crawford—gathered in their Edinburgh houses, if they had ever left them. Those deposed stayed away, but the new officers of state presented themselves daily, as did the Treasurer, and Master Secretary Whitelaw, and the Lord Preceptor Will Knollys. The Chancellor, a former Vicar of Linlithgow, was not very well, and spent much of his time with the two resident physicians, Andreas and Tobie. The three half-uncles also lodged in the Castle; and the disgraced and undisgraced Princesses with their households, and the Duke of Albany, in chambers next to the King.

With Sandy were his confirmed friends, such as Sir James Liddell of Halkerston, and less prominent friends, such as Bailie Alex Home of that Ilk, who still held Huntly’s favour. Other admirers came to the Duke’s bidding, although some fell prey to the unseasonably mild weather, and found themselves confined to bed with a hoast; while others
were detained by unfortunate accidents, such as the death of an aunt, or a court case.

England’s official response to the olive branch was not as yet known. Since, in theory, it might lead to peace, there was as yet no basis for appointing a Lieutenant-General for Scotland, and the King had not done so. The King of England (unaware of the coming olive branch) had long since given the equivalent English post to the Duke of Gloucester, and was rumoured to be offering to present him with Cumberland, and a petty Scots kingdom of everything that Richard might manage to conquer next year in the south-west. This situation could be regarded with horror, or as an indication that Edward, unwell, was willing to do anything to keep his brother out of the way.

There was a rumour, which proved to be true, that France had made peace with Maximilian of Flanders and Burgundy, and had excluded England from the pact. One or two men from the East March left Edinburgh, and others from the Merse and Lauderdale failed to appear. Sandy wanted to know when the bloody women were coming to Court, or were they all supposed to be eunuchs? And what was Nicol doing? In bed at home, without doubt, and no question what he was doing. Nicol’s pleasure was Nicol’s first thought, same as everybody’s. When the chaplain tried to moderate Albany’s intake of wine, he nearly found himself knocked down the stairs.

Noble ladies, as a matter of course, arrived at Court, while others less noble were pressed into Albany’s service, and occasionally the King’s. Nicholas, who was already spending half the day with the King, apologised to Gelis, with whom he had had very little opportunity to do anything, and moved himself to a room in the Castle. He took Jordan with him, but explained beforehand about the King’s brother. ‘Don’t be shocked. He will be rude, perhaps cruel. He is disappointed and unhappy and unsure. It seemed to him once that he might be King. He might not be a bad King, but I don’t think he will be given the chance: it is better if the present King rules. Also, he has no family to depend on. His offspring are scattered—a son in France, a daughter and other sons here. He has a French wife, and a Scots one discarded. He has no one to depend on but friends, and they in turn may have other loyalties.’

‘Are we his friends?’ Jordan had said.

And Nicholas had said, ‘We are trying to work for the good of everyone.’ It was evasive, because the answer was complex, and Jordan was not old enough, yet, to be burdened with it. He had to forget it, through all the hours that followed, when he and others sat and chatted to Sandy, and entertained him, and put up—to a degree—with his tantrums. As he hoped, Jordan behaved quietly and well, and sometimes Sandy would adjust his behaviour, but usually didn’t.

The rest of the time, Nicholas made himself available to the King, in
much the same way. He had brief, invaluable meetings with Whitelaw who, used to treading this tightrope for decades, largely ignored him in public. The Bishop of Dunkeld, another invalid, was capable of shrewd advice. He was on guarded terms with two of the half-uncles, but continued his long-standing, not unfriendly relationship with Buchan. Their cousin, Euphemia Graham, Prioress of Eccles, was at Court, released to her family from her temporary exile in the Priory at North Berwick, on the sea coast east of Edinburgh.

The Prioress remembered Dr Tobias with pleasure, greeted Nicholas and Jordan with suspect eloquence, and asked after the lawyer, Master Julius. Her predatory gaze kept returning to Nicholas. He remembered their discussion about St Pol’s forgotten sister Elizabeth, just before they all went off to Malloch. Eccles was almost on the English frontier. It had seemed a wise idea to empty it. He hoped no one was going to rush to send the Prioress back, and wished he hadn’t mentioned where Julius lived, although, with any luck, Kathi would regulate any encounter. For the present, Nicholas tried, but signally failed to avoid the venerable lady’s company. He wondered if Adorne had been afraid of the Bishop her brother, but decided that Adorne and Kennedy were two of a kind. The Prioress frightened him.

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.

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

T
HOUGHTLESSLY 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.