Gemini (13 page)

‘Yes. I see,’ said Oliver Sinclair, as if he had spoken. He stirred and, leaning over, refilled Nicholas’s cup. ‘So you yourself have come back without plans. But you might one day wish to set up a trading house? With Sersanders and the Conservator, perhaps? Or with me?’ All his teeth, although uneven, were intact, even back to the molars. They said there wasn’t a girl in Orkney his father hadn’t bedded, and he was the same.

Nicholas said, ‘That is not why I am here. I am troubled by what I hear, and what I see in the King’s apartments. I wished to ask my lord’s advice about his grace the Duke of Albany.’

‘Do you think this is a subject for you?’ Sinclair said. The courtesy was unimpaired.

Nicholas said, ‘If I may risk my lord’s displeasure. The death of Burgundy threatens all existing alliances. Your peace with England has brought many benefits. His grace the King and his advisers wish to maintain it. The ladies his sisters and the Princes his brothers may not agree, but only Alexander of Albany is of an age or of a …’

‘Maturity?’ Sinclair suggested. His expression had not changed.

‘… of a maturity to act on his feelings. May I speak of his marriage?’

‘You appear to be speaking without restriction,’ Sinclair said.

Nicholas began to experience faint feelings of gratitude. He said, ‘The King’s marriage deprived your father of the earldom of Orkney, but brought him compensations, including Albany’s marriage to your lady half-sister. Had the Queen proved to be childless, Albany’s sons might hope to inherit the throne. But she has not, and so the Duke has become restless. Either he seeks power at home, or through some great foreign marriage.’ He paused.

‘So?’ said Oliver Sinclair. He signed to his attendant, who left the room. His manner changed to one more precise. ‘So perhaps you should know that his sons my nephews were never eligible to inherit the throne. And that the divorce which, no doubt imminently, will separate the Duke of Albany from Catherine will, by its nature, bastardise the same boys and the child she is carrying now. I have to say,’ added the lord of Roslin, tenting his fingers, ‘that I cannot greatly blame Sandy. Like her brother, the woman is addled.’

‘I had heard,’ Nicholas said.

‘And you are suggesting what?’ Sinclair said. The door opened ‘Ah,’ said Oliver Sinclair. ‘Come in. Master Nicol, let me reintroduce you to one of the several of my sisters who are not addled. Betha?’

Betha. There, as Nicholas sprang up and turned, stood the rotund and positive lady who had been the mainstay of the royal nursery; who
had reared the King’s sister Margaret at Haddington Priory, when Kathi, Adorne’s niece, had attended her. Betha, widowed, stouter, with her three daughters doubtless married, and now brought in to inspect him, or more likely chastise him. She said, ‘Who dunted your face?’

‘Not I,’ said her brother. ‘Master Nicol is well able to take care of himself. He is about to tell us why we should allow him to become the mentor and close friend of Sandy Albany. Am I right?’ He had poured wine, and now gave it to Betha, who had seated herself at his side. A tribunal of two.

Betha said, ‘They are good friends already, from what I hear. Why, Nicol?’

Nicholas said, ‘Because he could be a danger, and needn’t be.’

‘I think I might very well agree with you,’ Sinclair said. ‘But I wonder why you should care?’

‘I want to bring my wife and child here,’ Nicholas said. ‘And well-run countries can profit from turmoil abroad.’

‘And what would you do,’ Betha said, ‘aside from holding poor Sandy’s hand?’

Nicholas set down his cup. ‘If you believe that is what I think of him,’ he said, ‘we might as well stop this conversation now.’

‘Forgive Betha. That is her way. But,’ said Oliver Sinclair, ‘I have to ask myself this. Might you not be tempted, as a friend, to foster my lord of Albany’s restlessness, and perhaps even to aid some of his schemes?’

‘My lords of the Council do not think so,’ Nicholas said.

Silence. The cold blue eyes rested on his. Then: ‘I do see,’ said Oliver Sinclair, with his widest, most conciliatory smile. ‘You might have begun with this news, but I see you felt that you should examine my expectations for yourself. Let me therefore repeat them. By the terms of the renunciation of Orkney, my father agreed that he would henceforth hold no post, nor play any part in the governing of Scotland other than his occasional presence, as an observer, in Parliament. The same applies to myself. I seek no power, and I hold no dynastic ambitions. My half-sister married my lord of Albany because she could hope for no better marriage and because we, familiar to him from childhood, might help to guide him through the years of his growth, as we have tried to do for his sisters. But it has not been easy. And I have to admit, with the lords of the Council, that the time has come where—independent—help may well be hoped for. It seems that you are trusted to do this?’

The voice was amiable. The gaze remained, unblinkingly chilly. As a credo, it could hardly be improved upon, and was mostly true, depending on how you defined the term
dynastic ambitions
. Another of the great Nowie’s sisters had married the King’s half-uncle Atholl and presented him, to date, with two sons and nine daughters, which was presumably nine daughters more than he wanted, but a tribute to something.

‘He’ll do it anyway,’ Betha said. ‘He’s just giving you notice.’

Sinclair smiled. ‘You have an adherent, my dear Nicol,’ he said. ‘So why are we wasting time over this? I am to understand that you will be spending time in Albany’s company, so long as his fancy permits it, which may not be as long as any of us would desire. And if Andrew Avandale regards you as trusthworthy, then so surely should I. And, of course, because Betha says so.’

‘And because of the other reason he’s here,’ Betha said.

Sinclair turned his head. For a long moment, he gazed at his sister, and she sustained the gaze without blinking. He said, ‘I think we leave the other reason aside.’

‘I don’t,’ said Betha. ‘She’s waiting. As for Sandy, why not ask her opinion? She may not know the best or the worst of Nicol here, but she kens more than we do.’

Nicholas rose. He said, ‘I will leave if you want me to.’

‘Oh Christ, man,’ said Betha. ‘D’ye think I’d want you to hurt her, or get her to say or do anything but what she wants? She wants to see you.’

Sinclair said, ‘It’s a pity you told her he was here.’ He stood and walked round to Nicholas. ‘We are speaking of Phemie, our cousin. You knew her at Haddington, where Tom Yare has a brother. It was Yare who suggested you call?’

‘Yes. Then may I see her?’ said Nicholas. He looked at Sinclair, but instead was beholding the past: Phemie, and Kathi, and the rest of the brilliant company at the Priory of Haddington. The stalwart Prioress; the gentle nun Alisia Maitland who had helped to control the wild little red-headed princess; the servant Ada feeding her babies, and not yet married to Crackbene. The whole great, unwieldy, teeming Cistercian convent, with its flocks and its herds and its orchards; its hordes of paying guests and their households; the council meetings for prayer; the visits of the dancing-master, the doctors, the courtiers; Will Roger patiently conducting the singing and playing. Jodi stumbling about, chuckling. Tobie. Gelis. And again, quicksilver masterful Kathi with her fearsome small charge; and Phemie. Phemie Dunbar, daughter of the late Earl of March and cousin of Betha; not yet in full holy orders, and so able to travel, to perfect her gift for music and verses; to discover friendship and laughter. Dear Phemie.

Sinclair said, ‘Take him to her.’

The place Betha took him to was warm and bright, a little apartment of several rooms, the first of which had thick paned glass in the windows and a table and prie-dieu, and a leather chair and a stool set before a real fireplace. The fire was laden with peat, the dark sods outlined with vermilion from the cave of heat that shimmered below, and blue flames playing around it. When Betha opened the door the ash blew about, fine as dust from a kiln. Betha said, ‘Here he is,’ and ushered him in without
entering herself. The door shut, and he could not speak for the stone in his throat.

Euphemia Dunbar, daughter of a great family, sat by the window, her embroidery at her side. Instead of the coif she had worn for so long, a white cap covered her hair, and the cold daylight on her pure brow and strong cheekbones and solid nose made her skin seem as pale as the linen. Below, she wore a dull-coloured gown with a fringed shawl set on her shoulders; her hair, not having grown, hardly showed under the cap. The light made it grossly apparent that she was perhaps five months with child.

She said nothing, and he saw that it was because she, also, was unable to speak. Then she mastered it and said, ‘Poor Nicholas. Tom Yare should never have told you: this is the last place you must want to be. But thank you for coming.’

She had put his hesitation down to revulsion. He crossed the room at once and, kneeling, took her hand, and then kissed her, his cheek against hers. For a moment she rested against him. Then she set him back and said, ‘There’s wine over there. We both need it.’

He spoke while he was pouring. ‘Tom Yare is a very sensible person, and so is Betha. I wanted to come. Sir Oliver wasn’t so sure.’ He gave her a cup and sat down, regarding her soberly. ‘Are you well? You know that none of us knew about this?’

Phemie said, ‘Nicholas. It’s all right. I know you aren’t here as an agent of Nowie’s. And yes, of course I know how well the secret has been kept. I wanted that, as well as the family.’

He drank his wine and listened to what she was saying and how she was saying it. This wasn’t someone’s frail, frightened daughter surrounded by enemies. This was a cultured, intelligent woman who had had many weeks in which to decide what to do. He said, ‘They think they know, of course, the name of the father. But you haven’t confirmed it?’

She smiled, her eyes bright. ‘Now you have come, perhaps you will shake their convictions. No, I haven’t confirmed it. Everyone has been very kind. I lack nothing. But I do need advice.’

Of course she did. It was why he was here. ‘If you wish, I shall give it,’ he said. ‘But you know, surely, what he would want. Would he want you to ask me at all?’

‘He would want you to help me,’ she said, ‘if he knew this had happened. He doesn’t know. There is to be a child. I wish to rear it. But I am unmarried; I was in holy orders, if only of the minor kind. I cannot ask him to acknowledge this. I had hoped to keep it quite secret; to go perhaps to my sister’s in Moray before it became obvious, but one of the doctors found out. Nowie has been kind: he and Betha brought me here and only a few people know, but already the rumour is growing. I have thought that the best thing might be to have the child fostered, and to
return to my family. Scandals come, and are forgotten. I had thought even of saying that I was molested; but it would not ring true. The trouble is—’

‘That as everyone knows, you have only ever been fond of one man,’ Nicholas said. ‘Phemie? Don’t you want his son or his daughter? Don’t you want to keep it all your life?’

Her eyes were stark, but she didn’t give way. She said, ‘Of course I do.’

‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘don’t you think that he would feel the same? Keep the child, that is the first thing. It is yours. And next, let him know.’

‘Nicholas?’ she said. ‘Think. If I tell him, I give him no choice. This is not something he could or would hide. Yet he is a great man. How could I go there, and have him install me in some house, in the same town as his children? How could I force him to consider leaving his home and exiling himself to this place, out of a sense of duty towards me?’

‘He is a widower,’ Nicholas said. ‘There are dispensations; there are procedures which you could follow, I am sure. You could marry.’

‘There, you don’t know him as I do,’ she said. ‘It may sound possible, but more likely it would cut one or both of us off from the Church. I don’t mind, but for him, that would be terrible.’

‘He would have his love for you,’ Nicholas said. ‘And yours for him.’

There was a space. Then she said, ‘Would love not spare him this?’

‘Perhaps,’ Nicholas said. ‘But respect comes into it as well: regard for his beliefs; for his right to decide for himself. I should want that. Everyone would. Phemie … give me a letter to send him. Then it is between him and his conscience. But at least he has the dignity of a man, making a choice. He wouldn’t want to be spared.’

‘No. I see that,’ she said. After a while, she continued, ‘Whatever I sent—he wouldn’t receive it for two weeks … a month. And as long for the reply. Longer, if I go north.’

‘I shall be here,’ Nicholas said. ‘Don’t go away. Talk to me. I shall come whenever you like. But until you hear what he wishes, no one can be sure of a name.’ He smiled. ‘You have not spoken one, even yet; and neither have I.’

She released a long sigh, and looked at him in something gallantly close to her usual manner. She said, ‘That is certainly true. If I … When I … Now that I am writing this letter, how will you know where to send it?’

‘I shall have to guess,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or send it in triplicate to three very surprised men. Phemie: he deserves you, and you deserve him.’

R
ETURNED TO
S
IR
O
LIVER
and his sister, Nicholas was formal and brief. ‘I have no more to tell you than your lady cousin has told you herself.
There is nothing she wants to add meantime. If and when there is, she will tell you herself. No one could appreciate your present kindness more than she does.’

‘But she told you the name of the father,’ said Sinclair.

‘It was never mentioned,’ said Nicholas. ‘She has, however, asked me to visit her. Would this be allowed?’

‘Allowed?’ Sinclair said. ‘My dear Nicol, how strange you make us sound. Of course, unless I am away, you will always be welcome. Indeed, there are some matters that you and I might well talk of with profit before you go back. You haven’t eaten? Then come along, my dear man, and favour my board.’

Betha was staring at him. He agreed. On the way, she addressed him in an undertone. ‘Are ye as wabbit as ye look?’