Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [209]
‘But not a sentence of forfeiture, and certainly not a justification,’ the Archbishop said. ‘The King would not agree to his death.’
‘On some days, he would,’ said Colin Argyll. ‘But no. I agree. In the light of all Nicholas has told us, we must treat this stage by stage. First, a continuation of the summons for treason, as you say, which demands the Duke’s presence in Scotland but leaves open the matter of proof and of punishment. Then a pause, we hope, during which the Duke comes to realise that he has discarded a princely living in Scotland for that of a powerless retainer in France. And then, perhaps, the opportunity for a genuine reconciliation between his grace and the Duke which embraces the alliance with England. What is that noise?’
It came from below, from the galleried front rooms of the tavern. One of the voices was that of a woman, and one was that of Henry de St Pol. The third, recognisable to them all, was the voice of John of Mar.
‘Excuse me,’ Nicholas said.
Fast as he was, Argyll overtook him. ‘No. Go back. You are not supposed to be here.’
It was true. Nicholas stopped. Whitelaw stepped down beside him. Argyll ran on, and Scheves followed. Of course, they had more power than he had to halt this. Argyll had men down below.
From the inner stairs, where he stood, Nicholas could witness the whole scene like a play. So could the customers, two floors below, who were already beginning to crowd the bottom steps, peering upwards. The muffled voice of the woman, Lang Bessie, came from one of the gallery rooms, testily commanding both visitors to go away. The visitors, John of Mar and Henry de St Pol, were outside her door, glaring at one another. Mar had a knife in his hand, reversed for hammering. As Argyll arrived, he turned it blade outwards. Henry’s hand went to his waist.
Colin Campbell of Argyll put a strong, friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘Dhia! What a commotion! You want a girl, come and I’ll find you one.’
‘I have one,’ said Henry. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He was eighteen: the Prince three years older. His eyes had never left Mar’s. His face was pale.
Mar also spoke. ‘Go away.’ He was addressing Argyll, and Will Scheves behind him. In the darkness of the upper stairs, Nicholas and the Secretary were invisible. Nicholas, finding a pair of spectacles in his grasp, handed them up, and felt them taken.
Argyll had answered. ‘Certainly, my lord prince, if you will come with me. I have some good wine upstairs. This is too public a place for these matters.’
Johndie Mar paid no attention. Even in the poor light, you could see the red flush that coloured the whole of one cheek, and the tension that tightened his jaw and his neck. A boy came thrusting his way upstairs, bearing something, a mixture of excitement and fright on his face.
‘A second key,’ said Johndie Mar. ‘Now kindly open this door.’
Behind the boy, three men had appeared. One, at a nod from Argyll, stayed below, barring the stairs to the crowd. The other two slowly mounted the steps. There was no way for Mar to go except upwards. Whitelaw hastily turned and led the way up and into Argyll’s office, which was separate from his parlour. Nicholas waited a moment. Below, Argyll had taken the key. He turned it quickly, speaking Lang Bessie’s name, and opening the door a short way, pulled the woman out and into the arms of the two henchmen behind him. She looked at Mar as she came, and screamed, for the Prince had steel in each plunging hand, aimed at her face. ‘Slut! Any man’s filth!’
Argyll was not wearing a sword, but Henry was. The woman escaped, dragged downstairs by Argyll’s men. Johndie Mar’s dagger hit nothing, but his sword, changing direction, sliced across towards Argyll and St Pol. Henry parried it.
It was, Nicholas was to think later, through no self-effacing wish to protect