Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [162]
He didn’t explain. To Tobie, he didn’t have to explain.
Five letters. Robin.
Chapter 19
Sen thow has maid this cruell instrument,
Go preif it first, for this is myne entent.
THE WINTER SUN rises late in the north, and does not care whether it looks upon the new-born, or the expiring, or the prisoner whose execution it has brought. A party of five active people had set out to find a young man by sunrise, but to do this, they had to cross sixty miles of moorland, ravines and hills in the dark, following indistinct muddy tracks and stopping only to change their tired horses where they could, and to snatch some food and drink to keep them in the saddle. There was no time to rest.
Gelis, dame de Fleury, had ridden far and fast on business before, and had helped to manage a tough band of mercenaries before the battle that destroyed her husband’s company, as it had half destroyed Robin of Berecrofts, in whose cause she was making this journey. She had ridden far and fast, but rarely in darkness, like this, in a group of which Nicholas became immediately the leader, even though Wodman, his elder, was there.
Wodman and Tobie, she supposed, were in their forties. Henry must be barely eighteen. She was not sure why Henry had chosen to come. He had long since become disenchanted with Simpson, and had displayed a ghoulish delight in the scenes at Craigmillar. Yet he had freed Simpson immediately when Nicholas asked him. It might, of course, have been for the sake of the hostage. Perhaps. More likely, Henry had elected to reverse last year’s episode of the oyster-sellers for his own entertainment. Nicholas had told her enough about that to explain Andro’s thrice-broken nose, and the present scowl over and under it.
As yet, Henry didn’t know who the hostage might be, except that he was clearly important and rich. Nicholas claimed not to know either. In fact, they all did. That was why Tobie was here. Tobie was not going to see squandered the long struggle to bring Robin safely back home and to give him a life of his own. He fulminated, and Gelis sympathised, for she could not understand, even yet, how this had happened. There existed iron-clad rules for protection, especially on occasions like this, when Nicholas and Simpson might be together. Ever since the Milanese bale, they had been on guard against poison. Yet Robin, in the care of his father, of Sersanders, of Clémence, had been captured—the least likely victim, you would think: helpless, difficult to transport, of little importance to anyone.
So your normal bold plotter might think. But Davie Simpson knew Nicholas, and knew Kathi. Davie Simpson had been in no doubt what threat would bring Nicholas most quickly, apart from one to his family.
And now what? But she did not have to think of that, for Nicholas himself talked it over as they rode.
He took Henry beside him, since Henry was a member of the Royal Guard, and would make the arrest when they found Simpson. He also consulted Henry and Wodman at the various places he halted: at Malcolmston, to borrow cloaks and spare hacks from the Browns; at Bathgate for torches and food. There were blankets strapped to the saddles that Wodman had brought; Gelis had made no change to her wide-skirted gown, and observed the wreck of its nap without regret. She listened to Nicholas, talking.
‘Andro found out the hostage was going to Beltrees, and sent two men on ahead. The hostage will be there by now, but Simpson won’t. He has to get there by daybreak, he claims, or the hostage will be killed. It may be true. It may be that he has told his men to wait a while longer. But if the morning wears on and he doesn’t arrive, his men are going to think he has been captured or killed, and flee themselves, after killing their prisoner.’
‘How many men does he have?’ That was Wodman.
‘Oh, I don’t think you need worry.’ That was Henry. ‘Half a dozen servants, who’ll run, and not more than twelve bowmen and grooms he brings in when he’s in residence.’ Alone of them all, Henry wore a plumed helmet, cuirass