Gemini (24 page)

The riders wore padded linen, without blazons. It would be more formal tomorrow, but not much. When denying his services to Willie Roger, Nicholas had pointed out amiably that it wasn’t as if Willie had to provide for a Royal Grand Entry. It was only the English dowry money arriving again: third instalment, two thousand crowns, delivered this year by the Canon of Windsor. The dowry belonged to the Princess Cecilia of England, aged eight, who was to marry James, Prince of Scotland, aged four, but not yet. No one brought a sword, naked or other; just money. And since the envoy came every year, a romp at Orchardfield and a banquet or two were good enough. Although, as it happened, Nicholas had helped Willie with something for the finale.

A small number of trim, confused sheep had arrived on the field: it was nearly time for the Pastoral Passage. The Shepherdess was a part often played by a man, and normally, Nicholas would have agreed to dress up. He had done it before, because he liked clowning. When he did it now, it tended to be for a reason, and because it let him create something distinctive. But not today.

Today, in place of his chosen candidate, Willie had simply installed the largest of the town’s brewster-ladies, and appointed Tam Cochrane and Robert his cousin to defend her. They were two hefty, country-built men, but Lang Bessie, six feet tall and pure brawn, was their equal: when they stood holding hands for the fanfare, they could have passed for a hanging arcade. Being an Edinburgh man and an unmarried burgess, Robert (Dob) Cochrane knew Lang Bessie even better than Tam. He slapped her buttocks and got on his horse, and the sheep ran about, bleating, and getting sand on their newly washed fleeces. The spectators settled down in expectancy.

There was supposed to be a series of duels, in which each of the Cochranes fought his way (for the Shepherdess) down a short queue of ravening seducers. One of those waiting was Henry, on his favoured agile, small horse, now lathered with sweat. Wodman was another, along with Leithie Preston, whose wife had once been married to Tam Cochrane’s brother. There were one or two friendly masons, clearly designing a happy bash at their fellows. There were some hammermen, including Will Tor of Tor, whose forebear had been a Royal Mint warden. Coiners
had been popular contestants in tourneys for as far back as the time of the King’s father. It seemed appropriate now, on an occasion to celebrate money. And, lastly, there was the odd bailie from the Knights of St John, who had a lot of property to defend, and liked to keep their reflexes supple. The Lord Precentor’s bastard was one of them. That is, one of the Lord Precentor’s bastards was one of them.

The trumpets blew, the Cochranes pranced forward, blunted swords in the air, and the contest began.

By this time, a lot of drink had gone round, and the spectators were boisterous. Beside Nicholas, the old man held aloof but Simpson engaged with his neighbours in a stream of light witticisms, invariably critical. His remoter neighbours responded, but Nicholas failed to contribute, although he appreciated the old man’s occasional grunt of explosive disgust. Under other circumstances, he might even have goaded St Pol into making some comment, but the standard of fighting was not high enough to interest an expert: the disgust, he well knew, was against Simpson. He wondered how good the old man had really been. Simon, his son, had once been a professional jouster. None of them fell off their horses.

The Cochranes, used to rough sport, were doing remarkably well. Tam had seen off two bailies, and Dob got rid of a liner and accidentally cut the face of a very small flesher on a big horse that got excited at the blood on the sand and lashed out at a sheep. The sheep lay on its back, complaining, until the Shepherdess strode forward and, lifting it in both muscular arms, handed it to a young page, who dropped it. Meanwhile Dob had felled the flesher who lay winded while his horse galloped away and the next contestant moved up.

Willie Roger, arriving like a spent bolt behind Nicholas, said, ‘They’re drunk.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Nicholas. Beside him, Simpson turned round. The old man grunted. Nicholas added, ‘I liked the last piece. They were all in tune, nearly.’

‘Not the singers,’ Roger said. His hat had come off and his grey hair lay about his long face like frayed rope.

Nicholas stared at the field. There was a roar. Leithie Preston had just felled Dob Cochrane. The big burgess lay on the ground, with his man running up, and an apothecary. Everybody else looked sober, including the three contestants still left in the queue. The youth in the middle was Henry. Nicholas said, ‘They don’t look drunk to me. Maybe dead.’ Cochrane stirred and was dragged off. Not dead, but out of the contest. Leithie stood aside, grinning, and Willie Tor moved up to fight the remaining Defender, eyeing the Shepherdess. The Tors had their domain close to Tayside, and the laird of Tor had never had the pleasure of Lang
Bessie’s acquaintance. He waited, sword in hand, as Tam Cochrane rode forward, and Jordan de St Pol unexpectedly spoke. ‘There is someone who can fight.’

This was true. At the side of the field, Leithie Preston’s joy had clearly moderated as he took thought. If Tam Cochrane was bested, Leithie would have to fight Tor for the Shepherdess.

Willie Roger said, repetitively, ‘The riders aren’t drunk. It’s the pigs.’

Nicholas, his mouth a little open, was watching the contest. He said, ‘You’re making it up. It’s an old story. I’ve heard it. I don’t want to hear it twice.
Christ!’
Beside him, Jordan grunted again. For the second time, Cochrane had been hit by a powerful blow to the chest. For the second time, he rocked in the saddle. Roger looked across, irritably. He said, ‘Tam isn’t going to last very long. And then, I’m telling you—’

He was stopped by a roar louder than all the rest. Nicholas jumped to his feet, as did everyone else but the heavy man at his side, who sank back defeated behind a phalanx of backs. Nicholas yelled at him, over his shoulder. ‘Tor is out. He was coming for Tam fair and square when his horse pecked. Tam’s lance spun him out of the saddle, and the poor devil’s flat out on the ground.’

‘He fell over a sheep?’ St Pol said. His voice, for once, held ordinary amusement.

Nicholas thumped down and grinned. ‘No. But you’d wonder if all they say about Preston witchcraft is true. Mags Preston, remember? She never had to settle her debts because no one could take her to court while she was under process and sentence of cursing. Leithie’s almost as bad.’ He was being frivolous. But there was no doubt that the accident gave Leithie a chance at the prize. Tor was out, and Henry, spurring forward, was not a very likely conqueror. Which would leave Preston just the exhausted Cochrane to fight.

Then he remembered there was one more contestant, and got up to look.

Jordan de St Pol’s long-sighted eyes had identified him already. He said, ‘What a surprise. You have royalty, Roger, at your display. My lord John, Earl of Mar, has favoured us by entering the contest.’

‘Mary, Mother of God,’ said Will Roger piously, and, vaulting over the bench, kicked Nicholas until he made room for him.

Simpson removed himself slightly, but smiled. He shifted the smile to the fat man; his voice was consoling. ‘I am sure, my lord, that you need not be anxious. Although Cochrane is tired, he will perform very stoutly: it will be simple for Henry to lose. Certainly, I should not like to be the man, or the boy, who stood between Johndie Mar and the lady. I believe he has been commanding her in vain for some time.’

Roger swore. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You didn’t know that Mar was coming,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘Anyway, even if Henry wins against Cochrane, he’ll lose against Leithie. And Leithie is a cool little bugger, who’ll make up his own mind whether to give in to Johndie or not.’

The fat man on his other side stirred. ‘What prompts you to think that Henry will lose against Cochrane?’

Nicholas swung round. Until you looked at it closely, the smooth, contemptuous face with its chins seemed unchanged. Their gaze met. ‘Look at his horse,’ Nicholas said. Then returning to Roger: ‘So. Drunk?’

Fright and anger left the musician’s face. He leaned towards Nicholas. Placing a thumb in each dimple, Willie Roger carefully kissed the other man on his pursed mouth. ‘Very drunk,’ said Will Roger fervently.

H
ENRY DE
S
T
P
OL
won his fight against Cochrane, simply because he was determined not to lose. He did not need to be told of the consequences. He would have to fight Tom (Leithie) Preston next. And if he won that (and Leithie would make sure that he did), he would have to fight the King’s crazy young brother for Lang Bessie, whom Johndie Mar wanted and Henry didn’t.

The alternative was to give up. And Henry de St Pol would never do that. Not with his fat Chamberpot grandfather sitting there gloating. The shock of seeing the old man, and de Fleury, and Davie Simpson all sitting together had scared Henry silly. Johndie Mar was nothing after that.

Which of course, was not so. John Stewart, Earl of Mar, was a fair, well-grown youth of eighteen, nearly three years older than Henry, wearing no armour at all, and riding a fresh, sturdy horse bred for tournaments. In place of a helm, he wore a felt cap with the royal badge pinned to its side. You couldn’t touch him without killing him. You couldn’t kill him, because he was the King’s brother. The crowd, which had cheered Henry’s two brave successes with increasing warmth, now observed a cool silence. The trumpeter swung his instrument to his lips. Henry looked across at his grandfather. De Fleury had gone. But Jordan de St Pol was still there; and as Henry looked, his grandfather gave him a nod.

Henry flushed. When the signal rang out and he set his neat little horse to its duty, his blue eyes were bright as the sky.

The Earl of Mar knew who Henry was. Since Johndie was ten, sycophantic courtiers had pointed out the wretched child who had attacked him on this spot. Where he could, Mar made Henry’s life inconvenient, and had opposed his selection for the Guard. He had not thought it worth doing more, until now. Mar wanted Lang Bessie.

Wearing no armour, he assumed all would be well: an initial leisurely
course during which the brat dared not hurt him and Mar would deliver one nicely judged blow, to send him toppling to the ground. And then look out Lang Bessie if she tried to escape him again. It amazed Johndie Mar, therefore, to spur his horse down the lists and see, on the other side of the bar, the opposite lance driving nearer and nearer, and not clearly intending to deflect its first blow at all.

A prince could not dodge. Mar waited until the last excruciating moment and then swung his lance sideways, battering the other weapon off course and allowing both combatants to reach the opposite ends of the lists with no damage. Mar turned his heaving horse and bestowed a menacing smile on the Shepherdess. The Shepherdess, surprisingly, smiled back, thus disguising the fact that a small sheep had escaped from her fold.

This time, the two riders had almost met, each lance aimed for the jugular, when the sheep ran bleating under their feet, pursued by three dogs. Mar’s horse stumbled and fell. So did Henry’s. Both the riders got up. Johndie Mar drew out his blade, which was sharp.

‘Your grace!’ Will Roger called. Sprinting on to the field, he carried two whalebone swords. Henry took one and Mar, slowly replacing his steel blade, took the other. They squared up to fight.

Now it was Henry who had the advantage. Whalebone wouldn’t kill, but it hurt. Fitter than Johndie, in fine practice from Sersanders’s grudging training, Henry advanced on Johndie Mar and began to rain blows on his body. And Mar responded by dropping the whalebone and drawing his own magnificent sword.

A gasp travelled round the spectators. In the stand Simpson smiled, and the fat man sat still, his face stolid. At the end of the list, there was a rumbling sound. Mar turned round. Willie Roger, excusing himself, stepped forward and whipped the sword from the Prince’s fingers, handing it to a page and offering the whalebone instead. Mar punched it away: ‘What d’you think you are doing?’ At the end of the lists a line of carts had appeared.

‘If my lord would finish the fight?’ Roger said. ‘It’s the pigs. They can’t wait much longer, and I’m afraid the pig-wives have got at the drink.’

‘What?’ said Mar; just as Henry’s whalebone sword knocked him down. He tried to get up, and found three dogs endeavouring to herd him. He got his sword and knelt, hitting at Henry, but Henry, politely not hitting back, kept gazing anxiously at the end of the list and Mar realised that, unless he got up and ran, a line of pig-asses, bells jangling, was about to run him over. He got up and jumped, and the pig-asses swept erratically by, their carts thunderous with fountaining pig-shards and their drivers’ whips cracking. The drivers, in short skirts and striped headgear, were all female, and tipsy.

They raced to the end of the lists, and someone was awarded the prize, to much cheering. In mid-field, Mar faced Henry. ‘Now,’ said Mar.

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ said Will Roger, appearing before them. ‘It’s over.’

‘What gave you that idea?’ said Johndie Mar.

Nicholas appeared. Nicholas de Fleury, the Burgundian. The Burgundian said, ‘I am sorry, my lord. But three courses were run. One inconclusive, one where both contestants fell, and the last exchange on foot, won by St Pol here.’

St Pol glared at the Burgundian. Roger looked meek. Mar threw away his practice sword for the second time, and looked for his own.

It had gone, and the page with it. The sheep had gone. The dogs had gone. At the end of the field, the painted platform was empty. Lang Bessie had gone as well.

‘Where is she?’ said Mar.

‘Why, my lord?’ Nicholas said. ‘The lady is the prize of St Pol.’

‘Damn St Pol,’ said Johndie Mar sweetly, and drew his knife, and lunged at him.

Henry skipped aside. Everyone skipped aside, for the pig-asses were thundering back on a victory circuit. And by the time they had reached the end of the field, Henry had gone, the swords had gone, and even Nicholas de Fleury was absent.

‘Pigs!’ said Davie Simpson admiringly, as the spectators rose, stretched and prepared to go home. ‘Pottery pigs. Pig-asses to carry the shards. Pig-wives to drive them.’