Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [140]
Will Roger said, ‘That is a musical instrument. You are not. Don’t confuse the two.’
Nicholas laid it down. ‘I’m sorry. What did Bonkle say?’
Roger didn’t always relent. This time he did. He said, ‘About the Pope. Sixtus wants help. If you have a shopping list, this is the time to present it.’
Henry Arnot, Scottish Procurator and fiery small Abbot of Cambuskenneth at Stirling, had come back from Rome with the same message. It was one of the reasons why the necessary deposition of the Archbishop had been completed so smoothly. Archbishop Patrick Graham, that poor, silly man, now in the care of Wodman’s brother. Mad Patrick Graham, whose job Bishop Spens should have been given.
Nicholas knew who else had a shopping list. He said, ‘It may be necessary, for Adorne. Would Bonkle find that objectionable?’
‘Within reason, no,’ Roger said. ‘There were other hints in the air. How much would you pay to have Camulio back?’
‘Sitting in Blackfriars?’ Nicholas said. ‘Telling David Simpson what to do? Name your price.’
Afterwards, Gelis thought, in an exasperated way, that Whistle Willie must have got them both drunk, the way Nicholas burst into the house crying, ‘Listen to this!’ Then he saw her face and said, ‘What is it?’ in a way that left no doubt as to his sobriety.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘No one is hurt. But someone has gone to the stables and killed all the dogs, including Jodi’s. He wants you.’
He didn’t smash anything this time. He just went to Jodi, and caressed him until the sobbing became less, and then chatted. But at the back of his mind, he knew what he wanted to do to David Simpson.
DAVID SIMPSON HIMSELF did not observe that he had made a mistake until the Duke of Albany rode into Newbattle, snarled at the subprior and confronted Abbot James himself in his inner sanctum, to which David was summoned. David, his fine eyes wounded, his cultured voice humble, expressed horror that villains should so have attacked the de Fleury household, and even greater dismay that my lord of Albany should connect him to such barbarism as the wanton killing of hounds.
There was no proof: he had been careful. Still, it was unpleasant. The fool Sandy didn’t believe him. The Abbot did: the Collector’s Procurator was proving a godsend to the Abbot’s glorious plans for the monastery, and must not be distracted by baseless accusations. James Crichton was not a shallow or an ambitious man: he was one of the best professors the University of Glasgow possessed. Nevertheless, his mind on loftier things, he was apt to address his peers, without thinking, as students. He could not understand how anyone could be so stupid as to doubt David Simpson. He said so. Albany whirled out of his presence, pale with rage and uttering improbable threats. It was disappointing.
It was disappointing because David had hoped to lure the young ass from de Fleury, to compensate for his own lack of success with St Pol. At one time David’s secret admirer, the boy Henry had actually been alienated by the trick with the silver; and the horse dispute had fallen mysteriously flat. The youth was fickle. Sometimes he seemed to want nothing more than to injure de Fleury. Sometimes he seemed not to care.
It appeared to David Simpson that the time was coming when he should concentrate instead on allies he knew would not fail him. He departed to spend a self-indulgent few days at Beltrees,