Gemini (87 page)

But no. Emotion came naturally to Sandy. He had truly hated the English, at that time. Now he simply thought he was using them, and he could later repudiate anything. It wounded Nicholas, briefly, that last night Sandy had hidden all this, when he thought he had his confidence. Then he realised the illogic of applying logic to Albany.

Gloucester said, ‘You are amused?’

‘Is there any other way to take it, my lord?’ Nicholas said. ‘One man has subscribed to your treaty, but I doubt if anyone else would. Were I free, I should still stay in Scotland. While the war lasts, at least.’

‘But alas, you are not free, are you, M. de Fleury?’ said the Duke. ‘You are an agent, a spy, an informer; and must submit to the fate of such men. You will prepare yourself in your room. In an hour you will march with the army. At the first halt, you will be brought to me to be tried. You may go.’

Nicholas bowed. Leaving the room, the last thing he heard was the Earl of Northumberland remonstrating with the Duke. He guessed why. Until Sandy became king, it was surely of vital importance that the Fotheringhay treaty stay secret. He himself had been told to induce him to change sides. The Duke had relished the telling. But since he had refused, he could not, of course, be permitted either to stand public trial, or to live.

•  •  •

I
T WAS HOT
, that July. Travelling south, Nicholas had been mounted. Returning, he tramped along with the foot-soldiers, far behind the drums and the cavalry, with the English commanders and King Alexander IV
(rex hic)
in the lead. He had changed back into his travelling dress of boots and plain doublet and cap. The clean shirt and hose were the last he had. The rest he had left, with his spurs, in his room. His weapons had been taken from him at Carham.

The man he was tied to was from Norwich, near where the Caxton family came from. He knew some stories about them, and Nicholas knew some others, from Bruges. The man couldn’t read, but had picked up a rare stock of ballads.

They got too friendly, and Nicholas was transferred to the stirrup of a sergeant-at-arms who was riding alongside to marshal them. At the next handy copse, the sergeant was summoned by nature, and Nicholas found that the rope round his wrists had been carelessly knotted. Invitation. He decided, in a burst of rebellion, to accept it. The marching men passed, but he was masked by the bulk of the horse. Working fast, he got himself free and started to run for the trees, just as the sergeant appeared, but failed to notice him. They wouldn’t kill him in plain view, near the road. He was well into the wood and running really fast by the time the outcry began.

Or he was, until somebody tripped him.

Nicholas swore, and rolled over, kicking.

‘Hey!’ said Andro Wodman, dodging. ‘It’s just that the north is this way, if that’s where you’re going.’ He had two horses. It was a miracle.

There wasn’t time to embrace him. Nicholas flung himself into the saddle and set off, Andro pounding beside him. The shouting receded. They had come after him, he guessed, with a few horse and a handful of foot, confident of riding him down in the trees. They would then cast around briefly, unwilling to connect the tracks of two mounts with his disappearance. Then they would be forced to believe it, and take really serious action.

Nicholas changed from a resolute canter to a gallop.

‘Whoa!’ said Wodman after a while. ‘Whoa! There’s nobody after us now.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Nicholas said. ‘I’ve just been allowed free so that someone can ride after and kill me. Do you hear me?’

‘Sadly,’ said Wodman. He was galloping too.

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘So listen to what I’m going to say, memorise it, and then go. One of us ought to get through, and they don’t know you exist. If you do get killed, just don’t tell me.’

W
HEN, INCURRING LORD
Darnley’s displeasure, Simon de St Pol of Kilmirren abandoned the fortress of Lochmaben that summer to race east with his son and his archers, he had no intention, as it turned out, of evading his service, but was merely exchanging one Border keep for another. The captain of Home Castle, the second son of Lord Borthwick, received the supplement to his garrison with surprise, but was prepared to make St Pol’s peace with the Warden. After nearly two months of standing to arms, his sixty men could do with new blood. Simon de St Pol had had a great reputation in his day, and his son was a fine-looking youngster. Indeed, anyone of mettle would prefer to be here, near the action, rather than under Tom Kilpatrick’s command at Lochmaben. A good man, Kilpatrick, but stolid. Borthwick himself was an artillery man. St Pol was here because he wanted excitement.

It was a good enough theory, and one that Simon de St Pol encouraged. In fact, he had left Lochmaben at speed for quite a different reason. He had left with his son and his soldiers because he had received an anonymous message. A well-substantiated, personal message to the effect that Nicholas de Fleury was covertly leaving for York, ferrying information to and from Albany. The dates were vague, but the place of de Fleury’s crossing was given as certain. He would use the ford that led from Scotland to England at Carham, and would probably return the same way. For he was not suddenly defecting to England. He was already Albany’s man, and England’s agent in Scotland.

It was not surprising. It was what many suspected already. But to catch de Fleury shuttling to England would prove him a traitor. And one could do as one liked with a traitor. One could do anything while capturing a traitor, and the law would turn a blind eye.

Henry agreed, after asking some questions. It was more than time that Henry was made to face facts. You didn’t express doubts when pursuing enemies. You expressed enthusiasm.

The ford at Carham was no distance from Home. Home was only four miles from the river. Simon had sent two of his men there already. They knew de Fleury by sight. They would stop him. They would set up relays between them, night and day, and would catch him. Henry had wanted to tell all the garrisons and ask them to help, but Simon had explained that was futile. De Fleury fancied himself as an actor. He would deceive them. He would evade all the permanent guards at the ford. And if they brought in officials, there would be an official process once the man had been caught. A waste of time. A waste of money. A King’s man like Simon could take justice, surely, into his own hands.

Henry had agreed in the end. It didn’t matter whether or not Henry agreed, so long as he stopped interfering.

Once settled at Home, however, it was disappointing to obtain no result from their vigilance. Although St Pol took his men and made himself responsible for patrolling the river at several fords—Carham and Wark, Coldstream and Norham—there was no sign of de Fleury, and it began to seem as if he might have made the crossing already. In which case there was nothing for it but to wait for him to return. A journey between York and the Tweed would take several days in each direction, with a stay of unknown length in the middle. They might have to wait for ten days.

It was not so unpleasant, putting off time. June moved into July. The weather was warm, and the fishing less good than it should be, but there was other sport to be had. At the castle, they relieved the boredom with contests. As the most experienced jouster in Home, Simon had no difficulty winning the prizes, modest though they might be. And he had to admit that Henry also looked well in the saddle, with his brilliant armour, and the hair and eyes so like his own. One of the better archers was Constantine Malloch, whose estate was nearby; but his son had no style; and Henry seldom went near them these days. The girl had been the attraction.

There were quite a few girls in the township, and inside the castle they drank somewhat, and gambled and told stories. Henry was about all the time, but knew better than to interrupt. Occasionally Simon thought he looked sullen, and reminded him sharply how lucky he was. He was pleased when Henry won things. The day might come when, fit as he was, he himself would succumb to age. With Henry before them, people would not forget how his father had been.

De Fleury didn’t come. What came was a messenger, bursting into the Castle with news. The bulk of the English army had left York, marching north. It was approaching Newcastle, Alnwick, Berwick. The captain
called his lieutenants together, but Simon hardly heard what they said. Perhaps de Fleury’s intentions had changed. Suppose de Fleury had stayed, and had joined the English army, marching with Albany. He couldn’t get at him then.

Simon hesitated, and settled for remaining at Home. Back through the same route, the note had suggested. It might still be true.

M
ESSENGERS ALSO CAME
regularly to Anselm Adorne, some of them from Lochmaben. About this time, with a very few men, he left Linlithgow and rode quickly and quietly to Upsettlington, where he avoided the laird’s house, but entered the purlieus of the church. There, he made himself known to the Rector, Will Bell, who had attended St Andrews at the same time as Archie, now Abbot of Holyrood.

Adorne didn’t stay long. By the time he left to go to ground, he had found out all he wanted, down to the beat of the river patrols. He had asked Bell not to speak of his visit, or not at least until he returned home. Very few knew that Adorne was due to come to the Tweed—Nicholas and Andro, and the Council in Edinburgh. Even Bell had not been told the true story. The negotiation with Albany was too delicate.

Unlike the St Pols, Anselm Adorne had the advantage of knowing exactly where Nicholas de Fleury proposed to recross the river. He was also better placed to calculate how long the double journey might take. If Nicholas had to return without help, it could take a long time.

A long time, but not too long, with any luck. An English army marching from York would take days to get to the Border, and longer to draw in its northern contingents. Even if it took Nicholas two weeks to bring out what was necessary—the army’s numbers and plans, Albany’s intentions—it would still be in time. News could be transmitted to Edinburgh and to all the relevant strongholds in hours. Anything Nicholas could tell them would be priceless.

Adorne could not hope to collect him from the trackless moors of the English interior, but he could be on hand to help when Nicholas and Andro came to the river. So, lying day after day, night after night, watching the river-mouth of the Till down from Norham, Adorne subscribed to a doctrine of patience. It served him for a while. But when the English army actually arrived on the Border, and settled on the Tweed opposite Berwick, increasing daily, Anselm Adorne began to lose his detachment.

He had known that Nicholas might not return: this large, calm man he had watched grow from boyhood and whose value, after many acrimonious clashes, he had learned to appreciate. The invitation to York, he now began to fear, had never been genuine. Nicholas had been killed because he was troublesome. To die in such a way was not ignoble. It
was harder to accept that death was not reserved for grand causes. The countryside was full of masterless men who would kill for a horse.

I
N FACT
, N
ICHOLAS
had lost his horse, by shattering mischance, just as he and Andro were about to part company. It was pure accident: it stumbled and fell on uneven ground, breaking its own neck and throwing him heavily. He got up and stood, intending to decide what to do once his head cleared. His head didn’t clear, and Andro simply pulled him up behind him, jettisoning everything he carried except for his weapons and money.

The horse didn’t like the double burden, and slowed. He must get another, immediately, or get down and let Andro go on. In town, horses were easy to come by. Here, there was nothing. He couldn’t even remember seeing a farm: just a lot of warm, empty countryside with happy larks trilling too high to be seen. Lucky larks.

Andro, thinking along the same lines, said, ‘Listen for cattle, or dogs. There. Do you hear it? Barking.’

Nicholas heard. It came from behind, and was blessedly some distance off. Fortunately, he didn’t have to explain, because Andro had realised what it was. ‘Bloody hell!’

He twisted round and stared at Nicholas, and Nicholas, who couldn’t see very well, attempted to think. He had had concussion before. It wore off. But before that, they had to separate, fast. Wodman should stay with the horse, which could probably outrun the hounds with one rider. Gloucester’s men couldn’t detain him in any case: there was nothing to connect him to Nicholas. Nicholas himself had only to hide.

Wodman worked it all out for himself anyway. He made for and splashed over a stream, and then located a neighbouring peat bog at which he halted, dismounted, and manhandled Nicholas to the ground. From there, he pushed him down to the floor of the cutting and heaved the stack of peats thudding down over him.

‘Will that do?’ he said. He had hardly spoken throughout. The barking was now very much louder.

Nicholas said, ‘Are you mad? Of course not. Good luck.’

Nicholas lay, as under a mound of heavy, cold, malodorous blankets, and listened to Wodman’s horse squelch quickly away. The dogs arrived very soon after that, and he heard men’s voices, and the tread of horses, and splashing. Then there came a shout, and more baying, followed by a concerted sound of hooves on the far bank of the stream. Presently, both the hooves and the barking receded.

Wodman must have laid a fresh trail. In any case, the water had baffled the hounds. The peat would have confounded them, too. Clever
Andro. Clean Andro. Andro wasn’t going to be dark brown and stinking for all the foreseeable future. The new Charetty colours: pea green and burnt umber.

He managed, in between vomiting, to improve on his covering, and give himself air. He hoped it wouldn’t rain. He felt, in general, gloomy. He wondered if, having failed to catch Andro, the men would come back the same way. Or if, having caught Andro and tortured him, they would certainly come back the same way. He thought not. He thought of Andro these days as someone like Crackbene, or le Grant, whom he trusted to do what was right.