Gemini (45 page)

The Papal Collector’s handsome agent turned to the King. Then he knelt. ‘Kill me,’ said David Simpson. ‘Burgundy has always been powerful here. You cannot risk offending her. You will believe these two foreigners and their friends, but you will not believe me, who wished to protect you.’

He looked up, his magnificent eyes full of anguish. ‘Can you think I would harm you, my lord? Can you believe a tale such as this? That your own brother truly means you no harm, but would allow the whole Court to be poisoned, simply to entrap one supposed murderer?’

‘But we weren’t poisoned,’ said Will Roger’s reasonable voice. ‘At least, I didn’t get any mushrooms. There’s my kerchief. You can look.’

‘Willie,’ said Nicholas. ‘Put it into the fire.’

‘It’s evidence!’

Albany said, ‘We have plenty of evidence in the kitchen. The doctored soup was identified, and other means found to produce an effect of discomfort. Master Simpson thought his plan had worked, and implicated himself, as we hoped. Only some of the soup got to Johndie, although he got rid of most of it.’

‘You gave it him?’ the King said. A great flush had spread over his face.

‘Master Simpson gave it to him,’ said Adorne. He looked at the kneeling man, who slowly rose. ‘He hoped to remove both my lord’s brothers and their friends, as well as myself, the King’s servant. There would remain David Simpson, spokesman for a Bishop, and the King’s sole close adviser.’

There was a silence. John of Mar had stepped to the floor and rolled over. He then attempted to walk. Adorne continued in the same civilised voice. ‘His sight is blurred and his senses distorted: he does not know what is real. It is dangerous. He should be watched until he recovers.’

The King said, ‘This drug is known in your family?’ His voice was strained.

‘It is found in convents, your grace. A member of my Genoese kindred so used it, when she resorted to perpetual fasts and became a religious visionary, in response to her husband’s philandering. It has no bearing on this, except that it suggested a drug and a trick that would implicate me. I must say again: my lord of Albany is quite innocent of plotting against you, and so are de Fleury and myself. The plot is Simpson’s alone.’

‘So you say,’ said the King. ‘We find it difficult to imagine why. And what of the pendulum? What was this fateful message that the pendulum was supposed to deliver? What of that?’

Nicholas answered. ‘It was meaningless, sire. The so-called magic was just Simpson’s device to fill time until the drug took effect. Then he could denounce his personal enemies as poisoners. My lord of Cortachy and his family. Others who had offended him in Egypt. My wife and myself.’ His attention, Tobie saw, was half on the door. Someone had gone to call up the Guard.

‘He accused my brother,’ said the King. He searched behind him, and finding his gown, dragged it on over his shirt. Then he strode to the steps and set foot on them. Albany moved away from the throne. James said, ‘Was this what you wanted? Perhaps Simpson wanted his enemies dead, but perhaps you did as well? With your King gone, you would never need to wait for orders from me. Then you could challenge your counterpart Gloucester as much as you like, and waste the country’s strength in picking fights with those allies you don’t agree with.’ He was shaking.

‘No,’ said Albany. ‘Yes, I enjoy fighting and you don’t. Yes, I want to fight. No, I didn’t plan to kill you. Can’t you understand? Can’t you understand what we’re telling you?’

Nicholas suddenly moved. Tobie saw that the royal Archers had come and were thrusting through the door, no doubt expecting some band of assassins. He discerned, among the silvery helms, the determined fair face of Henry. Then he saw Andro Wodman attempting to enter and being stopped. The Conservator made a single, violent sign towards Nicholas, who started towards him and found his arms pinned at his back.

The King said, ‘Not yet, sir. No one leaves yet.’ Henry, sword in hand, had noticed Nicholas, and Gelis behind him. His face changed. His captain, looking about, also came to a halt.

William Scheves said, ‘We are glad you have come. No one is armed, apart from Simon Preston’s own men. A circumstance has arisen which needs resolving, and until that is done, his grace would prefer that no one leave the castle. By your leave, my lord?’

It was bold, for Scheves himself was still under suspicion. He stood, as he had throughout, on the ascent to the dais, although he had descended two steps so that the King, sitting abruptly, was still his superior. Without his ceremonial robes, Will Scheves of the pleasant long face and round shoulders had reverted to a different, well-practised authority: that of the efficient physician-dispenser, the well-read natural statesman who had long served the King. The King looked at him for a space, and then nodded.

Nicholas bit his lip. David Simpson, by the King’s vacated chair, bent and straightened, causing a threatening rustle which seemed to amuse him. He held the fallen bronze bowl, cradling it in his manicured fingers. ‘Alms, Nicholas?’

His voice was bantering. The beseeching figure of a moment ago had
quite gone. The King had not responded and David Simpson had understood, Tobie supposed, that he was not going to succeed. However angry and uncertain James might be at this moment, there were witnesses, there was evidence, and very soon it would be plain what Simpson had done, and he would face the penalty, which was death. The final reward for a petty, miserable life.

And yet his voice was teasing, amused; and Nicholas was looking at no one else. As if they were alone in the room, Simpson said, ‘You must forgive me. I had no idea you could truly divine. What a convenience!’

‘I am glad you think so.’ The King was looking elsewhere. Nicholas added, ‘And with accuracy, as a rule.’

‘Without any doubt. You saw Andro. I left a message. They will wait for me till sunrise tomorrow.’

‘Where?’ Nicholas said. Mar was shouting again, and men were trying to restrain him. The drowsiness was leaving the room: as the King’s voice rose, issuing orders, the stools and cushions were kicked aside, and the innocent afflicted were encouraged to stand to one side, preparatory to leaving. Among them was Gelis who, to Tobie’s eye, had drunk nothing at all and had simply been overcome by sleep. Then she was masked by the trailing shambles of Willie Roger and his musicians, one of whom brushed against Nicholas, who took the chance, presently, to rearrange his shirt-sleeve. Within it, if the doctor was not mistaken, was a small sharp instrument normally used for the trimming of strings.

Then Tobie and Nicholas himself were lashed by the wrist and herded with the other suspects to the opposite side. Simpson, his hands tied, walked beside them, together with Anselm Adorne, as yet unbound. Katelinje and John le Grant followed. Coming close to Simpson, Nicholas spoke, as if continuing a conversation, which indeed he was.

‘Where?’ he said; and the Procurator, smiling, answered, ‘Your castle, where else? How proud he will be, to die there, at sunrise, for you.’ Then he was pushed aside.

Tobie murmured, ‘What?’ But it was Henry de St Pol who usurped what he had been going to say, nodding to the guard who held Nicholas by the free arm before thoughtfully dismissing him and, twisting the arm, taking his place. Nicholas swore.

Henry said, ‘Yes, what? What have you done this time, dearest Uncle?’

‘Nothing,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s the Blackfriars silver all over again. Do you know what I want?’

‘To escape?’ said Henry, and laughed.

‘No. To have David Simpson escape. His men have taken a hostage. If Davie doesn’t join them by sunrise tomorrow, the prisoner will die.’

‘Who?’ said Tobie; but he knew. He had heard the five letters that made up the man’s name. He was still trying to digest that catastrophe
when John of Mar burst through the door to the turnpike. There, instead of descending, he set off, screaming and lurching, to scale the spiral steps to the roof. The flat, stone-flagged roof from which you could see the sea, and Edinburgh Castle.

The King shouted. Men raced to follow. Nicholas swore. Tobie, coming to life, said, ‘Mar didn’t help you. You can’t help him.’ Something ripped down his sleeve and parted the rope that bound him to Nicholas. He saw, to his utter astonishment, that David Simpson was one of those who had leaped for the door. Simpson was free. Simpson had been freed by Henry, who had now vanished. A hand, belonging to Nicholas, gripped Tobie hard and propelled him likewise to the door. As men bounded up the stairs, he and Nicholas bounded down. At the foot they saw no sign of David, but Henry de St Pol sprinting up with three horses. Behind him were two riders already mounted: Andro Wodman, looking displeased, and Gelis.

Nicholas stared at her. He said, ‘Why not? So where are the Chapel Royal Singers?’

Henry grinned. Gelis said, ‘I’m coming. And you’ll also need Henry and Tobie. Get up.’

Henry said, ‘You could send the doctor away.’

But Nicholas said, ‘No, we can’t.’

He didn’t explain. To Tobie, he didn’t have to explain.

Five letters. Robin.

T
HE WINTER SUN
rises late in the north, and does not care whether it looks upon the new-born, or the expiring, or the prisoner whose execution it has brought. A party of five active people had set out to find a young man by sunrise, but to do this, they had to cross sixty miles of moorland, ravines and hills in the dark, following indistinct muddy tracks and stopping only to change their tired horses where they could, and to snatch some food and drink to keep them in the saddle. There was no time to rest.

Gelis, dame de Fleury, had ridden far and fast on business before, and had helped to manage a tough band of mercenaries before the battle that destroyed her husband’s company, as it had half destroyed Robin of Berecrofts, in whose cause she was making this journey. She had ridden far and fast, but rarely in darkness, like this, in a group of which Nicholas became immediately the leader, even though Wodman, his elder, was there.

Wodman and Tobie, she supposed, were in their forties. Henry must be barely eighteen. She was not sure why Henry had chosen to come. He had long since become disenchanted with Simpson, and had displayed a ghoulish delight in the scenes at Craigmillar. Yet he had freed Simpson immediately when Nicholas asked him. It might, of course, have been for the sake of the hostage. Perhaps. More likely, Henry had elected to reverse last year’s episode of the oyster-sellers for his own entertainment. Nicholas had told her enough about that to explain Andro’s thrice-broken nose, and the present scowl over and under it.

As yet, Henry didn’t know who the hostage might be, except that he was clearly important and rich. Nicholas claimed not to know either. In fact, they all did. That was why Tobie was here. Tobie was not going to see squandered the long struggle to bring Robin safely back home and to
give him a life of his own. He fulminated, and Gelis sympathised, for she could not understand, even yet, how this had happened. There existed iron-clad rules for protection, especially on occasions like this, when Nicholas and Simpson might be together. Ever since the Milanese bale, they had been on guard against poison. Yet Robin, in the care of his father, of Sersanders, of Clémence, had been captured—the least likely victim, you would think: helpless, difficult to transport, of little importance to anyone.

So your normal bold plotter might think. But Davie Simpson knew Nicholas, and knew Kathi. Davie Simpson had been in no doubt what threat would bring Nicholas most quickly, apart from one to his family.

And now what? But she did not have to think of that, for Nicholas himself talked it over as they rode.

He took Henry beside him, since Henry was a member of the Royal Guard, and would make the arrest when they found Simpson. He also consulted Henry and Wodman at the various places he halted: at Malcolmston, to borrow cloaks and spare hacks from the Browns; at Bathgate for torches and food. There were blankets strapped to the saddles that Wodman had brought; Gelis had made no change to her wide-skirted gown, and observed the wreck of its nap without regret. She listened to Nicholas, talking.

‘Andro found out the hostage was going to Beltrees, and sent two men on ahead. The hostage will be there by now, but Simpson won’t. He has to get there by daybreak, he claims, or the hostage will be killed. It may be true. It may be that he has told his men to wait a while longer. But if the morning wears on and he doesn’t arrive, his men are going to think he has been captured or killed, and flee themselves, after killing their prisoner.’

‘How many men does he have?’ That was Wodman.

‘Oh, I don’t think you need worry.’ That was Henry. ‘Half a dozen servants, who’ll run, and not more than twelve bowmen and grooms he brings in when he’s in residence.’ Alone of them all, Henry wore a plumed helmet, cuirass and greaves, and carried a sword. He added, ‘If your men are so far ahead, why didn’t you tell them to catch Simpson and bring him back to us?’

Nicholas answered before Wodman could, in a thoughtful way. ‘It’s possible, but, as I said, time is the problem. Simpson will have to stop now and then, if only to try and pick up fresh horses. It’s my guess that he’ll follow the Newbattle route. The monks travel this way all the time, and are well thought of in the cots where they stay. The same places will welcome Davie, and perhaps hinder us, if he’s told them some story. I think we’d be better avoiding them meantime. I’d like to know when he’s close to the tower, and then take him before he gets in. After that, it’s his life in exchange for the hostage’s.’

Henry said, ‘He wouldn’t agree. If he did, you’d just besiege him and kill him.’

Gelis said, ‘Or what about swearing an oath? If he has the hostage brought out, you will let Simpson and his men escape to wherever they want. They could ride to Dumbarton and take ship.’

‘Dumbarton wouldn’t do,’ said Nicholas. ‘In fact, none of it will do, because he wouldn’t trust us.’

‘So?’ said Tobie. She had thought he had gone to sleep in the saddle.