Gemini (106 page)

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:

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.

T
HE
P
RIORESS 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 decided 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.

A
FTER
J
ORDAN 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.

From him, they learned that Fat Father Jordan was still with Bel at his High Street house, where Bonne had joined them for Christmas. Nicholas had avoided the subject of Bel since he had met her in Stirling and again at the Castle. It made Gelis uneasy. She would have called on her valiant friend, or sent a message, but Nicholas had asked her if she would wait. What for, she didn’t know, but she gave in, as they all did. He was carrying enough. Keep to essentials.

They knew, from the thin stream of reports from the Council’s agents, of the reinforcements at Dunbar, and the land gifts with which Sandy was rewarding his new adherents, notably the bailie of Gordon, Alex Home of Home, damn the man. They also brought back lurid rumours of plots against the King’s life. One of these, with the horrifying facility of the Fotheringhay treaty, reached the ears of the King, who instantly commanded the dispatch of batches of letters begging armed help. The letters were written, but remained with Whitelaw unsent, while Andreas and Conrad prepared soothing draughts. The aim was to avoid confrontation, not to provoke it. As for the person who had left the Fotheringhay treaty, or spread the rumours, no one could trace who it was.

The physicians had other patients: Chancellor Laing was succumbing to his long fever, and Dunkeld, taking his duties, was poorly himself. It was as well that, discreetly meeting in the Cowgate or the High Street, Avandale and Argyll and Scheves and their burgess supporters were in vigour. Since confirmation of the peace between France and the Archduke Maximilian, Wattie’s French trip had been postponed. There was something else. Edward of England was not only furious with France, he was ill. If he was mortally ill, his brother Gloucester wasn’t going to linger about northern England, waiting to encourage Albany.

About this point, as January moved through its second week, Julius became restless. ‘Shouldn’t we know whether Albany has heard about that? Shouldn’t we make sure he knows that he can’t count on English help after all?’

It was one of the times that Nicholas was there. He said, ‘Yes. How?’

‘Let them capture a messenger.’

‘Hard on the messenger.’

‘Send them word of it direct.’

‘They wouldn’t believe it.’

John said, ‘They would if Julius took it. He’s well known to Liddell.’

‘All right,’ said Nicholas. ‘So long as you pay his ransom. I’m not raising it.’

Julius reddened. He said, ‘I’m not proposing to get myself captured, thank you. But I’d write the thing, and put it in the hands of someone local whom Liddell trusts. I could get near enough Dunbar to find someone.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ Nicholas said. ‘But in fact we can manage without. I hope to tell Sandy myself fairly soon. We’ve written to him suggesting a meeting.’

There was a silence. Talks; bribes; dialogue through intermediaries: they had all been discussed, but foundered on the issue of safety. Sandy would never place himself in danger of capture and sentencing. And the
King’s agents would hardly come unsupported, and risk death or capture for the King.

Tobie said, ‘It’s a trick? You’ve found some way of trapping Albany?’

Nicholas said, ‘No. It’s the suggestion of a very brave man, willing to speak for the King, unsupported. Do you remember when Pope Pius visited Scotland?’