Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [158]
The King said, ‘No! It moved! It spelled! Put it down!’ Then he said, ‘What did it say?’ His pale eyes were open.
Nicholas removed his eyes from Andro Wodman’s. His fist was so tight round the weight that his knuckles were white. He said, ‘Nothing, sire. I hadn’t even asked it a question. It spelled out nonsense, as it does for me now. I can try again.’
‘You will,’ said the King. ‘Here, close to me. And with more light. Sir Simon, we wish fresh candles here, by the stool.’
If his host heard, he didn’t answer. It was Big Tam who came forward with his powerful hands and thrust fresh wax into the holders, while Leithie and the Third Thomas brought more. Surrounded by shadows, the King’s chair stood alone, pooled with light, and canopied by flickering light on the rafters. Tobie wondered if the Prestons had all done this before. Rumour said that they had. But not with a rod or a pendulum, and with women taking part. They were a hearty, rumbustuous family, the Prestons, with powerful friends.
There were no women here now, except the sleeping Gelis and Kathi. Nicholas looked round, and Kathi touched Gelis’s flushed cheek with her fingers and smiled. Behind the smile was something else. Tobie felt it as well, looking at Nicholas’s face. Nicholas said, ‘My lord. It is late. If I have any power, it is gone. Might I try for you tomorrow?’
The King said, ‘I require it now. I wish to know my fate. Do it.’
Now John had moved and settled by Wodman and Tobie. Whatever was wrong, Nicholas had no means of letting them know. The pendulum should give him no trouble: a small exertion of pressure would produce any message he wanted. In this room, they were safe. All those out of the room were protected. They had gone over these plans again and again. Nicholas had been putting off time, as David was. And now he wanted to leave.
Wodman said, ‘Perhaps the reading was wrong. Let me hold one of the candles myself.’
Nicholas returned his finger over the bowl, and let the weight down, steadying it with his other hand. It was no sooner free than it began swaying. Andro bent, his blue jowl and misshapen nose and dripping black hair stark in the light. Within the bowl, they all heard the first of the chimes. The King said, ‘I cannot see. Sit back, you.’
Nicholas said, ‘It is just the same. The same bowl. It’s an echo.’ He was looking at Andro, his face haunted.
Wodman said, ‘I’m going. Stay. Tobie, stay with him.’ He scrambled up, leaving the light where it was.
David Simpson said sharply, ‘Stop him!’
John le Grant said, ‘It’s all right. He felt sick. I’ll hold the light for you.’
‘You don’t need to,’ said David Simpson. ‘I know what it says. It says that the King is meant to die now, at the hands of his kindred.’ He had moved forward and now knelt, swiftly, at the King’s feet. ‘My lord, protect me. You have been given poison to drink. You and your friends and your brother of Mar. But for me, you would be dead.’
‘Poison!’ exclaimed James. He swallowed. ‘By whom?’
Simpson looked round, gilded with light. ‘By the Burgundian Nicholas de Fleury, the man who holds that unholy wand, and who dare not let you see the true, the evil thing that it tells. By his fellow wizards, Andreas and the Italian Tobias and even this counterfeit man of the Church, who still brings you your drugs. And by the man who has befriended them all, and instructed the poisoner to kill you; the man whose name I dare not speak. Look about you, my lord. Those who are sick are your friends. The rest wish you dead.’
The King said, ‘Who is their master, and the poisoner? My kinsmen, you said?’
David Simpson rose, his face full of pain. ‘The poisoner is Anselm Adorne, the other Burgundian. His niece sits there, sharing his triumph. The man who paid them is your brother Albany. I am sorry, my lord.’
The screen door had opened. The men who filed in from the turnpike were armed, and healthy, and wore the Preston of Craigmillar livery. Nicholas rose. The bowl fell with a clang. Simpson said, ‘I asked our