Gemini (47 page)

Of course, Nicholas also would know. He showed no awareness of it. Only, as the ascent led towards the more private chambers of the keep, he became more withdrawn. When he reached the door to the small hall, he stopped dead.

Wodman looked at him. Beside Gelis, Tobie also had come to a halt, his gaze sharp. She couldn’t see what was wrong. The cressets guttered. The stairway above was now dark. Below, dim in the powdery air, there swam the rose-coloured ghost of some window.

The reason why they had stopped she now saw. Unlike all the rest,
the door they were facing was shut. Wodman started to move, but Nicholas was quicker. Before he had taken a step, Nicholas had closed his hand on the knob and pressed the heavy door open. When it was wide enough to admit him, and no wider, he entered.

A voice said, ‘This is a knife, my lord. Come in, alone.’

A soldier’s voice: unknown; peremptory. Nicholas halted. Wodman put his hand on his sword.

A second voice spoke. ‘I am afraid you are too late, Nicholas. Dawn has come.’

The dulcet voice of the owner of Beltrees, David Simpson.

Henry, also, had silently drawn his sword.

Then the third voice made itself heard. A voice of authority, faintly amused, faintly languid, wholly contemptuous. ‘It has been a night of disappointments, has it not? My good Claes, come in and give up your sword, unless you want to be killed. I shall also accept my grandson and Andro, disarmed. Your lady and the doctor must wait. My men will show them where.’

The silence of the castle was broken. Running down the stairs from above there came men in light armour, with a familiar crest on their sleeves. The crest of the speaker, Jordan de St Pol, lord of Kilmirren.

There were too many to fight. Driven back to the stairs, Gelis eventually did what she was told. So did Tobie. Then the door closed on Nicholas, and Andro, and Henry.

S
IXTY MILES THROUGH
the night without sleep is no particular feat for a fit man, such as Nicholas de Fleury, who has been careful to eat and drink little, and who has prepared himself for most things, even this. This had always been possible.

The door closed, and he stood still, assimilating the room. It was not full of soldiers. There was no one before him but Simpson, standing alone in the centre, and Kilmirren himself, ensconced against the far wall in a chair by a brazier, sipping wine. Even the man who had disarmed them had gone. Nicholas remained, with Wodman and Henry behind him, and wondered, mildly, what the odds really were.

The hall before him was familiar enough, but not its contents, which glittered under the sconces. There were so many lights that the growing pallor outside hardly showed; and the exquisite David stood illuminated like a small, revered object, of the kind generally attached to a basin of flowers. That he was also a murderous swordsman must not be forgotten. Unlike Nicholas, he had had time to change from travel-stained court dress, and wore a quilted tunic and shirt which did not quite hide his muscles. His hair was uncovered, and his lips curled above the dark, dimpled chin. He said, ‘You did want Berecrofts dead? I was counting on it.’

Nicholas said, ‘Naturally. I counted on your counting on it.’ He could tell where Henry was from his grandfather’s eyes. Wodman also stood without sound, but close enough to a table for his reflection to shimmer across it.

Nicholas couldn’t decide whether the helpfulness was deliberate or not. He had mostly considered it genuine, the enmity between Andro and David: the ugly black man and the beauty, both of whom had once fought side by side in the King of France’s Royal Guard; both of whom had
once worked for the fat man now watching and sipping, watching and sipping over there.

Jordan de St Pol had expelled David, who had exceeded his orders and entertained hopes of usurping his business. David had briefly recruited Gelis to the same company, and no doubt once hoped to share in her wealth. David had not enjoyed her rejection, or her cleverness, or the fact that Wodman had kept St Pol’s trust when he hadn’t. David could not comprehend or forgive the success, financial or sexual, of anyone who did not look like David. Wodman didn’t look like David. Neither did he.

And Wodman? Wodman had given personal service to the old man, and to the French King, and now was independent of both, with a high position owed to Adorne. Andro Wodman had fought beside Nicholas. He had saved Jodi’s life. He had protected Bel. He had also collaborated with Nicholas in protecting Henry. He could not possibly know whose son Henry was. Without Wodman, they wouldn’t be here.

Henry didn’t know whose son he was either, and never would. You didn’t have to consider whom Henry would choose, because it was a foregone conclusion.

So you weighed up the chances, and played accordingly. You tried to forget Robin, for what was done was done. Afterwards, if you lived, you could afford to be human. Meanwhile—

Nicholas said, ‘If we are talking, do you mind if we sit by the brazier? There are some terrible draughts in this room. I always used to keep a screen there. So now tell me …’ He walked across and sat down by Kilmirren. The other two hesitated, and then did the same. Nicholas repeated, ‘So now tell me. What did you think when you heard of the
Star
?’

He was concentrating, with a pleased air, on Simpson. ‘I do hope you heard of the
Star
?
Star of Bethlehem?
Taken by pirates in the Narrow Sea? Colquhoun hopes to get the ship back, but I fear for the cargo. I heard it represented all your reinvested Florentine savings.’

‘There are laws,’ Simpson said. He let the three of them pass and sit down, and then walked to a settle and leaned on it. Drawing him, Donatello would have fainted.

Nicholas managed, without difficulty, to forget Donatello. He said, in the same friendly way, ‘Not in wartime. France is blockading Flanders. Remember the problems with Benecke’s mixed English cargo? Poor Henne’s altar-piece is in Danzig yet. I shouldn’t be surprised if this consignment hasn’t gone the same way. Paúel’s widow and daughter will be rich.’

‘I’m happy for them,’ Simpson said. ‘Is this a way of expressing superiority? If so, I am tempted to mention a matter of gold.’

He sounded, as Nicholas had, perfectly calm. Henry blinked.

‘My gold?’ Nicholas said. ‘I don’t see it here. Have you buried it?’

‘In a way,’ Simpson said. ‘It has been converted. It has rebuilt and furnished this house. You are sitting on it. You are standing on it. It has clothed the walls and painted the rafters above you. In your hands, it would have been dross.’

‘I sometimes suspect Ochoa had the same theory,’ Nicholas said. ‘So when you die, where does it go?’

‘To me,’ said Jordan de St Pol lavishly, from over the brazier. ‘As you have guessed.’

It was the first time he had spoken since the beginning. His morning beard, a silvery nap, coated the unconfined rolls of his chins. His eyes above it were fixed on Nicholas.

‘I hesitated to broach the matter,’ Nicholas said. It emerged sounding bemused. He removed his own gaze, a shade late. He felt giddy, actually giddy, with relief.
The bastard. The bloody-minded old bastard
. The fat man’s eyes did not change.

Henry said, ‘What do you mean, Beltrees will be ours?’ It was rare, these days, for his voice to split.

The old man said nothing, nor did Simpson. Wodman was still looking down. Nicholas explained, like a good marionette. He said, ‘As a reward for capturing Master Simpson, and stopping him from blowing everyone up. The King will confiscate Beltrees, and Sir Thomas Semple will request that it be passed to the neighbouring owner, your grandfather.’

Henry said, ‘I sent a man to my grandfather, while we were all riding to Beltrees. I told him where to find Berecrofts and Simpson. That was me.’

Nicholas said, ‘Well, it was risky, but it worked.’ He hoped Wodman wouldn’t speak.

Wodman said, ‘Good God, I warned Monseigneur well before that. It let him join up with Semple and come and clear this place out. Am I right?’

‘Yes, you are right,’ said the fat man. ‘Sir Thomas surrounded this tower with his men and mine. All the Beltrees men surrendered, and are now locked in Kilmirren. Their captive was found, and used to entrap David, in turn, when he arrived. David, of course, is my prisoner, thanks to Andro.’ He turned his indolent eyes on his grandson. ‘That was him.’

The bastard, indeed. There was nothing to be done.

‘And Berecrofts?’ Nicholas said. It was not yet time to be human, but he could legitimately ask, and sustain the answer, and get Tobie to help him, very soon.

‘Ah, Berecrofts,’ Kilmirren said. ‘Our crippled friend Robin of Berecrofts deceived us all. A condition of helplessness is, of course, disarming, but sometimes deceptive. The young man tricked his family and
actually ensured that he would be taken to Beltrees. He left a message for Andro.’

‘Why?’ Henry said.

‘He felt Master David here threatened his family. I am not sure I agree. I have always believed a sustained plan to be beyond our dear David. However. He guessed that David dreamed of confronting de Fleury, and was willing to assume the position of hostage.’

Wodman said, ‘It was quite a sacrifice.’ He was looking at Jordan de St Pol.

‘Oh, his chances were better than you might suppose,’ the fat man said. ‘Which reminds me. This interview, so far as it has gone, represents one generous undertaking I have given: that David could remain, as he has done, to confront de Fleury in person, and even to fight him, without hindrance, if that was his choice.’

‘I don’t remember agreeing,’ said Wodman. ‘Or Nicholas.’

‘How strange,’ said the fat man. ‘Perhaps this was because your agreement was not deemed to be necessary. David? I offer you justification, or single combat with this—what shall I call him?’

‘Knight?’ said Wodman.

‘Of course. Of the Unicorn. A curious order of horse. David? What do you choose?’

‘To fight,’ David said. Justification meant execution under the law. His delicate features were set.

‘With what weapon, if any?’

‘With one dagger each. There is a pair over there.’

There was a slender box on the same table that Wodman had stood behind. If Nicholas and Simpson were going to fight, the centre of the room would have to be cleared. Nicholas slowly rose. He had not yet agreed; but as the old man had pointed out, agreement was not necessary, any more than victory was sure to be recognised. Outside the door were Kilmirren men, and inside were St Pol and his grandson. This was a duel which neither antagonist might win.

Simpson was smiling at Nicholas. He said, ‘Supposedly so brilliant, my dear; yet you could not foresee this? Shall we choose our weapons together?’ He had kicked off his soft boots and risen, collected and lithe in the long hose and white shirt and russet tunic. His feathered brows above his dark eyes were raised in amusement, but there was no colour in his fine skin.

Nicholas said, ‘If you had taken ship, you would be free.’ The windows, now, were as bright as the candles. Wodman, with a glance at the old man, had begun to lift away stools and coffers. After a moment, Henry helped him. Henry, too, was keeping an uneasy eye on his grandfather.

David Simpson said, ‘Free for what?’ He paused and added, ‘I
became very tired with some of the things that you did, you and your friends. You should have listened to me. I could have told you something worth hearing.’

‘Surely not,’ Nicholas said. It was unwise, he knew. The more he heard, the less likely he was to survive. Suddenly, he realised that this was why David was talking.

David said, ‘What would you like me to tell you? About your birth? You are a bastard. About this embittered old patriarch who set us all to spy on his family? St Pol will kill you if I don’t. But before he does, ask him about his dead wife and the old woman, Bel. Or ask Andro Wodman what it is he isn’t telling you.’

They had arrived at the table. Jordan de St Pol stood behind it, with his ringed hands on the box. Nicholas recognised one of the rings. He bore the mark of it on one cheek.

Nicholas turned to David Simpson. He said, ‘If you know me, you know that none of these things matter.’ He was not really addressing David Simpson. He was speaking to Henry.

Simpson said, ‘You mean you don’t care if Monseigneur kills you, if I don’t?’ He stopped and said, ‘No. Of course you care. But other things seem more important. We are very alike, you and I.’

No one laughed. No one spoke. Nicholas said, ‘You mean if things had gone otherwise, we should have been soul-friends?’

The fine eyes studied his, gravely. The Archer said, ‘But isn’t this true of most antagonists? We dislike our own flaws in others. We resent those whose admiration we want. Only sometimes, if we are blessed, we may reverse the process.’

He stopped.

‘I am sorry,’ Nicholas said.

The box was open, and the two daggers lay there, side by side. David Simpson said, ‘I was sent to Cyprus, and told to beat you in business, and make sure you went home. But for this old man, we should have been friends.’ And lifting one of the knives, he drove it into the breast of St Pol.

It grated on steel. The fat man fell back, staggering. Henry screamed. Simpson dragged back the dagger and lifted his fist to slash it across St Pol’s bloated neck. Nicholas snatched the second blade up. It cracked against the first, diverting it from its path, and, when Simpson turned, Nicholas used it again, plunging it into the other man’s arm. Blood sprayed, and Simpson gasped. It was not a duel. It was a face-to-face struggle, with the edge of a table before them, and Wodman and Henry running up from behind. The fat man straightened and said, ‘I’m all right. Go on.’

Henry and Wodman stopped running. Nicholas stepped back. Blood pumped from Simpson’s arm, crimsoning the shirt and falling on to the
floor. He made no effort to stem it, or to transfer his dagger, which hung from his fingers. His lashes flickered.

Nicholas said, ‘Do you concede the fight?’ His voice was hard.