Gemini (17 page)

There were few people there, and those who laboured past, going home, were the elderly or the disenchanted or the cautious, who preferred
not to see a protest escalate into a killing. She and Diniz were not the first, obviously, to try to cross the waterway since the gates had been blocked: the frosty grass on both banks was well trampled, and the canal lumpy with re-congealed blocks and a frozen litter of planks and random possessions. In war, the town employed men whose sole duty was to break up the ice to preserve the town from invasion. This drop in temperature had come too quickly for that, and in any case the ice was still soft. You could see black water swirl in the centre It was seven feet deep.

Diniz said, ‘Where?’ and Gelis said, ‘Follow me.’

You learned, as a child, which bits froze first; where the eddies were. The nearest place, the shallow pool that lay still, was not here, but far down the bank, where there were no people or lights. She had brought, tied in her apron, two pairs of footed leggings in wool from the sickroom, to drag over their footwear and offer some purchase. If there was enough ice, they would help. Diniz took her wrist as they stepped from the bank, and held it as they edged forwards.

One step; two.

At the first sign of a crack, they could help one another. Lucia, his fair, silly mother, had been riding, unaware that there was ice under the snow. When it gave way, the weight of the horse took her straight down, and the cold of the water had ended it. At first, they had thought Nicholas had driven her on to the river, thinking her to be Simon, her yellow-haired husband, but it was not so.

Two steps; three. How close was the convoy with Robin? It might arrive when they were still in mid-river. But no. In this flat country they would see it. They would hear, far away, the shouts from the watchers on the gatehouse battlements, who would certainly see it. She realised that John, the other prisoner, would be with Robin, and Dr Tobie, Clémence’s husband.

Three steps; four. Five steps; six. She slipped, and Diniz’s hand tightened and held her, and she steadied. She had been thinking of Jodi. If she died, he had Nicholas. If Nicholas died …

She slowed. If she and Nicholas died, and Tobie didn’t survive, there was something else; someone other than Jodi whom she had forgotten about. She said, feeling foolish and frightened and cold, standing in the middle of the ice, ‘Listen. When my sister died, you were with her. You know that Nicholas has another son? An unacknowledged son by Katelina?’

She heard him draw breath. It was a difficult place. Then he said, ‘I guessed. No, I knew. But I haven’t told anyone.’ He paused, and the ice rocked. He said, ‘Don’t worry. You’re doing better than I am.’ He had begun again to draw her across.

She followed, still talking in gasps. ‘Tobie knows. There is a paper, lodged with Tobie’s notary.’ Step, slide and step.

‘I see,’ Diniz said. ‘But you speak as if Nicholas is going to die, too. I’m sure he isn’t. Gelis, can you jump?’

They were in the middle, and there the ice was soft, with water spilling and lapping about it. For five feet, or six, perhaps. Beyond that, it looked firm. There was no guarantee. Diniz said, ‘I’ll go first, and catch you. If I don’t manage, don’t try to help me. Go back.’

‘All right,’ she said. It saved time. She wouldn’t leave him.

He withdrew his hand, and settled his feet, and balanced, and jumped. She saw him land on all fours, and slip sideways, and then thrust himself over and over, rolling away from the glistening gruel. She could hear him breathing harshly when he got up. He held his hands out, and she jumped as well, into his arms.

He hugged her and said, ‘On a tightrope next, with a hoop,’ and seized her hand and began leaping, this time, towards the far shore. And arrived there.

There was a little cover: some frozen bushes, the shanks of a sparse piece of woodland. They had already made their plans: he to race off to the nearest farmhouse; she to keep close to the road and make her way, fast, in the direction of the oncoming travellers, where he hoped to join her with horses. It was almost fully dark now, and the road glimmered hoar and white as its surroundings, defined only by the uneven cleared ground at its edge. The cloud had lifted, and there were stars in the sky, except over the town at her back, where the smoke haze had turned red from the massed torches.

Diniz said, ‘About what we spoke of. I shall remember. But Henry isn’t alone, you know. He does have the St Pols.’

So he did know. He kissed her briefly and went; she set to walking. When she felt safe even from the eyes on the battlements, she picked up her skirts and ran.

Her attackers crept up so quietly that she heard nothing until one sprang before her and the other seized her arms from behind. They were armed, with metal under their cloaks. One of them said, ‘And who are you spying for, jonkvrauwe? Or is it really jonkheer?’ His hands delved; she kicked him; he gasped, swore and hit her. She bit her tongue: through watering eyes, she glared at him, and then addressed him in vicious, clear French. ‘Listen to me, son of a pig. I have escaped from the town. I have urgent news for Monseigneur Louis de Gruuthuse. I am Egidia van Borselen, his wife’s cousin. Take me to him, and you may not be hanged. Indeed, you might be rewarded, if I ask it.’ Then she said it again, this time in Flemish. Far in the distance, she heard hooves. Diniz, with one horse from the sound of it, and about to rush up and be killed. And further off, surely, the rumble of a great number of riders. And wheels.

It was either Louis or the convoy. The men holding her were either scouts from one of these or two of the disaffected from Bruges, and
whichever they were, they were very likely to dispose of her now. It was a gamble, but she had nothing much to lose. She drew a breath and screamed, ‘Diniz! Go and get Louis to help!’ and received another blow as Diniz came hurtling into view, saddleless on a horse like a carpet. He had his sword drawn. The two men released her and drew theirs. She kicked one, and achieved a lock on the other, her knife at his neck. She said, ‘Move, and I’ll kill. This is Diniz Vasquez. Friend of mine. Friend of Monseigneur’s. All you have to do is come with us to Monseigneur.’

‘I know you,’ said one of the men, staring at Diniz. ‘He’s who she says he is. So why are you here then?’

‘To tell my cousin that the portcullis is down and there are cannon at the Ghent Gate. They’re expecting him.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said the man. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I did,’ Gelis said, lowering her knife and awarding him a single, smart blow on the ear. ‘You weren’t listening.’ Then the rumble of hooves became thunder, and a mass of horsemen filled the Ghent road ahead. The banners were the ones she had hoped for, and the blazon was plain now in the torchlight on the sleeves of the two scouts as well. The blazing twin cannons and the motto,
Plus est en vous
, of Gruuthuse.

It had been a long ride; he must have been tired; but he was an exceptional man, Louis de Bruges, seigneur de Gruuthuse, Count of Winchester, Prince of Steenhuse, first chamberlain and chevalier d’honneur of the Duchess and Countess of Flanders; and the splendour of his plumed helm, his silver cuirass, his velvet housings and jewelled harness was only the outer manifestation of his quality. The conference was swiftly held there, on the spot, that was to determine what was to come, and all the rest—the surprise, the censure, the commiseration—was relegated until later. With his lieutenants about him, he gave his orders, and only finally turned to his cousin. ‘Go behind to the wagons and wait. I am sorry the night is so cold, but it should resolve itself soon, and then you can come in and be comfortable.’

The wagons. It was not just Gruuthuse’s troop they had met, it was both the parties expected that night. Gruuthuse had overtaken the convoy from Nancy.

She did not know that she was weeping, mounted on the shaggy horse behind Diniz as it plodded slowly down from the head of the troop, past the massed ranks of armed men. She did not think of what she had just heard, or consider, just yet, the fate of the town at her back, and all those within it: Adorne and his men; her own child and Tilde’s at the Hof Charetty-Niccolo; Kathi’s children in the Hôtel Jerusalem, separated from the mother who waited with her cousin in the Hospital of St John, among the blood and the shattered glass. And then, yes, Gelis stopped weeping, for this was what Kathi was waiting for.

There were four carts, and perhaps eight men on horseback, dismounted
at present, with the reins in their hands, talking in low voices by the roadside. Six were escorts, and two were better dressed: former prisoners well enough to ride. There were two other horses, loosely tied to one of the wagons. The wagons themselves were well made, and quilts and straw and pillows could be seen in the darkness under the hoods, and the muted glow of travelling braziers. Everything possible had been done to make the journey bearable, but of course nothing could help the vibration of the unyielding wheels on the frozen ruts of the road, or prevent the cold air from whining through crannies. There was almost no sound from inside the wagons. Later, Gelis realised that Tobie had been sleeping, exhausted, with his patients slumbering about him. At the time, she saw only John le Grant, grimly awake, silently busying himself in the ultimate wagon, cleaning and setting out handguns. There were only four, and some crossbows. The freed prisoners of Nancy had not expected a fight.

At the sound of the hooves, the engineer set down his rag and looked up, clearly anticipating one of the escort. Then he stayed very quiet, looking at Diniz, and at Gelis seated behind, her hand on his shoulder. Finally he said, ‘Is Kathi with you?’ and lifted his head a little when Gelis shook hers.

It was Diniz who saw what to do: dismounting with Gelis and extending his hand until John took it, stepping heavily down to the road and moving across to the side, where they all three stood, apart from the others. He did not look dirty, or wounded, or starved; simply very much older, with the vigour gone from his hair and lines bitten into his skin. He said, ‘I’m sorry. They say we can’t get into Bruges because of some rising. Ghent is the same. The Duke seems to be doing as much damage dead as he did when he was living, the bastard.’

Gelis said, ‘It shouldn’t be long.’ She added, ‘Kathi is waiting with Arnaud quite close, in the Hospital of St John. We’d only just heard you were all coming. Then we were afraid you might be involved with the fighting. But Louis will do something, I know.’

John said, ‘I thought you would be in Scotland.’ It seemed to be beyond him to say what had to be said.

Then she saw what he was in fact saying. She said, ‘Nicholas is in Scotland, intent on behaving like the Mastiff of Brittany, as usual. I shall take Jodi there later. Kathi might join us one day, with her children. The Berecroftses would want her.’

She saw that somehow, at last, she had helped him. John said, ‘He is still alive. He’s in there,’ and nodded towards a dark wagon. ‘Tobie is with him.’

She climbed in gently, Diniz behind her. A brazier glimmered, softening the cold. Far at the back, the shape under the quilt on the makeshift mattress of straw was still and silent, and the face of the man
lying there was invisible. Nearer at hand, the doctor lay on his back in deep slumber, his hat askew on his pale, balding head; his creased cloak and rucked doublet and jacket far from the standards expected by Clémence. Diniz said, ‘He’s all right as well. They’ve only got to get through these gates … They can’t stay here all night.’ His face was wet.

Tobie opened his eyes.

Kestrel’s eyes, pale round the dot of the pupil.
There is a problem. I am assessing it
. He looked exhausted. Gelis said, ‘We’re outside Bruges, waiting to clear the Gate and get in. Diniz and I came out to see you.’

Tobie sat up. ‘You’ve seen John, then.’ They were speaking in whispers.

Diniz said, ‘He told us Robin was here. That is all.’

‘That’s all right then,’ Tobie said. ‘He’s sleeping. What’s happening?’

Diniz looked at him and at Gelis. ‘I’ll find out,’ he said, and took the horse and rode off. The cohort ahead hadn’t either moved or dismounted. Sitting in the wagon by Tobie, Gelis watched Diniz ride its full length and vanish. Tobie didn’t speak and, being at a loss what to do, she was silent. Then suddenly there was movement ahead, but not what she expected: one of Louis’s captains, with Diniz, riding quickly towards them. They stopped at each of the wagons, ending with hers. Diniz looked different. He said, ‘It’s over.’

It was over because Louis de Gruuthuse, out of hearing and sight of his troops, had ridden alone to the Ghent Gate of Bruges, a torch in his hand, so that they might see without doubt who and what he was. And there, when the shouting had died, he had told them that they could have what they wanted, and that, if they came to the Hôtel de Ville in a day, they would hear read out the Duchess’s promise that the rights of the Franc of Bruges, as the Fourth Member for Flanders, would be suppressed.

He was surprised (he said) that they had put Lord Cortachy and the good Master Breydel and his son to such trouble, for between friends, it was only necessary to talk. And, especially, he had hoped to find a welcome this day, when he had come expressly from Ghent to escort men who deserved better from Bruges than to be held up in the cold and the dark while some petty matter of money was settled.

He asked the burghers of Bruges to open wide (he said) the gates of their town to the heroes of the town. The wagons, toilsomely come the long journey from Nancy, which contained the men who had fought for the Duke, and had suffered for it. Those who had given not merely money but their liberty and their health that the states of Burgundy should remain proud and free. ‘Will you welcome them?’ said Louis de Gruuthuse. ‘Will you open your gates, and let them see that they have not fought in vain?’

Ahead of Gelis, the wagons were already lurching into motion. The
horsemen remounted, John and Tobie in silence among them. Those who could sat up in their carts, their cloaks wrapped about them, and peered out as they rocked past the troops and made for the stretch of white road that led to the bridge and the great Gate of Ghent. Gelis and Diniz, separately horsed, rode behind. As they approached, it could be seen that, with effort, the carpenters had raised and secured the portcullis with chains. The mob, weapons forgotten, took their torches and lined all the way, bridge and drawbridge and archway into the town, shouting and singing. And the carts, rumbling, passed over between them and entered the avenue that led to their homes. The people followed. Only then did the troops of Louis de Gruuthuse stir, and without drum or trumpet silently enter the town and disperse as commanded. And Louis himself, after commending all his stalwart captains and the troops of the Burg, took Anselm Adorne and set him in the great chamber of his own Palace, his best wine at his side. ‘Seaulme, what would I do without you?’ he said. ‘And we’ve brought your Robin home.’