Gemini (108 page)

I
MMURED IN THE
Cistercian Priory of St Mary of North Berwick under the rule of two Prioresses, Katelinje Sersanders would, under normal circumstances, have devoted her first week or so to observing, with joy, the silent power struggle between the two ladies: the dainty steel femininity of the resident, Elizabeth Forman, in opposition to the commanding personality of Euphemia Graham, her elderly semi-royal cuckoo from Eccles. The Master and chaplain, she gathered, had both promptly absconded to quieter foundations, and the nuns on each side, much reduced, had been in some disarray until a
modus vivendi
was found and the house settled down to a régime remarkably close to that of a double-sex monastery. Jordan, who was not effusive with Kathi, nevertheless showed from time to time that he, too, appreciated the joke. He was teaching Margaret to draw.

Under normal circumstances, the Priory of North Berwick was not a bad place in which to pass a few weeks in January. In size second only to Haddington, it reared its bulky components on the slopes between the sea and the freakish volcanic cone of North Berwick Law. Snow seldom reclined on the hill or the undulating descent to the shore: the salty east wind, fresh in summer and devastating in winter, saw to that. But inside
the mellow red-ochre buildings, warmed by the great fires, the inmates entertained one another and praised God with a reassuring regularity.

Mick Crackbene was also still there, although he lived with the lay officers and servants in the service buildings, and only came to the conventual table on invitation. Much of the rest of the time, he was working outside, repairing something, or labouring on something for the nuns. Often he would take Rankin or Margaret with him, but his most constant companion was Jordan. The solid friendship between the lad of nearly fourteen and the taciturn Scandinavian warmed her heart, for Jordan’s sake, and the sake of his father. She wondered whether Crackbene remained because the weather was bad, or because he knew more than she did. She hesitated to ask, until the day Rankin jumped into her room, alight with some tale of a distant bothy full of mail-shirts and weapons. Did his mother suppose that nuns wore them? Or the servants that slept over there? There were ten of them, big men like sailors. Could he fight with the axes? asked Rankin.

She gave him a lying, sensible answer, and went to seek Crackbene. The Prioress Euphemia was with him. The Prioress said, ‘I believe your son has noticed the soldiers. We should talk. Come, Master Michael.’

As was only right, the chamber of the Prioress Elizabeth had become the chamber of the Prioress of Eccles. North Berwick might be supported by Formans and Ramsays, but Euphemia Graham was the granddaughter of a king and the niece of another; half-sister of the late Bishop Kennedy; cousin of the King’s three uncles and of the Princesses Eleanor and Annabella and Joanna and their powerful husbands; cousin of the first wife of Wolfaert van Borselen, and so related to Gelis. Related to everyone, but now isolated on the stark rock of age, and reft from her present charge because of its suspect situation.

Entering her room, Kathi sat, Crackbene beside her. Dame Euphemia, elevating her chin, had indeed some resemblance to an article on a rock: perhaps a malignant heron. She said, ‘You should have been told. I assured your M. de Fleury that you were the niece of your uncle, and could withstand a little anxiety. You were brought here to remove one of you from temporary danger. To make doubly sure, M. de Fleury also provided the armed guard found by your son: it is not desirable that others should know of it. It is merely an extra precaution.’

Crackbene said nothing. He had obviously known. It wasn’t worth being angry. If Nicholas and Crackbene had arranged this, then they trusted the Prioress. Unless, of course, the Prioress and Crackbene were lying.

Kathi said, ‘I am glad you think I can stand the truth, for I should now like to have it. Who was in danger?’ She thought she knew. Now, unexpectedly, it crossed her mind that it might be herself, from someone who wished to influence her uncle.

The Prioress said, ‘I thought you and your friends had discussed this. There have been serious attempts against the life of M. de Fleury, and his son is thought to be another possible victim. It is safer here for Jordan than Edinburgh.’

Kathi said, ‘How did you hear of this, Reverend Mother?’

The chin tilted again. There was a wart on it. ‘From M. de Fleury and your uncle,’ the Prioress said. ‘Your uncle has been seeking the man—disloyal to the King—who contrived the sad conflict at Castle Heaton. He suspects that man, or the person who paid him, to be the cause of other disruption. A paper found in the King’s chamber, apparently.’

‘But my uncle doesn’t yet know who it is,’ Kathi said. ‘Or not when I saw him last. Do you perhaps know, Dame Euphemia?’ Her heart had started to thud. In the Floory Land—away from the Floory Land—so many arguments, so many angry discussions. Who was it? Who was it?

And cravenly, now, to herself: You didn’t want us to know. I don’t want to know. I don’t want the responsibility. Don’t tell me.

The Prioress gazed at her, buckled into starched linen, her brows formidably arched. She said, ‘Certainly, I believe that I know. Your uncle discovered that M. de Fleury’s visit to York was known beforehand to the Duke of Albany’s most fervent follower, Jardine of Applegarth. He was at York. He has land in Lochmaben, and his father owns Jardinefield, three miles to the north of Upsettlington. Applegarth has always suspected Lord Cortachy and M. de Fleury of subverting the King. He regards M. de Fleury, especially, as having betrayed Albany’s friendship.’

‘But—’ began Kathi.

‘But, you would say, this does not accord with the picture of long aggression against M. de Fleury, and even his son. Therefore, there must be at least two culprits: Applegarth and the man who encouraged him. Have M. de Fleury or Master Julius reported some information I gave them at Eccles? About, I am sorry to say, the birth of a child to a nun?’

Crackbene sat, unsurprised, his fists on his knees. She could have slapped him. ‘No,’ Kathi said. She listened, fuming. Nicholas and Julius had known all about this, and had said nothing. At first, of course, it seemed understandable: the story was common enough. A nun had transgressed, and died giving birth to a child. The child’s father had also died young, and the fate of the child was not known.

‘So?’ Kathi said. She had become tired of saying ‘Reverend Mother.’

Crackbene spoke. (Marvellous.) He said, ‘The name of the nun was not a secret: she had stayed at both North Berwick and Eccles. The name of the father was unknown. Since we came here, the Prioress and I considered it advisable to find it. This is one of the safe houses for treasure. When the English raids started, the Eccles rolls were brought here, and so was the cartulary from Coldingham. I happened to know what was
relevant in the Coldingham papers. I found them for the Prioress, while she sought and showed me the records from Eccles. These completed the story. The nun’s name, as we knew, was Elizabeth Semple. The father’s name was Andrew, half-brother of Robert Liddell of Halkerston. Their child was a son, and a cousin therefore of Jamie, the present Liddell of Halkerston.’

‘But not his heir,’ Kathi said.

‘No. Sir James has a son of his own, and is of comfortable means, but not wealthy. The Semple family, on the other hand, has chanced to generate great wealth through one of its members, and has much to offer its young.’

‘Elizabeth Semple?’ Kathi repeated. She tried to think of all her acquaintances of Elliotstoun.

‘Try Elizabeth de St Pol,’ Crackbene said. ‘The disowned sister of Jordan de St Pol of Kilmirren.’

Fat Father Jordan. She stared at the stolid, sea-weathered face, thinking wildly. Kilmirren’s siblings, including this poor girl, had long since died. His two children and one grandson were also dead. A second grandson, Diniz, was removed, by his own wish, from the succession. Nicholas, who claimed to be a third, had not proved his claim, and Fat Father Jordan had repudiated him also. But Kilmirren could change his mind. Proof might be found. Nicholas and Liddell, Elizabeth’s son, if he lived, were the only possible remaining heirs of Kilmirren. With Nicholas and his family out of the way, Elizabeth’s son would be the only claimant when old Kilmirren died. Claimant to Kilmirren, and claimant, he might expect, to whatever fortune his second cousin Nicholas left.

Kathi said, ‘So what happened to the son, Liddell? Is he in Scotland? Living secretly somewhere, perhaps being helped by Sir James?’

Crackbene said, ‘It’s a small country. I know of no one called Liddell who fits. I don’t think, either, that Sir James is involved, or even knows there is such a person. His uncle died before Sir James was born, and he has always been well disposed towards Nicholas. No. We think this Liddell has changed his name: gone abroad maybe, and returned with another identity.’

He was speaking slowly. The Prioress’s brows had gone up, tall as razor shells. She had said she knew who the man’s parents were, not that she knew how to find him. She made no comment, nor did anyone for a long while. Then Kathi gritted her teeth, for cowardice was not for a Sersanders. She said, ‘When did Elizabeth die?’

The date was a long time ago: over fifty years. It didn’t help. You forgot that Nicholas was so much younger than anyone else. Within the House of Niccolò, and her uncle’s circle, and among their associates, Kathi could think of six or seven men who could be the right age for Elizabeth’s son, even if they claimed to be older or younger. She was no
nearer to knowing. She was glad. She remained glad even after she left the room, and took Crackbene to task for his duplicity, and wished she could vent her annoyance on Nicholas as well.

She actually believed, then, that Crackbene had told her everything. She knew better, a few days later, when the Prioress (it was Elizabeth Forman this time) drew her into her room to tell her that his lordship the Bishop of Caithness was about to honour them with a visit, and that her uncle Lord Cortachy was to accompany him, together with his countryman, Nicholas de Fleury. They were arriving tomorrow.

The Bishop of …?

Camulio
.

And her uncle and Nicholas? Why?

The Prioress told her.

It was not the Prioress’s fault, and Kathi should not have described the proposed confrontation with Sandy at Whitekirk as lunacy, and its promoters as fools. Then she apologised, and stormed off to find Crackbene. It transpired that Mick had known about the scheme for ten days, and didn’t think anyone could change her uncle’s mind, so why worry. He improved his position slightly by volunteering to tell Jordan himself, and provide a colourful version for Rankin and Margaret. He had children at home.

In the long run, the younger children regarded their great-uncle’s forthcoming engagement as some sort of contest, with prizes; but Jordan was left with no such illusions, for Crackbene told him the truth. Accordingly, Jordan understood that his father and Lord Cortachy and the Genoese Bishop were coming tomorrow, and would stay overnight. The morning after, they would all three walk unarmed to Whitekirk to meet the King’s brother, whom the King had tried to kill, and who had threatened to kill in return. Master Crackbene explained that some things had to be done, and only great men, the best men, could do them. He would not say there was no danger, for there was; but you could be sure that the King would not send out a bishop, a lord and his father without being fairly sure they would come back. Jordan, perceiving that Master Crackbene was doing his best, made it easy for him, and agreed. Kathi watched it, and watched Crackbene take the lad off to finish some task or other. Then she found a task for herself.

Better than most, she knew the history of Sandy’s friendship with Nicholas. He had treated Nicholas, through the years, as a servant, and a confidant, and an intermediary. Now he was being persuaded by others that Nicholas was the King’s man, not his. It might be the last time Jordan would see his father. And back in Edinburgh, Gelis and Robin must be among those taking farewell of Nicholas now. It was right, she now saw, that Jordan should know the reason for the sacrifice, and its extent.

What Anselm Adorne was doing was offering himself for something
that he believed in, and that he thought might succeed. He would not endorse, mindlessly, a cause that was hopeless. Neither would Nicholas. She tried to forget that these were the two men who, with Robin, made up the core of her life, and attempted to view the matter objectively. For example, if Prosper de Camulio was coming, it must be safer than it appeared.

I
N THIS, SHE
underestimated the Bishop, who was a man of education and ability, as well as being an inveterate meddler. In a life filled with running battles throughout Europe, and including at least one spell in prison, Prosper de Camulio had never shown himself averse to inviting trouble, or helping a friend, as well as himself. Besides, he had known both Adorne and de Fleury (young vander Poele then) from his various sojourns in Bruges, even before his later visit to Scotland; and had been well acquainted, from the same days, with the Scottish Bishop James Kennedy. There were a few soldiers, he had heard, at this Priory. And if there were to be none on the journey to Whitekirk, yet a Bishop might be deemed to be safe. No one would risk the Pope’s wrath over a Bishop.

He chatted, therefore, in gasps, throughout most of the fast coastal ride to North Berwick, undeterred by the relative silence of the other two. When (duly preceded by an outrider) they arrived within the precincts of the Priory, he received the reverence of the resident Prioress first, as custom demanded, but found a little extra warmth for the dear late Bishop Kennedy’s sister. The curtsey of Dame Euphemia, addressing his ring, was gratifyingly respectful, if you did not observe, as Kathi did, the impatient glitter in the downcast black eyes.

Anselm Adorne, waiting behind, smiled at his niece, just as Jordan, his hat a shade above hers, was bestowing one of his intent, lavish smiles on his father. Nicholas acknowledged him, and Kathi herself, but his first glance, she had seen, was for Crackbene. Then he crossed to his son, throwing his gloves into Jordan’s safe hands and swinging off his furred cloak lumped with ice to carry on his own arm. For a moment they stood talking together: the large, tranquil man with the dimples and deceptive, wide gaze; and the stalwart boy, already broad-shouldered and tall, with worship plain in his eyes.